Dante Gabriel Rossetti
VOL. I.
By Himself. 1855.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
Figure: Self-portrait. Three-quarter view, head and shoulders, facing
right. Date in lower right corner, Sept 20, 1855.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
HIS FAMILY-LETTERS
WITH A MEMOIR
BY
WILLIAM MICHAEL ROSSETTI
VOL I.
AMS PRESS
NEW YORK
Note: The call number is written in pencil at the top of the page.
Reprinted from the edition of 1895, London
First AMS EDITION published 1970
Manufactured in the United States of America
International Standard Book Number:
Complete Set: 0—404—05434—X
Volume 1: 0—404—05435—8
Library of Congress Number: 70—130231
AMS PRESS INC.
New York, N.Y. 10003
DEDICATED TO
MY FOUR CHILDREN
WITH A FATHER'S HOPE
THAT RELATIVES OF
DANTE AND CHRISTINA ROSSETTI
AND DESCENDANTS OF
GABRIELE AND FRANCES ROSSETTI
WILL UPHOLD THE CREDIT OF
THEIR PATRONYMIC..
In his
Recollections of Dante Gabriel
Rossetti
(1882) Mr. Hall Caine has informed us: “It was always known to be
Rossetti's wish that, if at any moment after his death it should appear
that the story of his life required to be written, the one friend who,
during many of his later years, knew him most intimately, and to whom he
unlocked the most sacred secrets of his heart, Mr. Theodore Watts,
should write it, unless indeed it were undertaken by his brother
William.”
Dante Rossetti died on 9 April 1882; and after the lapse of a few months I
decided to put his Family-Letters into shape for early publication. Mr. Watts
acquiesced in the wish which I then entertained, and which I should still
entertain, that he, rather than myself, should be the biographer, writing a
Memoir to accompany the Letters. Doubtless he saw reason for not producing his
Memoir so soon as I had been expecting it; therefore, after a rather long
interval of years, I resolved in July 1894 that the Letters must now come out,
and, as they could not be unlinked with a Memoir, that I myself would write it.
The result is before the reader. If he would have preferred a Memoir from Mr.
Watts, I sympathize with him, but the option had ceased to be mine. There are
several reasons why a brother neither is nor can be the best biographer. Feeling
this, I had always intended
not to write a Life of Dante Rossetti. But circumstances have
proved too strong for me, and I submit to their dictate.
Had the book been published towards 1883, the Letters would have extended
very little beyond those addressed to my Mother and to myself. There were then
also a couple to my Father, and a very few to my Sister Christina. I am now
enabled to add some to my Grandfather Gaetano Polidori, my Uncle Henry Francis
Polydore, my Aunt Charlotte, Lydia Polidori, and my Wife Lucy Madox Rossetti;
also some others to Christina which, as they contain expressions of approval
with regard to her writings, she had herself with-held. No letters to other
members of the family appear to be in existence, though several must have been
written.
The technical arrangement of the printed correspondence can easily be
understood. The letters are all thrown into a single sequence, according to the
order of date: they are lettered from A to H, for the persons respectively
addressed, and each sub-division is progressively numbered within its own
limits. In every case where a letter seems to require any explanatory note or
observation, I have supplied this in a few preliminary words. The dates, when
not written by my brother himself, were in most cases jotted down at the time by
the recipient: in a few instances, where this was omitted, the dates now given
are approximate. Addresses are also frequently inserted in like manner. I have
preserved (and must ask the reader to pardon my mentioning so minute a point)
one instance of each form of subscribed name; and have also reproduced the name
in other cases where it seems more apposite to do so. In contrary instances I
omit both the name and the words of subscription which precede it. Some other
Family-Letters exist, addressed to the same
persons; but these are such as even a brother cannot
suppose to be of any public interest. From those here collected some passages
are omitted which, on one ground or another, are considered to be unsuited for
printing; but on the whole I have been sparing of excisions. Of the items
admitted, several are indeed short and scrappy; I have not however included
anything which appears to me to be entirely uninteresting to persons interested
in Dante Rossetti. Some letters, otherwise slight, fix the date of a picture or
poem; others show some trait of character, or contain some pointed or diverting
expression.
The letters, such as they are, shall be left to speak mainly for
themselves. Their language is constantly unadorned, often colloquial; the tone
of mind in them, concentrated; the feeling, while solid and sincere, uneffusive.
Their subject-matter is very generally personal to the writer, without
discursiveness of outlook, or eloquent or picturesque description; yet the
spirit is not egotistical or self-assertive. If I am wrong in these opinions,
the reader will decide the point for himself.
My brother was a rapid letter-writer, and on occasion a very prompt one,
but not negligent or haphazard. He always wrote to the point, without
amplification, or any effort after the major or minor graces of diction or
rhetoric. Multitudes of his letters must still presumably be extant in private
hands: a representative collection of them might be found to confirm the
impression which I should like to ensue from the present series—that
as a correspondent he was straight-forward, pleasant, and noticeably free from
any calculated self-display. “Disinvolto” would be the Italian word.
Some persons may approve, others will disapprove, of the publication of
these Family-Letters. I print them because the doing so commends itself to my
own mind. At a very
childish age I was familiar with the old apologue of
the Man and his Son and the Donkey: it impressed me as equally true and
practical. I have always been conscious that opinions will be as numerous as
readers, and prefer to suit the opinions of those who happen to agree with
myself.
Recently I have had a painful reason for realizing to myself a very
pleasurable fact—that of the high estimation in which my brother,
himself no less than his work, is now publicly held, some thirteen years after
he passed away. The death of my beloved sister Christina, on 29 December 1894,
called forth a flood of not undeserved but assuredly very fervent praise; and in
the eulogies of her were intermixed many warm tributes to my
brother—I might say, without a dissentient voice.
As regards my Memoir, I, having large knowledge and numerous materials,
have not consulted a single person except Christina, who, during the earlier
weeks of my undertaking, gave me orally the benefit of many reminiscences
relating chiefly to years of childhood, and often kept me right upon details as
to which I should have stumbled. On her bed of pain and rapidly approaching
death she preserved a singularly clear recollection of olden facts, and was
cheered in going over them with me.
Some readers of the Memoir may be inclined to ask me—
“Have you told everything, of a substantial kind, that you know about
your deceased brother?”—My answer shall be given
beforehand, and without disguise: “No; I have told what I choose to
tell, and have left untold what I do not choose to tell; if you want more, be
pleased to consult some other informant.”
One word in conclusion. In case the present book should find favour with
the public, I should be disposed to rummage
among my ample stock of materials, and produce a
number of details relating not only to my brother, but also to other members or
connexions of the family. But at the age of sixty-five a man finds the horizon
of his work narrowed, and rapidly narrowing; and possibly this will not be.
W. M. ROSSETTI.
St. Edmund's Terrace, London.
April 1895.
-
I.
BIRTH.
Dante Rossetti's birth in London, 1828—His
Godfathers. . . 3
-
II.
PARENTAGE.
Gabriele (Father of Dante) Rossetti—His birth in
Vasto—His Parents and Brothers—His drawings,
studies, and writings, in Italy— His political lyrics and
exile—Malta and John Hookham Frere— Life in
London—His death—His character, opinions, person,
etc.— His writings in England on Dante,
etc.—Carducci's opinion of his poetry—The
centenary of his birth, Vasto—Descriptions of him by Bell
Scott and Frederic Stephens—Mrs. Gabriele Rossetti, her life,
character, and person—Some versicles of hers. . . 3
-
III.
RELATIVES.
Dante Rossetti's Great-grandfathers—His maternal
Grandfather, Gaetano Polidori, Secretary to Alfieri, and Italian teacher
in London— Anecdotes of the French Revolution and of
Alfieri—Polidori's person, character, and
writings—Mrs. Polidori—Her Father, William
Pierce—Connexions of the Pierce family, Mrs. Bray,
etc.—Mrs. Polidori's closing
years—Her sister and children— Dr. John William
Polidori and his writings—Teodorico
Pietrocola-Rossetti—Extinction of the Rossetti family in
Vasto— Instances of longevity. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . 24
-
IV.
CHILDHOOD.
The four children of Gabriele Rossetti—Houses in
Charlotte Street— Dante Rossetti and his Sister
Maria—Walks about London, etc.— Pet
animals—Sights and entertainments in
London—Singing, card-playing, illness, etc.—First
attempt at drawing, and resolve to be a painter—Theatrical
and other prints. . . . . . . . . . 36
-
V.
ACQUAINTANCES IN CHILDHOOD.
The Potters and other British friends—Numerous
Italian friends of Gabriele Rossetti—Pistrucci, Sangiovanni,
etc.—Protestantizing Italians—Mazzini and
Panizzi—Talks on politics—John Stuart Mill on
Continental and English Life . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44
-
VI.
CHILDISH BOOK-READING AND SCRIBBLING.
Dante Rossetti's early training—The Bible, Shakespear, Göthe, Walter Scott,
etc.—Childish drawings from
Henry VI.—Rossetti's opinion of Scott's novels,
1871—Books of prints and the National Gallery
—Dante's poems read later on—Childish drama,
The Slave
, etc.— Childish drawings—Dante Rossetti
fortunate in his family surroundings. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . 57
-
VII.
SCHOOL.
Dante Rossetti's first school, Mr. Paul's,
1836—School-life not favourable to his
character—To King's College School, 1837—The
Cayley brothers—What Dante Rossetti learned—His
various Masters, including John Sell Cotman the painter—Mr.
Caine's account of Rossetti's school-life discussed—Parallel
with Edgar Poe's
school-life—School-fellows—School-exercise on
China, and Christina Rossetti's verses thereon . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . 68
-
VIII.
HOME-LIFE DURING SCHOOL—SIR HUGH THE
HERON.
Polidori's country-house at Holmer Green, and his house in
London— Accident with a chisel—Boyish
drawings from the Iliad—Dante Rossetti reads Byron, Dickens,
Brigand Tales, French novels, etc. —He writes a prose tale,
Roderick and Rosalba
, and a ballad-poem,
Sir Hugh the Heron
, which is privately printed, also
William and Marie
— His note on
Hugh Heron
—Boyish drawings—Studies German under Dr.
Heimann—Intimacy with the Heimann family . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79
-
IX.
STUDY FOR THE PAINTING PROFESSION—CARY'S AND
THE R.A.
Dante Rossetti leaves school, 1842, and goes to Cary's Drawing
Academy—His American friend, Thomas Doughty, and his family
—Charley Ware, and his portrait-group—Bailey's
Festus, and verses
The Atheist—Studies and habits at Cary's—Sonnets from
the Italian, and Bouts-rimés sonnets—The
Westminster Hall cartoon-competitions—Proceeds to the R.A.
antique school, 1846 —Disinclination to any obligatory study
or work—Millais, Holman Hunt, Stephens—The
Ghiberti Gates—Hunt on Rossetti's appearance and
demeanour—A fellow-student's reminiscence—
Rossetti's immethodical habits—Theatre-going . . . . . . . .
. . . . 88
-
X.
STUDENT-LIFE—SKETCHING, READING, AND
WRITING.
Rossetti's early sketches influenced by
Gavarni—Lithographed playing-cards, etc.—Designs
to Christina Rossetti's
Verses, 1847—His first uncompleted oil-picture,
Retro me Sathana
—Reads Shelley, Charles Wells, Maturin, Thackeray, etc.,
and with great predilection Browning—No solid
reading—His prose tale,
Sorrentino
, 1843—Translations from the German,
The Nibelungenlied
,
Henry the Leper
, etc.—Translations from the
Vita Nuova, and
Early Italian Poets—Tennyson's opinion of these—The printed
opinions of Swinburne and Placci—Writes
The Blessed Damozel
, 1847—Admiration of Edgar Poe—Other poems,
My Sister's Sleep
,
Ave
,
Dante at Verona
,
Jenny
, etc.—The unpublished Ballad,
Jan van Hunks
, now begun, and finished on his deathbed —
Political burlesque poem,
unprinted—Purchase of the MS. book by
Blake—Rossetti's work, towards 1862, on Gilchrist's
Life of Blake
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .97
-
XI.
FRIENDS TOWARDS 1847.
Major Calder Campbell, Alexander Munro, William Bell
Scott—Meets Ebenezer Jones—Rossetti's first letter
to Scott, 1847—Observations on his poems—Rossetti
sends
The Blessed Damozel
, and other
Songs of the Art Catholic
, to Scott—His turn of mind in religious
matters—Scott's first visit—Rossetti writes to
Browning about
Pauline, and knows him afterwards . . . . . . . . . . . 110
-
XII.
MADOX BROWN, HOLMAN HUNT, MILLAIS.
Letter to Madox Brown, 1848, asking to be allowed to study
painting under him—Rossetti's relation to the course of study
at the R.A.— Details about Brown, and his first call on
Rossetti—Rossetti set to still-life painting,
etc.—He calls on Hunt, and consults him as to further
painting-work—His design of
Gretchen in the Church
— The Cyclographic Society—Opinions of
Millais and Hunt on the
Gretchen
—Rossetti's indifference to perspective, in which
Stephens gives him some lessons—Forwards some poems to Leigh
Hunt, who (letter quoted) praises them, but dissuades him from trusting
to literature as a profession—
Head of
Gaetano Polidori
, June 1848 —Rossetti adopts
Holman Hunt's advice as to painting, and shares a studio with him in
Cleveland Street—Stephens's description of it—Hunt
takes Rossetti round to Millais in Gower Street. 115
-
XIII.
THE PRÆRAPHAELITE BROTHERHOOD.
Lasinio's engravings from the pictures in the Campo Santo of
Pisa lead on directly to the Præraphaelite movement,
1848—Remarks on Millais, Hunt, and Rossetti, in this
connexion—The British school of painting in 1848, and the
term Præraphaelite—The three inventors of the
movement equally concerned in bringing it to bear—Rossetti's
letter to Chesneau on this point—Their close attention to
detail subsidiary to other objects in the movement— Madox
Brown's relation to the Brotherhood—Four other members of
it—Details as to Woolner, Collinson, Stephens, and
myself—Great intimacy among the P.R.B.'s.—Hunt on
Rossetti's literary attainments—The aims of the Brotherhood
discussed— Not a religious movement, nor directly promoted by
Ruskin— Rossetti, in later life, disliked the term
Præraphaelite—Diary of the P.R.B. kept by me as
Secretary—Defaced by Dante Rossetti
—Details from this Diary as to
election of Deverell, etc.—The P.R.B., as an organization,
dropped in January 1851—Christina's sonnet
The P.R.B.—“The Queen of the
Præraphaelites”—Rules adopted
1851—The pictures of Millais, Hunt, and Rossetti, exhibited
in 1849—Rossetti's
Girlhood of Mary Virgin
—Three sonnets of his bearing on the
movement—His
portrait of Gabriele Rossetti, 1848 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125
-
XIV.
FIRST EXHIBITED PICTURE, 1849.
Rossetti sends
The Girlhood of Mary Virgin
to the Free Exhibition— The works of the
Præraphaelites favourably received by critics and others in
1849, but very adversely afterwards—The
Athenæum
notice of Rossetti's first picture quoted—Sale of the
picture, and its general success—Treatment in this book of
his pictures etc. in later years, and reference to another book,
Dante Gabriel Rossetti as Designer and
Writer
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 144
-
XV.
THE GERM.
Rossetti bent upon starting a magazine, July
1849—Proposed titles and publisher—He writes the
prose story
Hand and Soul
— Meeting at his studio, and choice of the title
The Germ
—Contents of No. 1, and its sale—Nos. 3 and 4
appear under the title
Art and Poetry
—Notices of the magazine—Debt upon its
issue— Anecdotes relating to
Hand and Soul
—Rossetti makes
an etching
(destroyed)
for this story, and begins another story
An Autopsychology
(or
St. Agnes of Intercession
)—His various contributions to the
magazine— Verses by John L. Tupper on its expiry . . 149
-
XVI.
PAINTINGS AND WRITINGS, 1849-53.
Trip with Holman Hunt to Paris and Belgium—Paintings
and Designs—Rossetti's attainments in draughtsmanship,
etc.—Details as to
Ecce Ancilla Domini
—Press-criticism of this picture, and other
Præraphaelite works of 1850—Extract from the
Athenæum
—The Queen and Millais's
Carpenter's Shop
—Details as to
Giotto painting Dante's Portrait
,
Head of Holman Hunt,
Mary Magdalene at the Door of Simon the
Pharisee
, and
Found
—
Discussion as to the statement that
Found
is an illustration of Bell Scott's poem
Rosabell—Rossetti's
sonnet to Woolner in Australia—Collinson's picture of
St. Elizabeth of Hungary — Sketching-club
proposed in 1854—Poems,
Dante at Verona
,
Burden of Nineveh
,
Sister Helen
, etc.—Rossetti desultory in youth, and sometimes at
odds with his Father—He drops writing poetry,
1852—Project of his becoming a telegraphist on the
railway—Notion of renting No. 16 Cheyne Walk—His
studios in Newman Street and Red Lion Square—Brown paints
Rossetti's head as Chaucer—Rossetti settles in Chambers in
Chatham Place, 1852 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157
-
XVII.
MISS SIDDAL.
Rossetti falls in love with Miss Elizabeth Eleanor Siddal,
1850— Walter H. Deverell first sees her as assistant in a
bonnet-shop— Her appearance—Deverell gets her to
sit for the head of Viola in
his picture
from
Twelfth Night—She also sits to Hunt and Millais—Her
family—She sits to Rossetti for
Rossovestita
, and a
subject from the
Vita Nuova, and many other paintings—An engagement between Miss
Siddal and Rossetti dating towards 1851—Her tone in
conversation, etc.—Her paintings and verses
—Swinburne's estimate of her quoted, also her poem
A Year and a Day—Her extreme ill-health—She is introduced to
the Howitt family—Rossetti as a lover—Death of
Deverell, 1854 171
-
XVIII.
JOHN RUSKIN.
Ruskin not connected with the Præraphaelite movement
when first started—In 1851 Patmore suggests to him to write
something on the subject, and he sends a letter to the
Times—In 1853 MacCracken calls his attention to Rossetti, and
Ruskin praises two of his water-colours—Ruskin calls on
Rossetti, April 1854—Their intimacy begins, partly
interrupted by the death of Gabriele Rossetti, and the absence of Dante
Rossetti at Hastings, and of Ruskin abroad—Affectionate and
free-spoken relations between Ruskin and Rossetti—Madox
Brown's dislike of Ruskin, who becomes the chief purchaser for a while
of Rossetti's works— Rossetti ceases to
exhibit—Ruskin's opinion of Rossetti after his
decease—Extracts from Ruskin's letters, 1854-7—His
high regard
Note: In section xx,
“Morte” should read
“Mort”
for Miss Siddal—He settles on her
£150 a year, taking her paintings in
proportion—Cessation of this arrangement, 1857—
She goes abroad with Mrs. Kincaid, 1855, returning
1856—Decline of her health—My own acquaintance
with Ruskin—Rossetti admires him as a
lecturer—Letters from Rossetti to MacCracken, Extract . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 178
-
XIX.
WORK IN 1854-5-6.
Water-colours from Dante, etc.—
Paolo and Francesca
,
Passover in Holy Family
,
Head of Browning
,
Dante's Dream
, Designs from Tennyson, etc.—
The Seed of David
, Triptych in Llandaff Cathedral—General characteristics
of Rossetti's style at this period— Troubles with the
Tennyson designs, and Tennyson's own views of them—Sketches
of
Tennyson reading Maud—The Seddons and the Triptych—
The Blue Closet
, water-colour, and William Morris—
The Wedding of St. George
—James Smetham, and his remarks hereon . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 187
-
XX.
OXFORD MEN AND WORK—BURNE-JONES, MORRIS,
SWINBURNE
.
Friends of Rossetti between 1847 and
1855—Burne-Jones calls upon him, June 1856, and is advised by
Rossetti to adopt painting as a profession—Afterwards
Rossetti knows Morris and Swinburne —The architect of the
Oxford Museum, Woodward, invites Rossetti in 1855 to undertake some
decorative work there—He does not do this, but in 1857 begins
painting in the Union Debating- Hall from the
Morte d' Arthur—Morris co-operates—Details as to the
Union-work—In 1856 Rossetti
publishes
The Burden of Nineveh
and some other poems in the
Oxford and Cambridge Magazine
—Ruskin on
The Burden of Nineveh
—Other painters in the Union Hall—Ultimate
spoiling of the work—Swinburne's introduction to
Rossetti—Rossetti and his friends see in Oxford Miss Burden,
who becomes Mrs. Morris, and from whom Rossetti paints many
heads—The Præraphaelite Exhibition in Russell
Place, 1857—Miss Siddal's ill-health takes Rossetti to Bath,
etc. —Proposal, not carried out, for a
“College,” in which he and other artists would
settle—Miss Siddal's dissent—Hunt's statement as
to an “offence” by Rossetti . . . .
. . 193
-
XXI.
WORK IN 1858-59.
Water-colour of
Mary in the House of John
, oil-picture
Bocca Baciata
, etc.—Bell Scott's reference to the sitter for
Bocca Baciata
—Miss Herbert—Poems,
Love's Nocturn
, and
The Song of the Bower
— The Hogarth Club, 1858, and paintings there exhibited
. . 202
-
XXII.
MARRIAGE.
Reasons for postponing marriage—Mr. Plint and other
purchasers of Rossetti's pictures—Extreme ill-health of Miss
Siddal at Hastings, April 1860—Marriage, 23
May—Wedding-trip to Paris—Enlargement of
Rossetti's view of pictorial art—His designs in Paris,
How They Met Themselves
, etc.—He returns with his wife to the Chambers,
afterwards enlarged, in Chatham Place . . . 204
-
XXIII.
MARRIED LIFE.
Bell Scott on Rossetti's unsuitableness for married
life—Remarks hereon—Mrs. Rossetti intimate with
the Brown, Morris, and Burne-Jones families—Ruskin on
drawings made by Rossetti from her—Rossetti's intimacy with
Swinburne—also with Meredith, Sandys, Gilchrist,
etc.—Death of Gilchrist, 1861—Mrs. Madox Brown's
offer to help during his illness—Mrs. Rossetti's infirm
health, and birth of a stillborn infant—Death of Mrs. H. T.
Wells —Rossetti speaks of “
getting awfully
fat and torpid” . . . 208
-
XXIV.
WORK IN 1860-61—
THE EARLY
ITALIAN POETS—THE
MORRIS FIRM.
Death of Plint, and embarrassment ensuing to Rossetti,
1860—The Plint sale—Water-colours of
Lucrezia Borgia
and of Swinburne, design of
Cassandra
, oil-picture of
Fair Rosamund
, etc.—Preparations for publishing
The Early Italian Poets
—Opinions of Ruskin and Patmore—Published by
Smith and Elder, with some subsidizing from Ruskin—Favourable
reception of the book, and result of its sale—Proposed
etchings to it not produced—Rossetti
shows some original poems to Ruskin, with a
view, unsuccessful, to publication in
The Cornhill Magazine—He announces a volume,
Dante at Verona and other Poems
, not actually published— Foundation in 1860 of the
firm, Morris, Marshall, Falkner, & Co. —Seven
members, including Rossetti—Details as to Webb, Marshall, and
Falkner—Money ventured on the firm—Good-fellowship
of Rossetti and his partners—Methods of business, more
especially of Morris as leading partner and manager—
Warrington Taylor—Rossetti's designs for stained glass, etc.
213
-
XXV.
DEATH OF MRS. DANTE ROSSETTI.
Her illness, phthisis and neuralgia—The last
painting for which she sat—10 February 1862, she dines at an
hotel with her husband and Swinburne—My contemporary note as
to her death next morning from taking over-much laudanum—Dr.
John Marshall— Newspaper-paragraph, showing inquest, and
verdict of accidental death—Rossetti's sorrow and
agitation—Ruskin calls, and exhibits a change in religious
opinion—The funeral—Rossetti consigns to the
coffin his book of MS. poems—Caine's account of this incident
—Rossetti's letter to Mrs. Gilchrist on his wife's death . .
. 220
-
XXVI.
SETTLING IN CHEYNE WALK.
Rossetti resolves to leave Chatham Place, and proposes to
combine with his family and Swinburne in getting a new
house—He fixes on No. 16 Cheyne Walk—Relinquishes
the proposal as to the family—His water-colour,
Girl at a Lattice
, and
crayon-head of his
Mother
—Takes chambers provisionally, 59 Lincoln's Inn
Fields—New arrangement for Cheyne Walk, Dante Rossetti as
tenant, with Swinburne, Meredith, and myself, as sub-tenants—
Condition of Cheyne Walk in 1862—Caine's account of the house
in 1880—Further details as to the drawing-room
etc.—Taking possession of the house, October
1862—Rossetti not constantly melancholy after his wife's
death—Meredith and Swinburne as sub-tenants for the first two
or three years—Meredith's opinion of
Rossetti—Extracts from letters from Ruskin and Burne-Jones,
1862—Rossetti makes acquaintance with Whistler and
Legros— His art-assistant Knewstub—Advance in
Rossetti's professional income . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . 227
-
XXVII.
WORK FROM 1862
TO 1868.
Oil-pictures,
Joan of Arc
,
Beata Beatrix
,
The Beloved
,
Lilith
,
Venus Verticordia
,
Sibylla Palmifera
,
Monna Vanna
,
Mrs. Morris
, etc. —Water-colours,
Paolo and Francesca
,
Return of Tibullus to Delia
,
Tristram and Yseult
, etc.—Designs,
Michael Scott's Wooing
,
Aurea Catena
, etc.—Details as to most of these works, also
Helen of Troy
,
Aurelia
,
The Boat of Love
,
The Blue Bower
,
Il Ramoscello
,
La Pia
,
Heart of the Night
,
Washing Hands
,
Socrates taught to Dance by Aspasia
,
Aspecta Medusa
—Erroneous impression that Rossetti painted only from
Mrs. Morris—Other sitters named, Christina Rossetti, Lizzie
Rossetti, Mrs. Hannay, Mrs. Beyer, Mrs. H—, Miss Wilding,
Miss Mackenzie, Keomi, Ellen Smith, Miss Graham, Mrs. Stillman, Mrs.
Sumner, etc.—Remarks on Mrs. Morris as his
type—His letter to the
Athenæum
as to his being a painter in oils—Shields on Rossetti's
use of compressed chalk—Purchasers of his works, Leathart,
Rae, Graham, Leyland, Valpy, Mitchell, Craven, Lord Mount-Temple,
Colonel Gillum, Trist, Gambart, Fairfax Murray—Insufficiency
of Rossetti's studio, and its ultimate alteration—Dunn
succeeds Knewstub as his art-assistant—Large income made by
Rossetti in 1865 and other years—His friendly relations with
purchasers—His work 1862-3, in connexion with Gilchrist's
Life of Blake
. . . 238
-
XXVIII.
INCIDENTS, 1862
TO 1868.
Rossetti's animals at Cheyne Walk—His notions about
ghosts—The wombat, woodchuck, and zebu—Attempts to
communicate with his deceased wife by table-turning—The
Burlington and other Clubs—The
Bab Ballads—Rossetti houses Sandys for a while, and George
Chapman—Other friends—Charles Augustus Howell, who
becomes Ruskin's secretary—Bell Scott and Woolner—
Intimacy with Ruskin comes to an end—Extracts from Ruskin's
letters in 1865—Rossetti collects works of decorative art,
especially blue china and Japanese prints—Buys a picture by
Botticelli 251
-
XXIX.
BEGINNINGS OF ILL-HEALTH—PENKILL CASTLE.
Rossetti generally healthy in youth—1866, a
complaint requiring surgical treatment—1867, insomnia, and
failure of eyesight—
Doctors consulted—Trip to
Warwickshire in 1868, and stay at Penkill Castle, Ayrshire, with Miss
Boyd, Miss Losh, and Bell Scott—The Leeds Exhibition of
Art—Loan made by Miss Losh —Return to Cheyne Walk,
and details as to eyesight—Resumes art-work in December . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 264
-
XXX.
PREPARATIONS FOR PUBLISHING POEMS.
Rossetti re-visits Penkill, 1869—Urged, in 1868, by
Scott to “live for his poetry”—Sonnets
previously published in 1868, others in 1869—Estimate for
printing—Poems written at Penkill, 1869 —Alleged
impulse towards suicide—Fancy about a
chaffinch—“A curiously ferocious
look”—Poems printed, not for immediate
publication—The unburying of the MS. deposited in his wife's
coffin—Arrangement with Ellis as
publisher—Rossetti's combination of self-reliance and
self-mistrust—He is anxious to secure a favourable critical
reception of the
Poems
at starting —Extracts on this point from my Diary and
from Scott's book —Rossetti's habits as to
drinking—Death of Michael Halliday —Acquaintance
with Nettleship, Hake, and Hueffer—Hake's estimate of
Rossetti's character . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 270
-
XXXI.
ART-WORK FROM 1869
TO SUMMER 1872.
Oil-pictures of
Pandora
,
Mariana
,
Dante's Dream
,
Veronica Veronese
, etc.—Water-colour of
Michael Scott
—Designs of
Penelope
, Dr. Hake, etc.—Details as to some of these works,
especially
Dante's Dream
—W. A. Turner becomes a purchaser . . . 282
-
XXXII.
THE POEMS, 1870—
CHLORAL—KELMSCOTT MANOR-HOUSE.
The
Poems forthcoming—Sojourn at Scalands—Rossetti's
American friend Stillman, who recommends chloral as a
soporific—Rossetti's excess in chloral-dosing, washed down by
whiskey, and the bad effects resulting—Publication of the
Poems
, April 1870—Rapid sale—Swinburne's review,
extracts—Other reviews,
The Catholic World, etc.—Letters from acquaintances—Adverse
criticism in
Blackwood's Magazine, coolly received by Rossetti—Republica-
tion of the Italian translations as
Dante and his Circle
, 1873—Rossetti in 1871 at Kelmscott Manor-house, which
he shares with the Morris family—Philip Bourke Marston and
Edmund Gosse on Rossetti—Turguenieff—Poems written
at Kelmscott . . . 285
-
XXXIII.
THE FLESHLY SCHOOL OF POETRY.
Robert Buchanan, as Thomas Maitland, publishes in the
Contemporary Review
an attack thus
entitled
on Rossetti's
Poems
, October 1871 —His previous attack on Swinburne, 1866,
and my
Criticism— Review of my edition of Shelley, 1870—
The Fleshly School enlarged and
re-issued as a pamphlet—Extracts from
it—Rossetti not much troubled by the
review-article—A dinner at Bell Scott's —Rossetti
replies, publishing, in the
Athenæum
,
The Stealthy School of Criticism
, and writing a pamphlet, which is withheld— Aggravated
imputations in the pamphlet form of
The Fleshly School—Buchanan's retractation, 1881-2,
extracts—Summary of the facts—Quilter's article
The Art of Rossetti, 1883, extract 293
-
XXXIV
HYPOCHONDRIA AND ILLNESS.
Dividing line in Rossetti's life, spring 1872—He is
perturbed by
The Fleshly School of Poetry in its book-form, and has fancies of a conspiracy against
him—Other adverse critiques—Evidences of mental
unsettlement on 2 June—Browning regarded with suspicion
—Rossetti not insane, but affected by hypochondria, resulting
largely from chloral—Physical delusions—Mr.
Marshall and Dr. Maudsley—Extract from the
Memoirs of Eighty Years, written by Dr. Hake, who takes Rossetti off to his house at
Roehampton —Scott's remarks—Attempt at suicide by
laudanum on the night of 8 June—Mistake as to serous
apoplexy—I fetch my Mother and Sister Maria, Christina being
ill—Brown calls-in Marshall, who, along with Hake, saves
Rossetti's life—Mental disturbance continues, and Rossetti
moves into Brown's house, followed by three houses in
Perthshire—Hemiplegia—Rossetti's companions in
Perthshire—Extracts from Scott and Hake—Resumption
of painting, and gradual recovery—Surgical
treatment—Money-affairs —Sale of the collection of
china, and removal of pictures to Scott's house . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 303
-
XXXV.
STAY AND WORK AT KELMSCOTT, 1872-4—
THEODORE
WATTS.
Rossetti, with George Hake, returns from Scotland, and
re-settles at Kelmscott Manor-house—His health and spirits at
first good, afterwards re-injured by chloral—Personal
details—Knows Theodore Watts as a lawyer, and soon as an
intimate literary and personal friend—Fixes upon Howell as
his professional agent— Advantages accruing from this
connexion—J. R. Parsons, Howell's partner—Rossetti
paints
Proserpine
, also
La Ghirlandata
,
The Bower Maiden
,
The Blessed Damozel
,
Dante's Dream
(smaller replica),
The Roman Widow
—Re-publishes
Dante and his Circle
—Nonsense-verses—Recurrence of gloomy
fancies—Scott's cheque for £200—Quarrel
with anglers—Rossetti leaves Kelmscott in July 1874, and
never returns thither . . . . . . . . . . . . 321
-
XXXVI.
LONDON AND ELSEWHERE, 1874-8.
Discussion of Bell Scott's statements about Rossetti's
seclusion, his desertion by old friends, George Hake, Browning, his new
friends, his want of candour—Rossetti's condition of health
and mental tone—Theodore Watts—Rossetti goes to
Aldwick Lodge, Bognor —Libel-case, Buchanan,
v. Taylor—Goes to Broadlands—The
Mount-Temples and Mrs.
Sumner—“Deafening” of Rossetti's
studio—Mesmerism—Surgical operation, as narrated
by Watts— Stay at Hunter's Forestall—Disappearance
of letters—Details as to chloral—Brown ceases to
see Rossetti for some months— Renewal of lease in Cheyne
Walk—Death of Oliver Brown, and Rossetti's impression as to
his posthumous writings—Death of Maria F. Rossetti . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 331
-
XXXVII.
INCIDENTS AND TRANSACTIONS, 1874-81—
HALL CAINE.
Dissolution of the Partnership, Morris, Marshall, Falkner,
& Co., 1874 —Rossetti obtains possession of the
portrait of him painted by G. F. Watts, R.A.—He drops his
connexion with Howell, 1876, and the reasons for
this—Drawings falsely attributed to Rossetti
—Fluctuations in his income—Funds for the families
of James Hannay and J. L. Tupper, and exertions to benefit James Smetham
—Declines to exhibit in the Grosvenor Gallery,
1877—An exception, for the benefit of an art-institution, to
his system of not
exhibiting—Unfounded report as
to a visit from the Princess Louise—Rossetti's correspondence
with Hall Caine begins, 1879 —Extract from Caine's
Recollections
as to his first visit to Rossetti, 1880—Reference to
various details given by Caine as to Rossetti's opinions,
etc.—His view debated as to Rossetti's natural irresolution
and melancholy—Friends who arranged to visit Rossetti from
day to day—Continued activity in painting, along with poetry,
and the re-edition of Gilchrist's
Life of Blake . . . . 346
-
XXXVIII.
PAINTINGS AND POEMS, 1874-81.
Pictures of
The Blessed Damozel
,
Dante's Dream
(replica),
La Pia
,
La Bella Mano
,
Venus Astarte
,
The Sea-spell
,
Mnemosyne
,
Beata Beatrix
(finished by Madox Brown),
A Vision of Fiammetta
,
La Donna della Finestra
,
The Daydream
—Designs of
The Sphinx
,
The Spirit of the Rainbow
,
Perlascura
,
Desdemona's Death-song
,
Sancta Lilias
,
The Sonnet
—Water-colour,
Bruna Brunelleschi
— Details as to
The Sea-spell
,
Vision of Fiammetta
,
Daydream
—Scott's narrative as to
The Sphinx
—Details as to
Desdemona's Death-song
and
Bruna Brunelleschi
—
Haydon's Etching of
Hamlet and Ophelia
—Caine's account as to how Rossetti resumed poetical
composition towards 1878—
Sonnet on Cyprus—Other Sonnets— The historical ballads,
The White Ship
and
The King's Tragedy
— The
Beryl-songs in
Rose Mary
. . . . . . . . . . . 362
-
XXXIX.
DANTE'S DREAM—BALLADS AND SONNETS.
In July 1881 Hall Caine becomes an inmate of Rossetti's
house—His somewhat trying position there—Dunn
leaves the house—
Dante's Dream
returned to Rossetti, at his own wish, by Valpy, who is to receive
other works in exchange—Caine suggests to the authorities of
the Walker Gallery, Liverpool, the purchase of this
picture—Alderman Samuelson favours the
proposal—Mr. R. and his proceedings in the same
matter—Purchase carried out for £1,650, September
1881—Recognition by Rossetti of the friendliness of Caine and
Samuelson—Transactions with Valpy and Graham—March
1881, Rossetti contemplates bringing out a new volume,
Ballads and Sonnets
, and re-issuing, in a modified form, the
Poems
of 1870—Publishing-arrangements, and rapid sale of
Ballads and Sonnets
in October—Proposed ballads on
Joan of Arc,
Abraham Lincoln, and
Alexander III. of
Scotland
—Critics favourable to the new
volume—Rossetti derives little pleasure from these successes
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 369
-
XL.
CUMBERLAND AND LONDON—FINAL ILLNESS.
Rossetti's state of health: blood-spitting, etc.—He
goes with Caine to the Vale of St. John, Keswick, September
1881—Returns worse than he
went—“Absolution for my sins”: Scott's
narrative, and observations on Rossetti's opinions upon
religion—Paintings:
Salutation of Beatrice
, duplicates of
Proserpine
and of
Joan of Arc
,
Donna della Finestra
—Visit from Dr. and Philip Marston—
Quasi-paralytic attack and discontinuance of chloral—Account
by Caine, and extracts from my Diary—Scott and Morris on the
same subject—The Medical Resident Henry Maudsley, and the
Nurse Mrs. Abrey—Rossetti, with Caine and Miss Caine, goes to
Birchington-on-Sea—Scott's remarks on Rossetti's later
years— Miss Caine's reminiscences . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . 375
-
XLI.
BIRCHINGTON-ON-SEA.
Birchington and Westcliff Bungalow—Rossetti's
condition there—He is joined by his Mother and
Sister—Other friends—Paintings of
Proserpine
and of
Joan of Arc
, and sketches of his Father [
sketch 1] for Vasto—Ballad of
Jan van Hunks
, and
Sonnets on
The Sphinx
— Novel-reading—Correspondence with Joseph
Knight and Ernest Chesneau—Extracts from Mrs. Rossetti's
Diary . . . . 390
-
XLII.
DEATH AND FUNERAL.
My visit to Birchington, 1 April 1882—Extracts from
my Diary, showing Dante's very grave condition of
health—Extracts from Mrs. Rossetti's Diary, 4 to 9
April—Rossetti's death, 9 April—My memorandum of
it—His will—Arrival of Lucy Rossetti and Charlotte
Polidori—The funeral, further extracts from Mrs. Rossetti's
Diary, and letter from Judge Lushington—The tombstone,
stained-glass window, and monument in Cheyne Walk
395
-
XLIII.
PERSONAL DETAILS—EXTRACTS.
Rossetti's character—Canon Dixon's
statement—Remarks by Knight, Patmore, and
Watts—His appearance—His feeling as to the
beauties of Nature—His views on
politics—Various remarks of his on fine art, literature, and
other matters, along with observations by Hunt, Caine, Sharp, Oliver
Brown, and myself . . 404
-
XLIV.
ROSSETTI AS PAINTER AND POET—EXTRACTS.
Decision not to offer my own criticism on this
matter—Extracts: upon Fine Art, Leighton, Royal Scottish
Academy, Hunt, Stephens, Quilter, Ruskin, Smetham, Shields, Hake, Rod,
Mourey, Sartorio —Upon Literature, Swinburne, Watts, Caine,
Forman, Knight, Hueffer, Sharp, Mrs. Wood, Patmore, Myers, William
Morris, Pater, Madame Darmesteter, Skelton, Sarrazin,
Gamberale— other Translators and Critics named . . . . . .
423
- I.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1855. By Himself .
Frontispiece
- II.
Gabriele Rossetti, 1853. By D. G. Rossetti .
To face p.
20
- III.
Gaetano Polidori, 1848. By D. G. Rossetti . ,, 123
- IV.
Elizabeth Eleanor Siddal (Rossetti), 1854. By Herself . . . . . . . . . ,, 175
- V.
Christina G. Rossetti, 1848. By D. G. Rossetti ,, 342
- Page xxi, line 12 from bottom,
for Morte read Mort
- ,, 14, line 11,
for dark-speaking
read
dark speaking
- ,, 54 ,, 8,
for Rufini
read Ruffini
- ,, 59 ,, 6,
for Fitz-Eustace
read De
Wilton
- ,, 119, lines 14, 15,
for I have not the least
recollection of what it was
read the
Study in
the manner of the Early Masters
- ,, 135, line 5,
for Fuhrich
read
Steinle
- ,, 166 ,, 11,
for never
read hardly
- ,, 199 ,, 17 etc.,
for I do not know—
etc. to end of paragraph, read These expressions occur in
a letter to Mr. Skelton
- ,, 235 ,, 19,
for the earlier days of 1864
read August 1863
- ,, 254 ,, 21,
for perhaps in 1863
read
in 1864
- ,, 274 ,, 17 etc.,
for I cannot say—
down to prominent among them
read Two of
these friends were Mr. Scott and Mr. Howell; perhaps also Mr. Henry Virtue
Tebbs—
down to Doctors' Commons
- ,, 290 ,, 6 from bottom,
for forgot
read forget
- ,, 304 ,, 16,
for while
read wile
- ,, 336 ,, 22,
for public
read
published
- ,, 359 ,, 4 from bottom,
for latter
read former
- ,, 401 ,, 21,
for if not
read and
indeed
- ,, 409 ,, last,
for XXX
read IX
- ,, 418 ,, 17,
for lkely
read likely
- ,, 436 ,, 2,
for reputations
read
reputation,
- ,, ,, ,, 9,
for object
read
objects
MEMOIR
OF
DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI
BY
WILLIAM MICHAEL ROSSETTI.
- Be sure that Love ordained for souls more meek
- His roadside dells of rest.
Gabriel Charles Dante Rossetti, commonly known as Dante
Gabriel Rossetti, was born on 12 May 1828, at No. 38 Charlotte Street,
Portland Place, London. This house is the last or most northerly
house, but one,
1 on the right-hand or eastern side of the street, as you turn into
it to the left, down Weymouth Street, out of Portland Place. Charlotte
Street, beyond No. 39, forms a
cul-de-sac. The infant was baptized at the neighbouring All Souls' Church,
Langham Place, as a member of the Church of England. From his father he
received the name Gabriel; from his godfather the name Charles; and from
poetical and literary associations the name Dante. His godfather was Mr.
Charles Lyell, of Kinnordy, Kirriemuir, Forfarshire; a keen votary of Dante
and Italian literature, a helpful friend to our father, and himself father
of the celebrated geologist, Sir Charles Lyell. Some living members of the
Lyell family continue to be well known to the present generation.
Transcribed Footnote (page 3):
1 No. 39 is now to the right hand of No. 38. It
appears to me that this was not the case when we lived in No. 38, but
that that was then the last house of all. The closed-up end of the
street has been wholly altered since my boyish days.
Our parents were Gabriele Pasquale Giuseppe Rossetti
(always called Gabriele Rossetti), and Frances Mary Lavinia
Rossetti,
née Polidori; and, before proceeding further with my narrative, I
shall give some particulars about them, and about other members of the
family.
Gabriele Rossetti was born on 28 February 1783, in the city of Vasto,
named also (by a corruption from Longobard nomenclature) Vasto Ammone, in
the Province of Abruzzo Citeriore, on the Adriatic coast of the then Kingdom
of Naples. Vasto is a very ancient place, a municipal town of the Romans,
then designated Histonium. We are not bound—though some
enthusiasts feel themselves permitted— to believe that it was
founded by the Homeric hero Diomed: its patron saint is the Archangel
Michael. Gabriele was the youngest son of Nicola Rossetti, and his wife
Maria Francesca,
née Pietrocola. Nicola Rossetti was a Blacksmith,
of very moderate means;
1 a man of somewhat severe and irascible nature, whose death ensued
not long after the French-republican invasion of the Kingdom of Naples in
1799. The French put some affront upon him—I believe they gave
him a smart beating for failing or neglecting to furnish required
provisions; and, being unable to stomach this, or to resent it as he would
have liked, his health declined, and soon he was no more. His wife belonged
to a local family of fair credit: but, like other Italian women of that
period, she received no scholastic training; she could not write nor even
read. The name Rossetti might be translated into
“Ruddykins” or “Redkins” as an
English
Transcribed Footnote (page 4):
1 A Vastese connexion of mine, Signor Giuseppe
Marchesani, favoured me, early in 1895, with a number of mortuary
and other inscriptions which he had composed to various members of
the family. I will give here the one relating to Nicola Rossetti,
who probably remains otherwise unrecorded, unless by some
“forlorn hic jacet.” Of course anything
written in a lapidary style reads less well in my English than in
Marchesani's Italian. “Nicola Rossetti, Blacksmith
poor and honourable, lovingly sent in boyhood to their first
studies his sons, carefully nurtured in childhood. If Fortune
neglected him, provident Nature ultimately distinguished, in the
obscure Artizan, the well-graced Father, who, to the strokes of
his hammer on the battered anvil, sent forth the sonorous and
glorious echo, beyond remote Abruzzo, into Italy and other
lands.”
equivalent. My father used to say that the Rossetti
race was an offshoot of the Della Guardia family, well known and still
subsisting in Vasto; and that at some date or other certain children of the
Della Guardia stock were noted for florid complexion and reddish hair, and
thus got called “the Rossetti,” in accordance with the
Italian hobby for nicknames, and that this name gradually stuck to them as a
patronymic.
Nicola and Maria Francesca Rossetti had a rather large family, four
sons and three daughters, and three of the sons earned distinction. There
was Domenico, who was versed (as a local historian records)
“in medical science, in civil and canonical law, and
in theology,” writing in Italian, Latin, French, and
to some extent Hebrew, and was “the first among mortals
who daringly descended into the Grotto of Montecalvo near
Nice.” On this theme he wrote a poem in three cantos,
besides other poems (two volumes, printed in Parma) and prose: he was
besides an Improvisatore. Born in 1772, he
died comparatively young in 1816. There was also Andrea, the eldest brother,
who became a Canon of San Giuseppe in Vasto; and thirdly, Gabriele, whom I
may be excused for regarding as a more important writer than even the
polyglot Domenico. I might include, as showing that verse-writing ran in the
family, the fourth son, Antonio, who exercised the humble calling of a
wig-maker and barber: he likewise versified in an off-hand popular manner,
and was of some note to his fellow-townsmen.
Gabriele Rossetti came into the world well endowed for the arts. As it
turned out, he took to poetry and other forms of literature; but he might
equally have excelled in drawing or in vocal music. I have before me as I
write three MSS. containing specimens of his early skill as a draughtsman,
done when he was twenty years old or thereabouts. The drawings are
illustrations to poems (juvenile enough) of his own composition, and are
surprisingly precise and dainty in execution. One would have little
hesitation in calling them copper-engravings; but they are, in fact,
pen-designs done with sepia, which he himself extracted
from the cuttlefish or “calamarello,” so dear to Neapolitan
gourmands. An ornamental headpiece, two decorative title- pages, and two
landscapes founded on traditions of Claude or Gaspar Poussin, are his own
inventions. One drawing is a group of two women after Mignard; and two or
three others may also be copies. From my earliest childhood I have looked
with astonishment on these performances as pieces of manipulation; and,
after a lifetime spent among artists, I hardly know what to put beside them
in their own limited line of attempt. Then, as to music, Gabriele had a
beautiful tenor-voice, sweet and sonorous in a high degree. It received no
regular cultivation, but was such that he was more than once urged to train
himself for the operatic stage —a mode of life, however, for
which he had no sort of inclination.
The local magnate was the Marchese del Vasto, of the great historic
house of D'Avalos, into which the famous Vittoria Colonna married. He was
feudal Lord of the Vastese, and they acknowledged themselves his
“vassals,” though this state of things, in the epoch
of a Robespierre and a Napoleon, was not destined to continue long. The
attention of the Marchese was soon called to the uncommon promise of his
growing-up vassal Gabriele Rossetti, and, after some well-conducted
schooling in Vasto, the youth was sent in 1804, under the patronage of this
nobleman, to study in the University of Naples. His education here was cut
short after a year and a month, and consequently had not a very wide range.
In middle life he read Latin with ease, and retained some remnant of
geometry and mathematics, but of Greek he had no knowledge. In French he was
well versed, speaking the language with great fluency and an amusing
assumption of the tone of a Frenchman. English he acquired by practice in
Malta and in this country, and could both read and talk it tolerably enough,
though he never did so when he had the option of Italian.
Rossetti was just twenty-three years of age when the Bourbon king,
Ferdinand I., was turned out of his continental
dominion, and had to retire into Sicily, and Joseph
Bonaparte reigned in his stead. With Ferdinand vanished the Marchese del
Vasto, who was his Court-Majordomo. Thus all the years of Rossetti's early
manhood were passed in association with a Napoleonic and not a Bourbon order
of ideas. As a sequel to his first volume of poems, published in 1807, he
obtained an appointment as librettist in the operatic theatre of San Carlo,
writing three or more opera-books, one of them named
Giulio Sabino. He was kept in hot water, however, by the exigencies of managers
and vocalists, and got transferred to the Curatorship of Ancient Marbles and
Bronzes in the Museum of Naples. He figured in the Academy of the Arcadi as
“Filidauro
Labidiense.” There used to be a catch,—
- “Rossini,
Rossetti,
- Divini,
imperfetti”;
but whether my father was ever linked with Rossini in any operatic
production I am unable to say. Rossetti was well received at the Court of
King Joachim (Murat), the successor of Joseph. I have heard him say that he
knew something of almost all the Bonapartes, except only the great Napoleon.
I possess a slight portrait of him done by the Princess Charlotte Bonaparte;
and another of the family, Lady Dudley Stuart, acted as godmother to his
daughter Christina. In my own time Prince Pierre Bonaparte (too notorious as
the homicide of Victor Noir) was frequently in our house; occasionally also
Prince Louis Napoleon, the unduly glorified and duly execrated Napoleon
III., of whom my father would emphatically declare that he could never trace
in him one grain (
neppure un' ombra) of Liberalism. King Joachim fell in 1815, and King Ferdinand was
restored to his capital city, Naples; a state of things not likely to be
much to the taste of Gabriele Rossetti—who in 1813 had acted as
Secretary to that part of the provisional government, sent by Joachim to
Rome, which looked after public instruction and the fine arts. He did not,
however, under the
restored Bourbon, lose his post in the Museum. An
agitation ensued for a constitution similar to that which the Spaniards
established in 1819—the secret society of the Carbonari, in which
Rossetti was a member of the General Assembly, being especially active in
this direction. In 1820 there was a military uprising, and Ferdinand had to
grant the constitution —probably with a fixed intention of
revoking it at the first opportunity. Rossetti's ode to the Dawn of the
Constitution-day, “Sei pur bella cogli astri sul
crine” (“Lovely art thou with stars in
hair”), was in every Neapolitan mouth. In 1821 the king,
then sojourning in Austria, abolished the constitution, and suppressed it
with the aid of Austrian troops. Carbonarism was made a capital offence, and
the leading constitutionalists were denounced and proscribed, among them
Rossetti. He is said to have been viewed by the king with especial
abhorrence, partly because various writings, not really his, were attributed
to him, and partly because one of his lyrics contained the lines—
- “I Sandi ed i
Luvelli
- Non son finiti
ancor,”
(Sands and Louvels are not yet extinct.) The reference, it will be
perceived, is to the political assassination of Kotzebue by Sand, and of the
Duc de Berri by Louvel, with a suggestion that a like fate might easily
befall King Ferdinand. Rossetti did not say that it
ought
to befall him; but the king was not inclined to take a good-natured view of
the matter, or to construe the phrase rather as a loyal warning than as an
incitement to a deed of blood. The peccant poet lay concealed in Naples for
three months, beginning in March 1821; finally the British admiral, Sir
Graham Moore, pressed by his generous wife who knew and liked Rossetti,
furnished him with a British uniform, got him off in a carriage to the
harbour, and shipped him to Malta. I have before me a printed proclamation
of King Ferdinand— the original document, dated 28 September
1822—granting an amnesty to persons concerned in the
revolutionary or
constitutional movement, with the exception of
thirteen men expressly named. My father is the thirteenth. In Malta he
remained about two years and a half, holding classes (as indeed he had
previously done in Naples) for instruction in the Latin and Italian
languages and literature, and most liberally befriended by the English poet
and diplomatist, John Hookham Frere, the translator of Aristophanes: their
amicable relations continued after distance had separated them. Deep indeed
were the affection and respect which Rossetti entertained for Frere. One of
my vivid reminiscences is of the day when the death of
Frere was announced to him,
1 in 1846. With tears in his half-sightless eyes and the passionate
fervour of a southern Italian, my father fell on his knees, and exclaimed,
“Anima bella, benedetta sii tu, dovunque
sei!”
2
Rossetti had long been a noted Improvisatore, as well as a poet in the accustomed way (he
continued to improvise to some extent for a while, even after coming to
London), and this, with his other gifts, made him popular in Maltese
society. After a while, however, he was harassed by the spies or other
emissaries of the Bourbon Government, which embittered his position so much
that he resolved to have done with Malta, and settle in England. Here he
arrived in January or February 1824, and fixed himself in London. He soon
made acquaintance with the Polidori family, and a mutual attachment united
him in marriage with the second daughter, Frances Mary Lavinia, in April
1826. He subsisted by teaching Italian, and held perhaps the foremost place
in that vocation. In 1831 he was appointed Professor of Italian in King's
College, London. This professorship was not a sinecure; but the students
were few, and became fewer from about 1840 onwards, when the German language
began decidedly to supersede the Italian in public favour. My
Transcribed Footnote (page 9):
1 The person who announced it was Mr. Edward
Graham, the associate of Shelley in early youth. He had taken to the
musical profession, and was a man of uncommonly handsome presence:
his bodily were superior to his mental endowments.
Transcribed Footnote (page 9):
2 “Noble soul, blessed be thou
wherever thou art.”
father made at the best a very moderate income;
yet this sufficed for all the requirements of himself, and his wife and four
children, and no man could be more heartily contented with what he
got—more strenuous and cheerful in working for it, or more
willing “to cut his coat” (he never
turned it) “according to his cloth.” The
British religion of “keeping up appearances” was
unknown—thank Heaven—in my paternal home; my father
disregarded it from temperament and foreign way of thinking and living, and
my mother contemned it with modest or noble superiority. The tolerably
thriving condition of our household declined with my father's decline in
health, which began towards 1842: interruption of professional work, waning
employment, inability to take up such employment as offered, necessarily
ensued. In 1843 (having hitherto had uncommonly keen eyesight) he suddenly
lost one eye through amaurosis, and the other eye was greatly weakened and
in constant peril, though he was never bereft of sight totally. A real
tussle for the means of subsistence now arose, but by one method or other
all was tided over. Our scale of living, if somewhat more threadbare and
dingy, did not materially dwindle from its unassuming yet comfortable
average; and no butcher nor baker nor candlestick-maker ever had a claim
upon us for a sixpence unpaid. In his closing years my father had more than
one stroke of paralysis. Some of these were of a formidable kind; yet he got
over them to a substantial extent, lived on in a suffering state of body,
and with mental faculties weakened, though not impaired in any definite and
absolute way, and continued diligent in reading and writing almost to the
last day of his life. His sufferings, often severe, were borne with patience
and courage (he had an ample stock of both qualities), though not with that
unemotional calm which would have been foreign to his Italian nature. For
nearly a year before his death he lived, with his wife and daughter
Christina, at Frome Selwood in Somerset; but finally he returned to London,
and died at No. 166 Albany Street, Regent's Park, on 26 April 1854,
firm-minded and placid, and glad to be
released, in the presence of all his family. His
young cousin, Teodorico Pietrocola-Rossetti, was also there. He lies buried
in Highgate Cemetery.
Gabriele Rossetti was man of energetic and lively temperament, of warm
affections, sensitive to slight or rebuff, and well capable of repelling it,
devoted to his family and home, full of good-nature and good-humour, a
fervent patriot, honourable and aboveboard in all his dealings, and as
pleasant and inspiriting company as one could wish to meet. Though sensitive
as above stated, he was not in the least quarrelsome, and never began a
conflict about either literary or personal matters: this disposition he
transmitted to his son Dante Gabriel. For some years after settling in
London he went a good deal into society, and was welcomed in several houses.
This had diminished at the date of my earliest reminiscences, and soon it
had wholly ceased. He could tell an amusing story most
capitally—I have hardly known his equal at that —with
good dramatic “take-off”; and, though his ordinary
speech was, to the best of my judgment, very pure Italian, he could readily
throw himself back, when he liked, into the Neapolitan dialect, or the
Abruzzese, which is not a little provincial.
1 He always spoke Italian in the family, never English; and his
children from the earliest years, as well as his wife, answered in Italian.
Apart from domestic simplicity or sportiveness, his conversation was always
high-minded, implying a solid standard of public and private virtue: nothing
about it mean or sly or worldly, or tampering with principle. There was
indeed a certain tinge of self-opinion or self-applause in his temperament;
he rather liked “to ride the high
horse” (as I have heard my brother phrase
Transcribed Footnote (page 11):
1 I possess two good books showing the dialect
of Vasto, sent to me by the courtesy of their authors: the
Vocabolario dell' Uso
Abruzzese
, by Gennaro Finamore, and the
Fujj' Ammesche, by
Luigi Anelli. The latter volume is a series of sonnets, which appear
to me highly excellent of their popular kind. When I say that the
Vastese words “Fujj'
Ammesche” represent the Italian words
“Foglie
Miste,” my English reader will be able to judge
whether Vastese is a pure or impure form of Italian.
it); but this was quite free from envy or
disparagement of others, and did no one any harm. Of what one calls
“personal vanity” he had a plentiful lack, and was
indeed very careless (like many other Italians) in all matters of the outer
man. As a father he was most kind, and would often allow his four children
to litter and rollick about the room while he plodded through some laborious
matter of literary composition. He always retained, however, a perceptible
tone of the
patria potestas. Rossetti was a
splendid declaimer or reciter, with perfect elocution. He put his heart into
whatsoever he did. His MSS. are models of fine and minute penmanship, and
show enormous pains in the way of revision and recasting.
He was an ardent lover of liberty, in thought and in the constitution
of society. In religion he was mainly a free-thinker, strongly anti-papal
and anti-sacerdotal, but not inclined, in a Protestant country, to abjure
the faith of his fathers. He never attended any place of worship. Spite of
his free-thinking, he had the deepest respect for the moral and spiritual
aspects of the Christian religion, and in his later years might almost be
termed an unsectarian and undogmatic Christian. As a freethinker, he was
naturally exempt from popular superstitions—did not believe in
ghosts, second sight, etc.; and the same statement holds good of our mother.
In this respect Dante Gabriel, as soon as his mind got a little formed,
differed from his parents; being quite willing to entertain, in any given
case, the question whether a ghost or demon had made his appearance or not,
and having indeed a decided bias towards suspecting that he had. One point,
however, of popular superstition, or I should rather say of superstitious
habit, my father had not discarded. A fancy existed in the Abruzzi (I dare
say it still exists) that, if one steps over a child seated or lying on the
ground, the child's growth would be arrested; and I have more than once seen
my father divert his path to avoid stepping over any one of us. In politics
he belonged more to the party of constitutional monarchy than to that of
republicanism, but welcomed
anything that told for freedom. He always
advocated the
unity of Italy, long before that aspiration
was considered a very practical one; indeed, I have seen him described, on
good authority, as the
first apostle of unity, but am not
clear that his is strictly accurate.
In estimating Rossetti's work as a national or patriotic poet, and his
general attitude of mind in matters of politics, or of government in State
and Church, we should remember the conditions (already referred to) under
which his life had been passed. He was born under the feudal and despotic
system of the Neapolitan Bourbons; his youth witnessed the more open-minded
but still despotic Napoleonic rule; the Bourbon restoration brought-on a
constitution sworn to by the sovereign, who soon after perjured himself in
suppressing it; lifelong exile ensured to Rossetti and other
constitutionalists. Then he lived through many abortive insurrections
against the temporal and ecclesiastical dominators of Italy; through the
brilliant promise and the retrogression of Pope Pius IX. (whom at first he
acclaimed with unmeasured fervour); through the high deeds, glorious
prospects, and dolorous collapse, of the revolutionary years 1848-49, and
through the fuliginous beginnings of the Neapolitan King Bomba; followed by
a genuinely liberal government in Piedmont under Victor Emmanuel and Cavour,
by the
coup d'état of Napoleon
III., and by general stagnancy of political thought and act throughout
Europe. He died five years before 1859, which produced the alliance between
France and Piedmont, the expulsion of the Austrians from Lombardy, and the
commencement of the unification of Italy. When he died in 1854 the outlook
seemed extremely dark; yet heart and hope did not abate in him. The latest
letter of his which I have seen published was written in September or
October 1853, and contains this passage, equally strong-spirited and prophetic—
“The
Arpa Evangelica . . . ought to find free circulation through all Italy. I do not
say the like of three other unpublished volumes, which all seethe with
love of country and hatred for tyrants. These
Note: In the first paragraph, “dark-speaking” should read
“dark speaking”.
await a better time—which will come, be very
sure of it. The present fatal period will pass, and serves to whet the
universal desire. . . . Let us look to the future. Our tribulations,
dear madam, will not finish very soon, but finish they will at last.
Reason has awakened in all Europe, although her enemies are strong. We
shall pass various years in this state of degradation; then we shall
rouse up. I assuredly shall not see it, for day by day, nay hour by
hour, I expect the much-longed-for death; but
you will
see it.”
In person Gabriele Rossetti was rather below the middle height, and
full in flesh till his health failed; with a fine brow, a marked prominent
nose and large nostrils, dark-speaking eyes, pleasant mouth, engaging smile,
and genuine laugh. He indulged in gesticulation, not to any great extent,
but of course more than an Englishman. His hands were rather
small—not a little spoiled by a life-long habit of munching his
nails. As to other personal habits, I may mention free snuff-taking without
any smoking; and a hearty appetite while health lasted, with more of
vegetable diet than Englishmen use. In his later years teeth and palate had
failed, and all viands “tasted like hay.” Fermented
liquors he only touched seldom and sparingly. He had liked the English beer,
but had to leave it off altogether in 1836, to avoid recurrent attacks of
gout. In fact, he liked most things English—the national and
individual liberty, the constitution, the people and their moral tone,
though the British leaven of social Toryism was far from being to his taste.
He certainly preferred the English nation, on the whole, to the French, and
had a kind of prepossession against Frenchwomen, which he pushed to a
humorous over-plus in speech—saying for instance that, if a
Frenchwoman and himself were to be the sole tenants of an otherwise
uninhabited island, the human race on that island would decidedly not be
prolonged into a second generation. My father also took very kindly to the
English coal-fires, and was an adept in keeping them up; he would jocularly
speak of “buying his climate at the
coal-merchant's.” In all my earlier years I used
frequently to see my father come home in the dusk rather fagged with his
round of teaching, and after dining he would lie
down flat on the hearthrug close by the fire, and fall asleep for an hour or
two, snoring vigorously. Beside him would stand up our old familiar tabby
cat, poised on her haunches, and holding on by the fore-claws inserted into
the fender-wires, warming her furry front. Her attitude (I have never seen
any feline imitation of it) was peculiar, somewhat in the shape of a capital
Y—“the cat making the Y”
was my father's phrase for this performance. She was the mother of a
numerous progeny; one of her daughters—also long an inmate of our
house—was a black-and-white cat named Zoe by my elder sister
Maria, who had a fancy for anything Greekish; but Zoe never made a Y.
Rossetti had produced a tolerable amount of verse in Italy, also the
descriptive account (which passes under the name of Cavalier Finati) of the
Naples Museum; but all his more solid and voluminous writing was done after
he had settled in London. The principal works are as follows:
1826—
Dante, Commedia (the
Inferno alone was
published), with a Commentary aiming to show that the poem is chiefly
political and anti-papal in its inner meaning. A great deal of controversy
was excited at the time by this work, and by others which succeeded it.
1832—
Lo Spirito Antipapale che
produsse la Riforma
(
The Anti-Papal Spirit which produced the
Reformation
), following up and extending the same line of thought. An
English translation was also published. 1833—
Iddio e l'Uomo,
Salterio
(
God and Man, a Psaltery), poems. The two
last-named books have the honour of being in the Pontifical
Index Librorum
Prohibitorum
, edition 1838, and perhaps others are there now.
1840—
Il Mistero dell' Amor
Platonico del Medio Evo
(
The Mysterious Platonic Love of the Middle Ages),
five volumes; a book of daring and elaborately ingenious speculation,
enforcing the analogy of many illustrious writers, as forming a secret
society of anti-Catholic thought, with the doctrines of Gnosticism and
Freemasonry (Rossetti was himself a Freemason). This book was printed and
prepared for publication, but was withheld
Note: Type damage obscures page number.
(partly at the instance of Mr. Frere) as likely to be
accounted rash and subversive. 1842—
La Beatrice di Dante, contending that Dante's Beatrice was a symbolic personage, not a
real woman. 1846—
Il Veggente in
Solitudine
(
The Seer in Solitude), a poem of patriotic aim,
in a discursive and rhapsodical form, embodying a good deal of autobiography
and of earlier material. It circulated largely though clandestinely in
Italy, and a medal of Rossetti was struck there in commemoration.
1847—
Versi (miscellaneous poems). 1852—
L'Arpa Evangelica (
The Evangelic Harp), religious poems.
As regards my father's writings on Dante and other
authors—the outcome of an immense amount of miscellaneous, often
curious and abstruse, reading—I may be allowed to say that I
regard his views and arguments as cogent, without being convincing. They
affect one more in beginning one of his books than in ending it. He
certainly made some mistakes, and urged some details to a wiredrawn or
futile extreme, and in especial he was not sufficiently master of the happy
instinct when to leave off, so that his longest and most important book, the
Mistero dell' Amor
Platonico
, becomes cumbrous with subsidiary matter. In his poems also he was
over-fond of amplifying and loading, being too unwilling to leave a
composition as it stood; though he wrote with great mastery and ease, and a
brilliant command of metre, rhythm, and melody. Many snatches of his verse
are forcible and moving in a high degree, and rouse a contagious enthusiasm.
He has left in MS. a versified account of his life, written between 1846 and
1851. It is not long, nor yet very short, and is about the completest as
well as the most authentic account that exists of his career. I should like
to translate it some day, and publish it in England.
To give some idea of Rossetti's poetry, I cannot do better than
extract here one of the remarks upon it made by the pre-eminent Italian poet
of our own day, Giosuè Carducci, in a selection from Rossetti
which he edited in 1861. Carducci, after contrasting him with some of his
contemporary writers, terms him—
Note: Type damage obscures page signature and final word of page, as
well as page number.
“The singer who, notwithstanding his
defects, conforms the most to the poetic taste and the harmonic faculty
of the Italian people. No plethora of murky inventions, and of recondite
and strange forms, and of versified disquisitions, and of nebulous
swathings; but a daring and serene fancy, impetus of emotion,
plenteousness and sometimes superabundance of colouring, facility,
harmony, melody, make these poems truly Italian, make them singable.
Singable, I say; and I know that this praise may, in the opinion of
some, amount to blame, now that for the most part singable poetry is of
the worst.”
Not in Vasto alone, but in all Italy, Rossetti's reputation as a
patriotic poet stood high—more perhaps among the men of action
and the ardent youth than among the critical assessors of literary merit. A
proposal was made to transfer his remains to a sepulchre in Italy, as an act
of national recognition. My mother having demurred, an inscription was set
up to him in the Florentine cloister of Santa Croce, which counts as the
Italian Walhalla or Westminster Abbey. In Vasto the centenary of his birth
was celebrated in 1883 with much evidence of enthusiasm. The principal
Piazza (del Pesce, as first entitled) and
the Communal Theatre are named after him; and it has long been
proposed—though perhaps rather half-heartedly—to erect
his statue, and to purchase for the town the house in a part of which he was
born—an ancient and somewhat stately-looking though plain
edifice, battered by time and neglect. I am tempted to extract here a few of
the many eulogiums pronounced upon Rossetti at the centenary—not
unconscious, however, of the caution with which any utterances on such an
occasion are to be received.
From the speech of Professor Francesco di Rosso:—
“He then conceived that love of his
oppressed country, and that indignation against the oppressors, which
were to be (as I may say) the religion of his entire life, and were to
dictate to him the most beautiful strains, and make him the
Tyrtæus of the battles of the Italian liberty, unity, and
independence, the poet sacred to Italy and Europe labouring under
tyranny, under political and religious re-action.”
From the speech of the sub-prefect Cavalier Domenico Fabretti:—
“Many were the public-spirited poets of
Italy: but none conjectured the cycle of her evolution, shadowed forth
its agents, designed its forms, with the forecasting precision, the
exact intuition, of your Rossetti. He was not only the sweet poet of the
Arcadian stylus, was not only the studious and elegant verse-writer, was
not only the fervent patriot, but was the seer of the Italian
re-arising.”
From a pamphlet by signor Adelfo Mayo,
1 addressed to the workmen of Vasto:—
“You, citizens and workmen, will deserve
well of your country if you will imitate the domestic and civil virtues
of that great man, if you strive with all your efforts to preserve
intact the sacred deposit of the Italian liberties under the sceptre of
the Kings of Savoy, and if you also co-operate, as best you may, in
raising a worthy monument to one who, conferring honour upon our city,
has honoured likewise the Abruzzi and the entire
peninsula.”
In England very little has got into print showing Gabriele Rossetti
“in his habit as he lived.” There are, however, two
recent books which give an idea of him in his later years, and in each
instance the idea is a true one as far as it goes. Mr. William Bell Scott's
Autobiographical Notes (1892) contain the following passage, relating to the close of 1847
or beginning of 1848:—
“I entered the small front parlour or
dining-room of the house [50 Charlotte Street],
and found an old gentleman sitting by the fire in a great chair, the
table drawn close to his chair, with a thick manuscript book open before
him, and the largest snuff-box I ever saw beside it conveniently open.
He had a black cap on his head furnished with a great peak or shade for
the eyes, so that I saw his face only partially. . . . The old gentleman
signed to a chair for
Transcribed Footnote (page 18):
1 With this fine-minded and cultivated gentleman,
well meriting his high position in the Vastese community, I have had the
pleasure of keeping up some correspondence ever since the date of the
centenary meeting.
my sitting down, and explained that his son
was now painting in the studio he and a young friend had taken together:
this young friend's name was Holman Hunt.
1 . . . The old gentleman's pronunciation of English was very
Italian; and, though I did not know that, both of them—he and
his daughter [Christina]—were probably
at that moment writing poetry of some sort, and might wish me far
enough, I left very soon.”
The second portrait of my father, and a very good one it is, is traced
by Mr. Frederic George Stephens in his monograph named
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
(1894): it shows a memory highly retentive of characterizing details:—
“As might be expected of one possessing so
many accomplishments, and whose career had been marked by so much
courage, the Professor was a man of striking character and aspect; so
that, when I was introduced to him in 1848 [some few months
perhaps after Mr. Scott's first visit to our house], and his
grand climacteric was past, and (as with most Italians) a life of
studies told upon him heavily, I could not but be struck with the noble
energy of his face, and by the high culture his expression attested,
while a sort of eager, almost passionate resolution seemed to glow in
all he said and did. To a youngster, such as I was then, he seemed much
older than his years; and, while seated reading at a table with two
candles behind him, and (because his sight was failing) with a wide
shade over his eyes, he looked a very Rembrandt come to life. The light
was reflected from a manuscript placed close to his face, and, in the
shadow which covered them, made distinct all the fineness and vigour of
his sharply moulded features. It was half lost upon his somewhat
shrunken figure wrapped in a student's dressing-gown, and shone fully
upon the lean, bony, and delicate
Transcribed Footnote (page 19):
1 According to Mr. Scott, this was his first call at
No. 50 Charlotte Street, and the interview took place
“about Christmas 1847-48.” I
consider that the correct date of his first call was in December 1847 or
January 1848. But Mr. Scott's memory must have been entirely wrong as to
his then hearing about the studio shared by Holman Hunt and Dante
Rossetti, for there was no such sharing of any studio until late in
August 1848, and the words put into our father's mouth, if spoken at
all, must have been spoken later than “about Christmas
1847-48.”
Ex uno disce
multos
.
hands in which he held the paper. He looked
like an old and somewhat imperative prophet, and his voice had a
slightly rigorous ring, speaking to his sons and their
visitors.”
I am not sure that the word
“rigorous” would here convey quite the
right impression. My father's address in such cases was clear and emphatic,
and as if no dissent were expected to ensue; but it was not marked by
anything hard or brusque.
Good-natured and indulgent though he in fact was, and animated with
the most resolute desire to do his very best for the present and future of
his children, our love nevertheless was chiefly concentrated upon our
mother—and never did mother deserve it better. This preference
may have been rather less marked in my elder sister Maria than with the rest
of us. Frances Mary Lavinia Polidori was born in London, 42 Broad Street,
Golden Square (the same street in which William Blake had been born
forty-three years before), on 27 April 1800. Thus she was seventeen years
younger than her husband. Of her parents I shall say something in my next
Section. She was brought up with a view to her becoming a governess; and at
the early age of sixteen she took charge of her first pupil, the adopted
daughter of Mr. Thomas Dickins, of Vale Lodge, Leatherhead, Surrey. I have
heard my mother say that in this house she used to see from time to time
John Shelley, the brother of the poet. He was a very handsome youth, aged
then some thirteen or fourteen, and all mention of the name of that
world-abandoned rebel, the versifying atheist, was strictly forbidden. Hence
my mother passed into the families of Mr. Justice Bolland (whom she highly
respected), and of Sir Patrick Macgregor. One of her pupils, Miss Georgina
Macgregor, became the second godmother of my sister, Christina Georgina. A
brother of Sir Patrick, a Colonel, fell not a little in love with Miss
Polidori. Whether this highly estimable gentleman (as such he was always
represented to me) would have made up his mind to “proposing for
the governess” I am unable to say; but anyhow he was forestalled
by the Neapolitan refugee
By D. G. Rossetti. 1853.
Gabriele Rossetti.
Figure: Profile. Torso. Seated at writing desk.
Rossetti, who rapidly won the damsel's heart, and was promptly
accepted. The marriage proved a truly happy one, spite of narrow
circumstances, and the harrassing troubles of my father's long illnesses and
decay. On his side there was deep unwavering affection, and the most
absolute esteem and confidence; on hers, affection and confidence in no less
measure, and a cordial admiration for his uncommon gifts and attainments.
Mrs. Rossetti was well bred and well educated, a constant reader, full
of clear perception and sound sense on a variety of subjects, and perfectly
qualified to hold her own in society; a combination of abnormal modesty of
self-estimate (free, however, from the silliness or insincerity of
self-disparagement), and of retirement and repose of character, and of
devotion to home duties, kept her back. The idea of “making an
impression” never appeared to present itself to her
mind— still less the idea of outshining or rivalling any one
else. I doubt whether in the whole course of my life I once saw her go out
to an ordinary “evening party.” Perfect simplicity of
thought, speech, and manner, characterized her always; I venture to think
that it was dignity under another name. For conscientiousness, veracity, the
keeping confidences inviolate, the utter absence of censoriousness or
tittle-tattle, she was an absolute model: all this came so natural to her
that it passed almost unnoticed, or seemed a matter of course. Day and night
she attended to the household—doing needlework, teaching her
girls, keeping things in order, etc. In all the central years of her life
there was only one servant in the house. She was deeply but unpretentiously
religious, a member of the Church of England, very constant in
church-attendance. In my earlier years she might be regarded as belonging
rather to the “Evangelical” branch of the Church, but
later on her associations grew to be of the “high
church” kind. This only made a difference of habitude, not of
essentials. She took a reasonable interest in matters of politics, her
sympathies being on the Liberal side. She wrote correctly in prose, and some
few times even in verse; but
without having, at any time of her life, any
notion of doing aught for publication. I have heard that in youth she was
considered rather a “quiz” (as the phrase then ran),
or a person with a sharp eye for the ridiculous in others. Of this I myself
remember few symptoms or none; but certainly she knew a pretender or a
humbug when she saw one, and could express her perception by clear word of
mouth. With all the reserve of her character, her total want of forwardness,
her mostly unspoken scorn of semblances which have not realities behind
them, there was nothing about her of the merely stolid or negative; her
feelings were warm, and even her temper might have been less unruffled than
it was, but for a life-long practice of moderating self-control. She was
just, liberal, kind, forgiving, steadfast. A son who has any evil to say of
his mother might feel embarrassed until he had managed to say it mildly: I
am spared any such embarrassment. To sum up—she was one of the
most womanly of women.
My mother once said—it may have been towards 1872 or 1873:
“I always had a passion for intellect, and my wish was
that my husband should be distinguished for intellect, and my children
too. I have had my wish [and this she might well say in
reference to her elder son and her younger daughter, not to bring the
remaining two into question]; and I now wish that there were
a little less intellect in the family, so as to allow for a little more
common sense.” I have always set store by that
utterance of my mother, as equally sound and characteristic.
Frances Rossetti was of an ordinary female middle height, or a trifle less than that,
1 with a full-sized head, fresh complexion, features more than
commonly regular, shapely
Transcribed Footnote (page 22):
1 Miss Hall Caine, in her pleasant article
A Child's Recollections of
Rossetti
, in the
New Review for September 1894, describes my mother as
“very little.” This is a
mistake. Miss Caine only saw my mother in the early part of 1882,
when the latter was nearly eighty-two years of age. Her figure had
then fallen in, and she looked short; but the statement in my text
is the correct one.
Madonna-like eyelids, and an air of innate
composure. Her general aspect was English, not Italian. Her eyes were grey,
her hair in youth abundant and pretty, worn then in long ringlets, of a
full-tinted brown. It altered colour but little, even in her extreme old
age; and she always looked to me— and I believe to
others—some five or six years younger than she was. Her voice was
extremely clear and uniform, excellent for reading. There is a good likeness
of her in one of Sir John Millais's pictures—the
Departure of the Crusaders, painted towards
1856.
After the definite failure of my father's health, or from about 1844
until his death in 1854, the chief support of the family devolved upon my
mother—the eldest child, Maria, being in 1844 only seventeen
years of age. My mother made great and most laudable
efforts—going out to teach French and Italian (both of which she
knew and spoke perfectly well) and other things, and afterwards holding
precarious day-schools—at No. 38 Arlington Street, Mornington
Crescent (our residence for a year or two beginning in 1851), and at Frome
Selwood. The schools produced no income of any account; and my mother's
small expectations (from the property left by her maternal grandfather), and
then her small capital, had to be trenched upon. After her return however
from Frome, in 1854, it no longer became necessary for her to exert herself;
she continued living with me and my two sisters, and in 1876 removed with
Christina to another house, 30 Torrington Square. In her later years her
hearing was imperfect, though by no means gone, and her general strength
abated considerably. Her mind remained always clear, but necessarily less
strong with the inroads of age. She died, rather of gradual decline than of
anything else, on 8 April 1886, the very day which completed four years
after the death of Dante Gabriel. Had she lived a few more days, she would
have been eighty-six years of age. She rests by her husband's side in
Highgate Cemetery.
I have observed that my mother “wrote correctly in
prose, and some few times even in verse.” It has
lately been my
melancholy task to hunt through drawers,
pigeon-holes, etc., in the house (30 Torrington Square) occupied by my
sister Christina—of memory gracious to many—up to the
date of her death, 29 December 1894. I came upon a little red writing-case,
given by Dante Rossetti to our mother in 1849; in the writing-case were
these verses of her composition. They are dated 1876, the year when my
sister Maria Francesca died; after Dante's death in 1882 a final couplet was
added. To me the lines, recording a succession of family losses, are
pathetic; they come from a heart full of affection. Perhaps the reader will
think it ridiculous that I should print them; at worst, the ridicule will
apply to me alone, and not to the writer, who in youth and age kept all such
things very much to herself.
- “No longer I hear the welcome sound
- Of Father's foot upon the ground;
- No longer see the loving face
- Of Mother beam with kindly grace;
- No longer hear ‘how I
rejoice’
- At sight of me, from Sister's
voice;
1
- No more from Husband loved will be a
- ‘Cara Francesca, moglie mia’;
- And from dear Daughter sore I miss
-
10‘My dearest
Dodo,’
2 and her
kiss:—
- I never more shall hear him speak,
- The dearly loved who called me
‘Tique.’”
3
Transcribed Footnote (page 24):
1 This was Margaret, who died in 1867.
Transcribed Footnote (page 24):
2 A pet name much used by Maria for her mother.
Transcribed Footnote (page 24):
3 Dante Gabriel was addicted to calling his mother,
in her later years, “the Antique,” or simply
“Antique,” shortened sometimes into
“Tique.”
Frances Rossetti was the daughter of Gaetano Polidori,
and of Anna Maria Polidori,
née Pierce.
My maternal great-grandfathers were both born an immense time ago;
Agostino Ansaldo Polidori in 1714, and William Pierce in 1736: strange to
think of. Even my maternal
grandfather dates as far back as 1764, and my
grandmother as far back as 1769. The year 1714 witnessed the accession of
George I. to the British throne; 1736 the death of Prince Eugene; 1764, the
death of Hogarth; 1769, the publication of the first
Letter of Junius.
The name Polidori is of course Greek, not Italian; but of any Greek
ancestry which there may possibly have been I know nothing. The Polidori
family, so far as I ever heard of it, was Tuscan, the profession of medicine
being customary from father to son; authorship was also frequent in the
race, at any rate in the later generations. Agostino Ansaldo, author of two
poems,
Tobias and
Osteology (the latter has been privately printed), was a Doctor settled at
Bientina near Pisa: here was born his son Gaetano. There was also a brother
of Agostino, named Francesco. He produced a poem entitled
Losario (privately printed), more or less in the vein of Ariosto. Gaetano was
intended for the law, which he studied in the University of Pisa. In 1785,
however, he deserted the law, and, on the recommendation of the Abate
Fassini, became secretary to the famous tragedian Conte Alfieri, with whom
he stayed at Brisach, Colmar, and Paris. Naturally he saw, along with
Alfieri, the Countess of Albany, whose husband, “the Young
Pretender,” was then still living. Polidori was in Paris at the
taking of the Bastille in July 1789; and a little anecdote which he relates
of that day may deserve reproduction here:—
“I was passing by the Palais Royal while
the populace were running to assault the fortress; and, having
encountered a highly-powdered wig-maker, with a rusty sword raised
aloft, I, not expecting any such thing, and hardly conscious of the act,
had the sword handed over to me, as he cried aloud—‘
Prenez, citoyen, combattez pour la
patrie.
’ I had no fancy for such an enterprise; so, finding
myself sword in hand, I at once cast about for some way to get rid of
it; and, bettering my instruction from the man of powder, I stuck it
into the hand of the first unarmed person I met; and, repeating, ‘
Prenez, citoyen, combattez pour la
patrie
,’ I passed on and returned home.”
Polidori (as he intimates) had no taste for political convulsions, and
little for politics of any sort. Almost immediately afterwards Alfieri got
put out at finding that on a single occasion his secretary was not at home
when summoned, and the Count wrote him a note, asking him
“to change his style, or else his
dwelling.” Polidori, one of the least pliable of mortals,
closed at once with the second alternative, and determined to clear out of
France, and repair to England to teach Italian. He asked for and readily
obtained three letters of introduction from Alfieri and the Countess of
Albany. These were addressed to Mrs. Cosway, the painter, Captain Masseria,
a relative of Napoleon, and the famous Corsican General De' Paoli. The last
remained up to his death on intimate terms with Polidori, and left him a
mourning ring, which I now possess. In 1791 Alfieri, then in France, wished
to get Polidori back as his secretary; but the latter declined with thanks,
preferring conservative England very much to revolutionary France.
In February 1793 Polidori married Miss Anna Maria Pierce, who had acted
as a governess. He taught Italian for a great number of years, retiring in
1836, after having made a fair moderate competence. He then lived for a
while wholly in Buckinghamshire—Holmer Green, near Little
Missenden, in a house which he had purchased years before for personal and
family convenience—but in 1839 he returned to London, Park
Village East, Regent's Park. There he died of apoplexy in December 1853,
aged eighty-nine.
My anecdote about the wig-maker and the sword is taken from a little
narrative which Polidori wrote, as an appendix to one of his privately
printed books; for he kept a printing-press in Park Village East, and there
he produced, with some aid from practical hands, several volumes of his own
works, and a few others. Dante Rossetti's boyish poem
Sir Hugh the Heron
, and Christina's
Verses, were among these—printed respectively in 1843 and 1847.
Another was the poem by Erasmo di Valvasone,
L'Angeleida; with passages extracted by Polidori from Milton's
Paradise Lost, presumably founded
more or less upon this Italian poem. The personal
narrative above mentioned relates chiefly to Alfieri, and contains several
particulars of some interest. I give here a few of the general observations
upon him: —
“Curious and strange was the character of
that singular man: proud as Milton's Satan, and more choleric than
Homer's Achilles. He esteemed himself far beyond his real worth, and
very few were the poets or men of letters for whom he had any regard. He
was proud of his reddish hair, which he always wore studiously curled
and tended; of his fine and speckless apparel, and especially of his
uniform as a captain in the Piedmontese Infantry, which he donned for
more solemn occasions; of his pure gold buckles for shoes and breeches,
as then worn; of his handsome English horses, of which, counting
together saddle and carriage horses, he had sixteen; and of his fine and
elegant phaëton, which he generally drove four-in-hand, and
went in pomp, taking the air in city and high-road. Yet, amid many
defects, Count Alfieri had some good qualities: that of paying his debts
most punctually, of limiting his outlay so that at the end of the year
some money remained over, rather than be indebted for a penny, and of
being just, when justice was clear to him. As I never had to dispute
with him, in four years that I was in his house, save with the reason on
my side, and, whenever we had disputed, he, upon recognizing that he was
in the wrong, had confessed it and taken the blame to himself, I
esteemed and loved him [various anecdotes had been previously
given in the narrative, amply confirming this statement as to disputes
between Alfieri and his secretary]. . . . In 1789 began the
French Revolution, in which he exulted, and I saw him leap with joy upon
the ruins of the Bastille.”
It is a matter of notoriety, however, that after a while Alfieri
entirely altered his view of French affairs, and became a Gallophobist of
prime virulence.
Polidori was a man of good stature and very vigorous build; his health
was strong, and his faculties not seriously impaired by age. He liked almost
any occupation—writing, reading, cabinet-work (he produced many
pretty boxes, tables, etc., in wood-mosaic, after the Florentine manner),
and miscellaneous country work. He was a man of
the most sturdy and independent character, a sworn enemy to pretence and
frivolity of all sorts; for instance, he would not allow any of his
daughters to learn dancing. He always remained nominally a Roman-catholic,
but without taking any part in religious observances of whatsoever kind. For
his son-in-law Rossetti he had a sincere liking, and owned his great
superiority to himself as a poet. But the divergence between them was
frequently marked in little things: Polidori solid, unbending, somewhat
dogged; Rossetti not any less earnest in essentials, but vivacious, facile,
with more grace of manner and feeling, and comparatively mercurial. As a
grandfather Polidori was both kind and tolerant, and was looked up to by us
with much warmth of regard.
Gaetano Polidori had all the habits and likings of a literary man, and
was more decidedly bookish than my father. Like the latter, he was a member
of the Academy of the Arcadi, and bore the high-sounding designation of
“Fileremo Etrusco.” I possess his Arcadian diploma, a
curious document. He wrote a large number of things in prose and verse, both
published, privately printed, and unprinted. His first work was a poem,
L'Infedeltà
Punita
(
Faithlessness Punished). Among the others
are—
Novelle Morali (
Moral Tales);
Grammaire de la Langue
Italienne
;
A Dictionary in three volumes, Italian with French and English, French with
Italian and English, and English with Italian and French— a very
handy little book, and no doubt no small labour to its compiler;
Translation of all Milton's Poems;
Translation of Lucan's Pharsalia, with a sequel of his own;
Tragedie e Drammi. Unprinted is a
Life of Boccaccio, written in English, which my grandfather knew and spoke well. This
MS. I possess; likewise an Italian
Life of General de' Paoli, up to his return to Corsica during the French Revolution—a
work which, considering Polidori's intimacy with his hero, might be of some
worth.
As I have already said, the wife of Gaetano Polidori was Anna Maria
Pierce; and I will now give some few particulars
Note: The period of the third to last complete sentence on this page
has been omitted.
about the Pierce family, which is, as will be perceived, the
only source from which Dante Gabriel Rossetti had any English blood in his
veins.
I know nothing of the Pierces beyond Richard Pierce, my
great-great-grandfather, who was a schoolmaster in Burlington Gardens,
London. He had a son, William, a writing-master, who maintained himself from
the age of sixteen onwards, married twice, and had ten children. William
Pierce (I referred to this at the beginning of the present Section) was born
as far back as 1736; and it would appear that the vocation of a
writing-master must in his prime have been far more lucrative than it is at
present, for he made a very comfortable competence (the chief source of
whatever money there has been in the family since his time), and
“kept his carriage.” Possibly his first marriage
(which seems to have been into a grade somewhat above his own) had to do
with this result. He was always represented to me as a curiously
well-preserved specimen of “the old school”; formal,
precise, upright, rather formidable to a younger generation, yet kind too in
his way. Among his grandchildren he had a special predilection for my
mother; though like a good British Tory as he was, he thought it
“very odd” that, after his daughter Anna Maria had
married one foreigner, his grand-daughter Frances should marry another
foreigner. It looked like flying in the face of the blessed shades of a
Chatham, Wolfe, Nelson, and George III., and truckling to the far from
blessed shades of a Voltaire, a Mirabeau, and a Bonaparte, not to speak of
the Pope of Rome. Mr. Pierce had in fact a strong feeling against marriages
with foreigners, as his favourite sister had made a marriage of this kind
which proved very unhappy He died in 1829, aged ninety-three, shortly before
my birth; and after him I was named William. His ten children, other than
Mrs. Polidori, shall not concern us here; except to say that one of his
sons, Frederick, became a Brigadier-General, and was highly esteemed, I
believe, in the Army of India. I will also observe in passing that, through
the first wife of William Pierce, Jane Arrow, and a brother and sister of hers,
the present generation of Rossettis are some sort
of cousins to that distinguished cleric, the Rev. J. E. Kempe, of St.
James's Church, London, and also to the late Mrs. Eliza Anna Bray, whose
first husband was a son of the painter Thomas Stothard. She published a
Life of Stothard, various romances, tales of Devonshire life, an
Autobiography, and other works. My uncle Henry Polydore once took the pains of
drawing out a scanty pedigree of the Pierce and Arrow families; and I find
in it, as connected by marriage, the surnames Wrather, Hunter, Maunsell, Le
Mésurier, Jump, Lester, Porter, Hutchins, Mose, Kitchener,
Austin, Cooper, Sandrock, and Brown (nothing to do with Madox Brown). These
surnames—except Wrather, Austin, and Brown—represent
nothing to my memory. Of the Austins I have some direct or collateral
knowledge. There was a Bishop Austin in the West Indies, and an Austin
Governor of Honduras; and in 1887 at San Remo I met a very pleasant young
lady, Miss Burrows (now Mrs. Martin), who informed me that she was some
connexion of mine—I believe through the Austin family.
As I have said, my great-grandfather, William Pierce, married a Miss
Jane Arrow. My own knowledge of the Arrow family is of the scantiest; but I
find it mentioned in Mrs. Bray's
Autobiography that James Arrow, the father of Jane, belonged to an old race, much
damaged in the cause of Charles I. He had a small landed estate in
Berkshire, and married an Irish lady, Elizabeth Jerdan, “related
to the Whartons.” She died at the age of ninety-nine!
To return to Anna Maria Pierce, Mrs. Polidori, whom, as she lived on
to May 1853, I remember perfectly well. Before my recollection begins she
had already become an invalid, owing to an internal complaint, and she never
left her bedroom, and not often her bed. Her youngest daughter, Eliza
Harriet, was her constant and devoted attendant, sacrificing for this
purpose all the pleasures and interests of youth. Mrs. Polidori was a fine
old lady, with very correct features, and an air which, in spite of her age
and infirmity, was
comely as well as reverend. Her bed-room had to me
all the dignity of a presence-chamber, which I entered at sparse intervals
with a certain awe. She was, like several others of her race, a high Tory,
and an earnest member of the Church of England; and the arrangement made at
her marriage was that any daughters should be brought up in that Church,
while any sons should belong to the Roman communion. It comes apposite to
say here that in the Rossetti family the understanding was different, and
all the children were trained in their mother's faith. Mrs. Polidori had
attained her eighty-fourth year at the date of her death. The only other
member of her generation of the Pierce family whom I knew was her elder
sister Harriet, who, though unmarried, was always in my time styled Mrs.
Pierce, and we children were admonished to term her
“Granny.” After passing many years as governess in the
family of the Earl of Yarborough, she spent the evening of her life in nice
apartments in London, which she made a model of spick-and-span comfort, not
unmixed with elegance. I have just now said that she was unmarried; but
there ran a rumour, not totally uncorroborated, that Lord Yarborough had in
fact wedded her without publicity. He had become a widower in 1813, and
lived on to 1846. This rumour I of course in no sort of way avouch.
“Granny” was the liberal purveyor of many a
serviceable household-present to my mother, her favourite niece. She
inherited all the faultless precision and imposing decorum of her father,
and was the most nitid little old lady you could easily pick out in London.
She died in 1849—the first time that I looked upon the visible
face of death.
The Polidoris had a family of four daughters and four sons
—one of the latter dying in infancy. In my notes to my brother's
letters sufficient details will be given about three of
these—Charlotte Lydia, Philip Robert, and Henry Francis (the
latter modified his surname into Polydore). There remain the eldest
daughter, Maria Margaret, and the youngest (whom I have just now mentioned),
Eliza Harriet. Maria
Margaret—or Margaret, as she was always
called—was in her youth a governess, but retired pretty early,
and lived with her family, and finally in my house, 166 Albany Street, where
she died in 1867. She was much affected with nervous tremor, and troubled by
hysterical fits, in which she would fall into peals of long-continued
quasi-laughter, which rang over the house—more like the vocal
gymnastics of a laughing hyena than like anything else I know. No other
symptom of the hyena appeared about my aunt, who, apart from a touchy
temper, was a good old soul, much addicted to “daily
service” twice a day in church. The youngest daughter, Eliza
Harriet, had always a housekeeping managing turn, without any literary
leanings. In 1854, the year succeeding her mother's death, she determined to
make her knowledge of nursing useful to the nation, and went out with Miss
Nightingale to the Crimean expedition, being then about forty-five years of
age. To her disappointment no actual nursing was assigned to her, but she
had the supervision of the hired nurses, and the management of
bedding-stores etc., at the Barrack Hospital, Scutari, and rendered
excellent service, which was recognized by the bestowal of a Turkish medal.
I remember that after her return to England some case relating to the
nursing transactions came into a London police-court, and she had to give
evidence; and we were amused at finding her, in the newspaper reports,
designated as “Miss Polly Dory.” The Crimean affair
was about the only “adventure” of her long life. She
died in London in 1893, aged nearly eighty-four. Eliza was the last of the
English Polidoris; some of the name are still in Florence.
Only one other Polidori has to be accounted for in my
narrative—Dr. John William Polidori, who lives faintly in some
memories as the travelling physician of the famous Lord Byron. He was born
in London on 7 September 1795, educated at some Catholic schools and at the
Benedictine Ampleforth College near York, and took his degree as M.D. in
Edinburgh at the singularly youthful age of nineteen. He was only twenty
when, on the recommendation of Sir Henry
Halford, he became the travelling physician of Byron, who on
24 April 1816 left England for the last time. They went along the Rhine to
Geneva, where Polidori made acquaintance also with Shelley and his two
companions, Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin (the second Mrs. Shelley) and Clare
Clairmont. Polidori, who had poetical and literary ambitions of his own,
took too much upon him to suit Byron for long; so on 16 September the two
parted company, and the young Doctor travelled on alone to Pisa, and then
returned to England. He became one of the physicians in the Norwich
Hospital; but soon gave up medicine, partly because he would not have been
allowed to practise in London before completing twenty-six years of age, and
he began studying in London for the Bar. It has been said that in Norwich
Miss Harriet Martineau was somewhat in love with him; and this would not be
unlikely, as Polidori—apart from his intellectual gifts, which
were by no means so flimsy as some people seem now to suppose—was
a noticeably fine young man, of striking feature and presence. In August
1821 the end came in a melancholy way: he committed suicide with
poison—having, through losses in gambling, incurred a debt of
honour which he had no present means of clearing off. A coroner's jury was
summoned; the jurors took, probably through good-nature towards the family,
no steps for eliciting requisite evidence, and returned a verdict of
“Died by the visitation of God.” His death was a
grievous blow to his father, all whose leading hopes centred in this son.
Gaetano Polidori, to the end of his long life, a lapse of thirty-two years,
was never equal to hearing any mention of him, and we children of a younger
generation were strictly warned not to name him, however casually, in our
grandfather's presence.
John Polidori published two volumes of verse:
Ximenes, a Tragedy, and Other Poems, 1819; and
The Fall of the Angels, 1821. It may at once be admitted that his poetry was not good. Two
prose tales are much better—
Ernestus Berchtold, and
The Vampyre, both published in 1819.
The Vampyre has continually been misascribed to Byron,
who in reality wrote the mere beginning of another
tale (quite different in its incidents) named likewise
The Vampyre. Polidori left some other writings, both
published and unpublished. The latter include a diary, partly detailed and
partly mere jottings, of his sojourn with Byron and Shelley, and his
subsequent tour. It was commissioned by Murray for publication at no less a
price than £525, and contains some particulars
of substantial interest.
1
I have no finished all that I need to say about the relatives of Dante
Rossetti on the mother's side. The only relative on our father's side whom
we have personally known—with some others I have
corresponded—was Teodorico (or properly Teodoro) Pietrocola, who
adopted the compound surname of Pietrocola-Rossetti. He was a Vastese, and
studied medicine to some extent. In 1851, being then about twenty-four years
of age, he came to London, hoping to find an opening of some kind; but found
nothing except semi-starvation, which he bore with a cheerful constancy
touching to witness. In 1856 or thereabouts he returned to Italy, practised
for a moderate while medicine as a Homœopathist, married a Scotch
lady (originally Miss Steele, now Mrs. Cole, an amiable, accomplished, and
admirable woman), and, with her co-operation, devoted himself to preaching
evangelical Christianity, somewhat of the Vaudois type, in Florence and
elsewhere. He died very suddenly in 1883, just as he was giving out a hymn
or text to his small congregation. He published a few
things—among others, a biography of my father, a translation of
Alice in Wonderland, and one of Christina Rossetti's
poem,
Goblin-Market. A man of more native unselfish kindliness, of stricter morals, or of
nicer concientiousness, never breathed.
Since writing the above, I have observed in the book of Mr. W. G.
Collingwood,
The Life and Work of John Ruskin, a reference to Pietrocola-Rossetti which is of so much
interest
Transcribed Footnote (page 34):
1 On the details about Shelley in this diary I
wrote a few years ago, and delivered to the Shelley Society, a
lecture which has not as yet been printed.
to me, and in itself so noticeable, that I extract
it here; it relates to the year 1882:—
“Miss [Francesca]
Alexander . . . was as friendly, not only in society but in spiritual
things, with the worthy village priest as with T. P. Rossetti, the
leader of the Protestant ‘Brethren,’ whom she
called her pastor—a cousin of the artist, and in his way no
less remarkable a man. It is hardly too much to say that he did, for
evangelical religion in Italy, what Gabriel Rossetti did for poetical
art in England: he showed the path to sincerity and simplicity. And Mr.
Ruskin, who had been driven away from Protestantism by the Waldensian at
Turin [this refers to an incident in the year
1858], and had wandered through many realms of doubt, and
voyaged through strange seas of thought alone, found harbour at last
with the disciple of a modern evangelist, the frequenter of the poor
little meeting-house of outcast Italian Protestants.”
If this statement is literally accurate, it would appear that the
latest development of Mr. Ruskin's religious opinions was mainly influenced
by Miss Alexander, who was not a little influenced by Pietrocola-Rossetti: a
matter worth remembering for many a day to come.
I have often reflected how utterly different this cousin of mine was
from the ordinary English notion of a Southern Italian. My father also was
very different from that notion; my grandfather, a Central Italian, quite
the reverse of it. Peace be with the honoured and honourable memory of all
three.
The Rossetti family in Vasto became extinct while I was composing this
Memoir: the latest survivor was Vincenzo Rossetti, who died, aged forty, on
11 November 1894. “With him,” so runs a
billet de faire part which was sent to
me, “was lost the last germ of so glorious a stem in
Italy.” I presume, but cannot say for certain, that
in the female line the race of Nicola and Maria Francesca Rossetti may still
subsist.
The reader may have observed, in the course of my family narrative,
several instances of longevity in the races of Arrow, Pierce, and Polidori.
I have under my eye a list
of nine persons, among whom the lowest age was
eighty-three, the highest ninety-nine—average eighty-eight.
Nothing of the sort appears in the Rossetti race, though my father attained
a not inconsiderable age—seventy-one. It may also be noted that
in the three lines from which Dante Rossetti came—Polidori,
Pierce, and Rossetti—the work of tuition held a very large place.
Hence perchance he inherited a certain readiness at linguistics, and at
seeing literary matters from a literary point of view; but there was little
or nothing in him of the man born to teach by ordinary teaching
methods.
My mother, marrying on 10 April 1826, had four
children— there were never any more—in four successive
years: Maria Francesca, born on 17 February 1827; Gabriel Charles Dante, 12
May 1828; William Michael, 25 September 1829; and Christina Georgina, 5
December 1830. The famous Surgeon and Physician, Dr.
Locock—afterwards Sir William Locock, the Queen's accoucheur— ushered, I believe, all
of us into the world; for our father—though a man of thrift, and
in personal expenses heedfully sparing—grudged no cost needed for
the well-being of his household. To Gabriel Charles Dante I shall here
generally apply the name “Dante,” which he adopted as
if it had stood first in order; in his own family, however, he was
invariably termed Gabriel —or, by our sister Maria,
“Gubby,” a pet name which other members of the
household did not affect.
Our house, No. 38 Charlotte Street, was a fairly neat but decidedly
small one: it is smaller inside than it looks viewed from outside. I can
remember a little about it, but not much. Towards 1836 the family had
outgrown it, and removed to No. 50 in the same street—a larger
but still far indeed from being a spacious dwelling. This house is now the
office of a Registrar of births, deaths, and marriages; and, singularly
enough, when I had to record in 1876 the death of
my sister Maria, I found that the place for dong this was the very house in
which she had so long resided. Soon after Gabriele Rossetti settled in
Charlotte Street it began to go down in character, and at times it became
the extreme reverse of “respectable.” Dante Rossetti
in his early childhood was a pleasing, spirited-looking boy, with bright
eyes, auburn hair, and fresh complexion. He remembered in after-years
nothing distinctly earlier than this: That there used to be a Punch and Judy
show which came at frequent intervals to perform just before our house, but
for the delectation of our opposite neighbours, so that he himself only saw
the back of the show. This was not at all what he wanted; so he motioned to
go out into the street, and turn round and see the front of the Punch and
Judy (there was no Dog Toby in those distant days), but was wofully
disconcerted at being told that such a proceeding would be
infra dig, and not to be condoned. Dante shared with
Maria the ascendency over his two juniors: but Maria, in these opening
years, was not easily to be superseded—being of a very
enthusiastic temperament and lively parts; and indeed she always remained
the best of the four at what we call acquired knowledge. In her fifth year
she could read anything in either English or Italian, and read she did with
tireless persistency. Our early years were passed wholly at home in London,
with occasional visits to our grandparents at Holmer Green, our Aunts
Margaret and Eliza, and our Uncle Philip, being continuously there as well.
Our daily walks were with our mother in and about Regent's Park, which was
opened to the public much towards the date of my birth. I can still
recollect how palatial I used to consider the frontage of the Terraces
facing the Park, and how our mother would explain to us which of the columns
or pilasters was Ionic, which Corinthian, and so on. The Colosseum, a big
Exhibition building pulled down towards 1870, was then in existence, and was
occasionally visited by us. It comprised a Camera Obscura, in which we
viewed with wonder the groups of people disporting themselves
in the Park. Primrose Hill was ascended every now
and then. It led immediately on into fields (how different from now!) which
brought one into the rural village of Hampstead, to which our father
escorted us at rare intervals. Railways were just beginning not far from
Regent's Park; to see the puffs of their steam as the trains rolled onward
appeared little short of magic.
Two of my childish reminiscences of my brother relate to animals. Some
one gave him a dormouse, which he named “Dwanging,”
and, on the approach of winter, he shut it up in a drawer to hibernate. In
its long sleep he looked at it from time to time, but was careful not to
disturb it; and his glee was proportionate when the little creature revived
in the spring. Later on there was a hedgehog, to whom Dante's conduct was
not equally correct. The hedgehog was wont to trot about on the table in our
dining and sitting room, or “parlour” as we mostly
termed it (the drawing-room was little used, save by our father in his
literary work, or occasionally with a pupil); and one day my bother insisted
on leaving upon the table some beer for his prickly favourite. The latter
freely partook of the beverage, and his unsteady gait evinced the effects of
it. Our mother forbade the repetition of any such experiments; and I think
Dante himself had no wish to recur to them, for at no period of his life did
he relish the sight of anything repellent or degrading. One of my brother's
first books was
Peter Parley's Natural
History
, which he enjoyed, both text and cuts. We went pretty often to the
Zoological Gardens, then a very recent foundation, and would run shrieking
through its tunnel, to rouse the echo. The animals were at that date much
fewer than now, yet still numerous—their housing very inferior.
There was a striated monkey, whose designation was explained to us (I have
not seen any such animal of late years); also a singsing antelope, of whom
my father would say (in English), “Sing, sing, antelope;
antelope, sing, sing; but he never sang.”
Armadilloes, and a sloth walking with his head downwards, were among our
favourites—not to speak of screaming parrots,
bears, lions, tigers, and elephants. A collared
peccary gave Christina a vicious bite, which came to nothing. No wombat
figured at that early date; but several dogs used to be there, more or less
domestic, which were tethered in a rather dejected and yell-abounding file.
They were afterwards abolished, on the ground that such a treatment of them
was not far remote from cruelty.
Another amusement, as Dante progressed in childhood, was the Adelaide
Gallery, close to St. Martin's Church, now occupied by Gatti's Restaurant.
It was a semi-scientific entertainment, exhibiting
inter alia fearsome microscopic enlargements of the infusoria in a
few drops of water. The Adelaide Gallery was succeeded by the Polytechnic
Institution in Regent Street, with a more varied programme of like
kind— diving-bell, electric shocks, dissolving views, chemical
demonstrations, etc. This also is now gone, the present Polytechnic being
quite a different sort of establishment. The Soho Bazaar, and more
especially the Pantheon Bazaar in Oxford Street (now Gilbey's liquor
stores), were often our resort. The Pantheon exhibited many pictures from
time to time, including Haydon's
Raising of
Lazarus
. Astley's Riding Circus, with dramatic entertainments
(such as
Mazeppa), we saw once or twice, but in childhood we hardly at all entered a
regular theatre. To pay for going to the Italian Opera (the building near
Charing Cross, now gone) was what we could not afford. Occasionally,
however, the great singer Lablache, whom my father had known in Naples,
would give us a ticket for that house, and we enjoyed the performance
vastly. My recollections carry me back to the first (or may-be the second)
London season of the celebrated Madame Julia Grisi, whom I saw in the
Gazza Ladra. The appearance of her husband
Mario was a matter of some years later on. I remember also the first season
of Madlle Rachel, who was acting Chimène in the
Cid of Corneille. There was likewise a ballet,
The Daughter of the Danube, with various
“fiends” in it. This hit our fancy uncommonly, and we
made at home some kind of pretence at “the Blue Demon”
and other of its characters in 1838. My first (and
for years it must have remained my sole) pantomime is also a lively
reminiscence. There was a race run by jockeys on pigs, and each touch of the
whip raised a shower of sparks out of the porcine steeds, to my
uncontrollable laughter and delight. My brother must have been with me, but
I forget his demeanour.
Beyond an opera or a concert at rare intervals, we heard little music
as children; except that our father, with his rich voice and fine
declamation, would at times, unaccompanied, strike up a stave of some
glorious chant of the French revolutionary epoch—
- “La
Victoire en chantant nous ouvre la
barrière”—
or (sung to the same spirit-stirring air)—
- “Romain, lève les yeux.
Là fut le Capitol,”
1
or the Marseillaise. Another customary song of his was a popular
and rather long grotesque tirade about a Jewish wedding,
Baruccabà, from which he sang several
snatches. Our mother also would frequently play on the pianoforte, for our
delectation,
The Battle of Prague, with
the “groans of the wounded,” and other
less lugubrious details. She had an agreeable voice for singing; but it had
received no sort of cultivation, as singing was, like dancing, one of the
worldly vanities which my grandfather discountenanced. In my first
Transcribed Footnote (page 40):
1 This Lyric must belong to the year 1798, when
the French army entered Rome, and set up a short-lived Republic;
perhaps it is now a curiosity. I can recall the opening
lines—being all, I think, that my father sang:—
- “Romain, lève les yeux. Là fut
le Capitol:
- Ce pont fut le pont de
Coclès:
- La Brutus immola sa
race:
- Et César dans cette
autre place
- Fut poignardé par
Cassius.
- Rome, la Liberté
t'appelle;
- Sache vaincre ou sache
périr:
- Un Romain doit vivre pour
elle,
- Pour elle un Romain doit
mourir.”
years I often heard her sing these lines, and the
tune still lingers with me:—
- “The sun sets by night and the stars
shun the day,
- But glory remains when their lights fade away:
- Begin, ye tormentors, your threats are in vain,
- For the sons of Alnomuk shall never
complain.
- “Remember the arrows we shot from our
bow,
- Remember the chiefs by our hatchets laid low:
- Now, the flames rising fast, we exult in our
pain,
- For the sons of Alnomuk shall never
complain.”
Where do these mediocre lines come from? My mother (it seems to me)
associated them with the story of Guatimozin and the Spaniards under Cortes,
but that does not look correct.
I hardly think that I ever saw my father touch a pack of playing cards;
he played pretty often at chess. My mother would at times take part in a
family game without any stakes. Upon us children nothing was more strongly
impressed than a horror of gambling, which had led to the death of Dr. John
Polidori: but we were allowed to play at simple games; Patience, and Beggar
my Neighbour, and (what I never hear of now) The Duchess of Rutland's Whim.
The last I associated in my mind with the notion of arithmetical
subtraction, as contrasted with addition, which the other two games might be
held to represent. Later on there came Whist, and the Italian game of
Tre Sette. We identified ourselves in a
sort of way with the four suits of cards; and clubs were thus made the
appurtenance of Maria, hearts of Dante, diamonds of Christina, and spades of
myself. I may here say that the dislike to the idea of gambling clung to us
through life; and neither Dante nor any other of us ever played for money,
in any sense worth naming. Besides cards, a rocking-horse, a spinning-top, a
teetotum, ball, ninepins, blindman's buff, and puss-in-the-corner, used to
amuse us—hardly anything else in the way of games. Even marbles
we never rightly learned, nor efficient kite-flying, still less anything to
be called athletics. As to mental games, we were much addicted to what is called
“animal, vegetable, or
mineral”; and there must occasionally have been some
“capping verses,” but this (which seems odd under the
circumstances) was quite infrequent.
Of events in the opening years of Dante Rossetti I find none to record;
unless it be that, at the age of five, he suddenly became weak on his legs,
and, after the celebrated surgeon Sir Benjamin Brodie had been consulted, he
had to wear splints for a longish while—say three or four months.
I can recollect the look of him, carried, or afterwards hobbling, upstairs.
One day he thought he would try how he could do without the splints; he did
very well, and the affair was at an end. He was a sprightly little fellow,
and liked to play a trick or two. One trick he played more than once was
walking in the street in a huddled-up attitude, as if he were crippled or
almost hunchbacked. When a passenger looked at him sympathetically, the
limbs suddenly straightened, and perhaps an impish laugh accompanied the
change of form. In our unluxurious household he was regarded as rather
“dainty” in his diet; inclined to eat such things as
he liked, and doing without those he disliked. For beer he had a marked
distaste; there was no wine going to speak of, so he stuck to water. Meat
also he would scarcely touch until turned of eight years.
I believe the first attempt at drawing made by the future painter of
Beata Beatrix
was on this wise. At the age of about four he stationed himself in
the passage leading to the street-door, and with a pencil of our father's
began drawing his
rocking-horse; later on in his
childhood and boyhood he seldom made any attempt at drawing from any real
object, but only “out of his own head.” A milkman came
in at the moment, and was not a little surprised: “I saw a
baby making a picture,” he said to the servant. I
have here mentioned “the age of about
four,” because that is the age which my brother himself
named to me one day in April 1872 when we were talking over our earliest
reminiscences. I still possess a
drawing by him of the
rocking-horse
, on which our mother has marked the date 1834, when
he was at least five
years of age. I could believe this to be that very
first drawing of all, were it not that the performance comes so near to
being pretty tolerably good that I find some difficulty in conceiving that
he had never before taken pencil in hand.
Having once begun, Dante never dropped this notion of
drawing—of handling a pencil or a brush; and I cannot remember
any date at which it was not understood in the family that
“Gabriel meant to be a painter.” He, and also I, were
incessantly buying sheets of slight engravings of actors and actresses in
costume—“Skelt's Theatrical Characters” was
the name of one leading series of them. I do not think any such engravings
are now produced, which seems strange in this period of dramatic activity.
There was a good-natured little stationer named Hardy, perhaps in Clipstone
Street, from whom we bought these things; and another named Marks, in Great
Titchfield Street, who was a trifle less accommodating, and on one occasion
nonplussed us both by insisting that we should ask for the required
“characters” by the number printed on the sheet, and
not by the title of the play or the personage. The quantity of these figures
which Dante and I coloured is marvellous to reflect upon—he in
chief, but I was a good second; our sisters counted for little. We also
“tinselled” the figures, but this was comparatively
rare. Now and then we made some attempt at acting a play with such
personages on a toy-stage; but, as none of us had the least manual or
mechanical dexterity, this came to nothing. I seem to recollect
The Miller and his Men and
Der Freischütz. In
colouring our taste was all for bright hues—red, blue, yellow,
etc. Neither of us had the least of a colourist's sympathy for fused,
subdues, or mottled tints.
In those days another amusement was current, which has, I fancy, died
out entirely. It might well be revived. “Magic
Shadows” was the name of it. One bought full-sized sheets of
paper, on which heads, figures, or groups, were rudely printed, in coarse
outline, and with numerous half-formless splotches
of black. One had to cut out a figure etc. along
its outline, and to cut out also the splotches of black; and then one held
up the figure between a candle and the wall, so that the shadow of the
unexcised portions was cast on to the wall. This shadow looked surprisingly
neat and expressive in comparison with the original aspect of the printed
figures. We all—but principally myself—enjoyed this
ocular amusement, and practised it diligently for various years.
Mr. Hall Caine has cited from one of Dante Rossetti's
letters the phrase, “
Our household was all
of Italian, not English, environment.” This is wholly correct.
The only English family that we used to see pretty frequently was that
of Mr. Cipriani Potter, the Pianist, and Principal of the Royal Academy of
Music. He was one of my godfathers, and had children of much the same age as
ourselves; an excellent undersized man, with a somewhat saturnine expressive
face, an abundance of shrewd sense, and a bantering habit of talk. Mr.
Charles Lyell, though intimate with my father, was seldom in London. There
was also Mr. Thomas Keightley, the historian, and author of
The Fairy Mythology—a book which formed one of the leading delights of our
childhood. He likewise was in London only occasionally—a
scholarly, shortsighted Irishman, of a high sense of honour, rather easily
nettled now and again. He was a great believer in my father's views
concerning Dante. At a much later date, towards 1849, Mr. Keightley settled
in a suburb of London; and his nephew and adopted son, Mr. Alfred Chaworth
Lyster, became, and still remains, one of my most affectionate friends. Two
of the families in which my father taught Italian—those of Mr.
Swynfen Jervis, and of Sir Isaac Lyon Goldsmid—had a particular
regard for him, and on some high occasions we children were inside their
doors. Mr. Jervis, a relative of Lord St. Vincent,
took some minor part in verse-writing and Shakespearean comment. He was
father of Mrs. George Henry Lewes, and I remember her well before her
marriage, but never saw her afterwards; her unfortunate story shall not here
be touched upon. To Sir Isaac Goldsmid, one of the wealthiest Hebrew
stockbrokers in London, I may record my obligation, which proved to be a
life-long one. He it was who, when my father, in failing health and waning
employment, was looking out for some career into which I could be
introduced, spoke a word in season to one of his colleagues on the Council
of the London University, Mr. John Wood, then Chairman of the Board of
Excise—and Mr. Wood lost no time in giving me employment there
which, though temporary at first starting, lasted in fact from February 1845
to August 1894. These seem to be about the only English people whom I need
mention in this connexion, allowing besides for the English family of an
Anglo-Italian music-master, Signor Rovedino. This family, like that of Mr.
Potter, comprised children of our own age. With Mrs. Rovedino resided an
aunt, whom I mention for the sake of her sounding old Saxon name, Miss
Waltheof, which was always pronounced Walthew.
We knew in childhood a perfect specimen of the “Poor
Relation,” who used to call upon our mother at regular intervals
for purposes easily surmisable. She was named Miss Sarah Brown—a
middle-aged spinster tending to the elderly, of that order of faculty which
is termed “weak-minded.” At a very early age we
became, in some casual way, familiar with Charles Lamb's excellent little
essay called
Poor Relations, containing the words (as near as I remember them):—
“There is one person more embarrassing
than a male Poor Relation, and that is a female Poor Relation; no woman
dresses below her station from caprice.”
I used to ponder these words in regard to Sarah Brown, and to think,
“Is it or is it not true that no woman dresses below her station
from caprice?”
If English acquaintances were at a minimum with us, Italian
acquaintances were at a maximum. It seems hardly an exaggeration to say that
every Italian staying in or passing through London, of a Liberal mode of
political opinion, sought out my father, to make or renew acquaintance with
him; not to speak of numerous relays of tatterdemalions, who came
principally or solely for alms. If they made the Masonic knock at the door,
or a Masonic digital sign on entering, they were immediately relieved, as an
act of obligation on the part of my father as a Freemason; and many were
relieved who had no claim of that particular kind. There were two terms
which I have heard my father apply—how often!—to
persons of this class: “
un cercatore” was an applicant or beggar, “
un seccatore” was an intrusive person, or
bore. Others, to whom these designations did not relate (though some of
these also were manifest
seccatori, and perhaps on occasion
cercatori as
well), would come evening after evening, and almost all evenings, to our
house—in various instances, for months or years together. My
father, as the offspring of a blacksmith in a country town, was not entitled
to have any caste-prejudices, and in fact he had none. To be an Italian was
a passport to his good-will; and, whether the Italian was a nobleman, a
professional gentleman, a small musical hanger-on, a maccaroni-man, or a
mere waif and stray churned by the pitiless sea of expatriation, he equally
welcomed him, if only he were an honest soul, and not a
spia (spy)—the latter being a class of men much rumoured of
among the Italian refugees and Londoners, and abhorred with a loathing
indignation. Hardly an organ-man or plaster-cast vendor passed our street-door
without being interrogated by my father, “
Di che paese siete?” (“What
part of Italy do you come from?”) The plaster-cast vendor is seen
no more in London streets, but the organ-man remains. The natives of the
Sunny South who frequented our house seemed all to be
indifferent— singularly indifferent, in British
eyes—to any form of social entertainment; what they came for was
talk—chiefly on political topics, mingled at moments with a
little literature,
and constantly with a liberal sprinkling of my
father's poems, which were received with sonorous eulogy, founded at least
as much on political or national as on literary considerations. Gabriele
Rossetti's noble declamation, taken along with his subject-matter, was
indeed enough to carry any sympathizer away on the wave and whirl of
excitement. I seldom heard him read any of his prose-writings on such
occasions. His auditors hardly appeared to have any fleshly appetites. Such
a thing as a solid supper was never in question, neither did they ever
propose to smoke. They would come into our small sitting-room, greet the
“Signora Francesca” and their host, and sit down, as
the chance offered, amid the whole family, adult and semi-infantine. A cup
or two of tea or of coffee, with a slice of bread and butter, was all the
provender wont to be forthcoming.
It would be difficult to give an idea of the atmosphere of thought and
feeling in which Dante Rossetti grew to boyhood and to youth, unless I were
to say something about the foreign visitors. I shall endeavour to be
reasonably brief. Some he remembered a little, but I, his junior, scarcely
or not at all. Such were Angeloni, a literary purist,
1 who became blind in his last years; General Michele Carrascosa,
who was my second godfather; the famous
prima donna Giuditta Pasta; Guido Sorelli, who maligned in a book the character of
Italian women, and was gibbeted by my father in a sonnet; Dragonetti, a
leading violoncellist at the Italian opera; Petroni, compiler of a
dictionary. The celebrated author Ugo Foscolo was barely known to my father
in London; well known was the not less celebrated violinist Paganini. There
was a Conte Farò, who took, I believe, to coal-dealing.
“Farò” means in Italian “I will
do”; and my father (possibly
Transcribed Footnote (page 47):
1 Purism in the use of the Italian language was
a great controversy among Italians in all those years. The purists
insisted upon recurring to the standard of literary diction, mainly
the Tuscan of the fourteenth century, to the exclusion of everything
modern, provincial, or imported from abroad. Gabriele Rossetti cared
little for such niceties, but was willing to write much as he
thought and spoke. Polidori was stricter, yet not a purist.
without any reason beyond the purport of the name)
used to call him “
Farò, farò, e non
farà mai niente
” (“I will do, I will do, and never will he do
anything”). One curious character, fearfully addicted to drawing
the long bow, was named the Marchese Moscati, who actually persuaded the
very eminent physician, Dr. Elliotson, that Moscati had a double stomach,
and was a ruminating animal. Elliotson introduced him to Rossetti, and was
(I may take this opportunity of saying) our accustomed family doctor,
resolutely refusing—for he was a most kind and generous
man—to accept any fees for his valuable advice. Thackeray
dedicated
Pendennis to him. After a while my father left Moscati to ruminate by himself,
and they became avowed enemies.
Among Italians well remembered by me, some are mentioned in my Notes to
Dante Rossetti's
letters
:—Filippo Pistrucci (I recollect also, though
faintly, his brother Benedetto the eminent medallist, who designed our
“George-and-the-Dragon” coinage); Sangiovanni, the
clever modeller in clay, the most picturesque figure of all, who had, I
believe, “knifed” somebody in early youth, and had
later on (chiefly after the suppression of the Neapolitan constitution in
1821) had many a romantic adventure in the kingdom, as captain of a band for
the suppression of brigandage, which bore a partly politico-reactionary
character; the Cavalier Mortara; Baron Calfapietra. Other intimates in our
early childhood were—Janer (he subsequently called himself
Janer-Nardini), a Tuscan, scholarly and courteous, keen in politics, and of
a very biting tongue; Ciciloni, a teacher of Italian, of high character in
all respects, who took up Rossetti's work at some times when the latter was
laid aside, and especially during his very severe illness in 1843; Foresti,
who had been in China; Sarti, the plaster-cast vendor; De' Marsi, a teacher;
Ferrari, an aged musician whom blindness had overtaken; Sir Michael Costa,
the musician and conductor, and his brother Raffaele, both of whom we saw
occasionally; Count Carlo Pepoli, a good-looking, cultivated Bolognese of
high honour and ancient family, regarded in our retired household as rather
a dandy—he had been addressed in a
striking poetical epistle by the great poet Leopardi, and
eventually an English lady of some fortune “proposed to
him,” and he married her, returned to Italy when liberal politics
prevailed there, and died a Senator of the realm; Rolandi, the bookseller, a
very worthy man of small stature; Count Giuseppe Ricciardi, a South
Neapolitan, an ardent patriot of the revolutionary-republican type. I
remember seeing once or twice in our house a handsome stately lady, rather
advanced in years, who called herself, I think, Ida Saint Elme. She was the
daughter of a Hungarian nobleman, Leopold de Tolstoy, had led an agitated
and far from correct life, and was authoress of the
Mémoires d'une Contemporaine, published in Paris in 1827. Two old friends passed some days in my
father's house, vaguely remembered by me— Dr. Curci, and
Smargiassi, the latter a Vastese, and a landscape-painter of considerable
name in the Neapolitan kingdom. Curci had quite a passionate attachment to
my father, and I believe visited England for the express purpose of seeing
him once again. Later on were Cornaro, a descendant (and I think I was told
the sole remaining descendant) of the great Venetian family—a
noticeable man, in early middle age, with long nose and reddish
hair—he was said to be an inveterate gambler, and he died
accidentally by drowning; Parodi, a dancing-master, who gave us lessons in
dancing, in return for Italian lessons imparted to his son by my
father—he was a man not wanting in good sense, but uninstructed
in a marked degree, and spoke the most curious lingo that I ever
heard— French, German, and English, grafted on to his native
Italian; Aspa, a vigorous Sicilian, pianoforte-tuner in Broadwood's house;
Gallenga, the political and miscellaneous writer, as expert in the English
as in the Italian tongue; Dr. Maroncelli, brother of a well-known exile who
suffered a rigid imprisonment; the musician Sperati; Signora Monti
(afterwards Monti-Baraldi), to whom some of Rossetti's latest letters were
written. Dr. Maroncelli gave him some medical advice towards 1843; and later
on another doctor, Gilioli, seemed to have some partial success in treating
his eyesight.
Of one of these Italians, Sangiovanni, I will say a few words further,
as he and his had more to do with our early family life than any of the
others; Pistrucci came next. Sangiovanni was a tall gaunt man, with an air
of having gone through a deal of wearing work, aged about fifty-two when I
first remember him. It is rather a curious fact that two Spanish painters,
having to depict St. Joseph, adopted a type of visage not at all unlike
Sangiovanni's, but in each instance (especially the second) less strained
and rugged. I refer to the pictures in our National Gallery,
The Adoration of the Shepherds, by Velasquez, and
The Holy
Family
, by Murillo. Of school knowledge Sangiovanni had little, but
plenty of intelligence; of religious belief (I should say) nothing; but in
this respect he was on a par with a large proportion of his London
compatriots. My father once narrated to him the story of the Patriarch
Joseph, from the Book of Genesis, which came perfectly new to him, and
interested him extremely. In 1833 he went over to America, on business
proper to Achille Murat, to look after an estate and its slave-labourers. In
the United States he saw an Anglo-American young woman whom he liked; he
proposed for her, and brought her back to England as his wife. She became
the mother of an ailing boy, Guglielmo. Sangiovanni, as a husband, was not
unkind in his way, but had all the jealousy (perfectly gratuitous in this
instance) and the dominance of a Southern Italian; and his wife was almost a
prisoner in her dingy tenement, Nassau Street, Marylebone, where her spouse
carried on his clay-modelling art. My mother, with some of us children,
often looked in upon her solitude, and held her in deserved esteem. After
some years she came to understand (I know not how) that Sangiovanni was
already a married man, having a wife still living in Italy. This was, I
suppose, true; and not less true that Sangiovanni had heard nothing of his
first wife for many years, and had genuinely believed her to be no more.
About the same time our Mrs. Sangiovanni got to know something about the
Mormons; so one day she vanished with her son to Mormon-
land, and was never again traced. This may have been in
1846. Sangiovanni, after much agitated inquiry, resumed his ordinary work,
and he died at Brighton in 1853.
Other names and reminiscences crowd upon me as I write. There was an
odd personage, Albera, whom we considered not entirely sane. He was a great
believer in one of the professing Dauphins of France, Louis
XVII.—I think this one was the so-called Naundorf—and
he insisted upon taking my father to see him, and believe in him too. My
father saw him, but did not believe in him; though he allowed that Naundorf looked very like a Bourbon,
1 and had a daughter resembling Marie Antoinette. After a while
Naundorf took to a sort of religious revelation, as well as to Gallic
royalty, and my father, regarding him as a decided impostor, visited him no
more. Then came a little snuffy senile Frenchman, the Comte de Neubourg, who
was, I suppose, a Legitimist or Carlist. If his linen was not spotless, his
manners were exquisitely polite. He had a mania for puns; and, when my
father was conversing on some subject with his usual energetic zest, the
Comte would at times both embarrass and exasperate him by interjecting
something which, on reflection, proved to have no
raison d'être beyond punning. Another singular person was the “Babylonish
Princess” (introduced into our house by Cavalier Mortara),
“Maria Theresa Asmar, daughter of Emir Abdallah
Asmar,” who published her Memoirs in two volumes in 1844. She was a small, very dark woman, of middle
age and subdued manners, and decidedly plain. A Vastese named Rulli appeared
in our house towards 1842, and made some pretence at bringing Dante Rossetti
on in his artistic studies. I believe his instruction was limited to
propounding to the youth, for copying, a drawing or engraving of an
architectonic ram's
Transcribed Footnote (page 51):
1 This question of Naundorf, or of other persons
who claimed to be Louis XVII., has of late acquired added
importance, as it seems to be established, by the investigation
ordered by the French Government, that the remains which were
produced and medically inspected in 1795 as being those of the
deceased Louis XVII. cannot really have been his.
head. Rulli appeared to us an unmeaning and not
easily intelligible sort of character; he had something in him, however, for
he died in a battle for Italian liberation. An Avvocato Teodorani adopted,
and even wrote or lectured on, some of Rossetti's ideas concerning Dante and
other Italian poets; and a cultivated gentleman, De' Filippi, saw a good
deal of his closing years. A native of the Kingdom of Naples was generally
to be known (apart from dialect or physiognomy) by his addressing my father
as “Don Gabriele”—for that mode still
subsists from the old days of the Spanish occupation. To other Italians my
father was “Signor Rossetti,” or (if on a formal
footing, which was not wont to last long) “Signor
Professore.”
The determined character of some of these men may be illustrated by a
passage from a letter written by Gabriele Rossetti in April 1851. I can
hardly have failed to see the Galanti here mentioned, but I do not remember
his person.
“Hither had fled from Naples, after the
infamous treason of 15 May 1848, a man of great talent, the Avvocato
Giacinto Galanti, who piqued himself on a spirit of prophecy. At that
time our national affairs were flourishing; but he foresaw disasters
which, since then, have come but too true. One evening he called to read
me a writing of his entitled
The Three Years, 1848 (it was just in June of that year), 1849, and 1850. The
first of these three years he defined as a Year of Roses and Thorns (and
you will take note that the thorns had not yet begun); the second, Year
all Thorns; and the third, Year of Death. And such, haplessly, they all
turned out. He arraigned the Roman Popedom as the principal cause of all
the reverses which he foresaw; and Pius IX. was, at that date, still
enacting the comedy which he afterwards turned into a tragedy. On
hearing that writing I was staggered; and yet, not being able then to
give credence to it, I smiled incredulously, and, shaking my head, I
called Galanti a bird of ill omen and a visionary. He rose incensed, and
exclaimed: ‘You will see whether I speak the truth,
and you will confess it; but not to me, for I will not await the
direful time that is coming upon us.’ Saying
this, he departed, returned to his house, not far from mine, and cut his
throat. This terrible event produced the deepest impression on me; and soon
afterwards began our disasters. The days of
Novara, Verona, and Mantua, ensued; and then the flight of the Impius
who is called Pius, and so to the roses succeeded the thorns. Of the
other two years I do not speak; you know what
they
were.”
Towards the close of my father's life various protestantizing
Italians, most of them ex-Catholic priests, got about him, and worked the
anti-papal side of his opinions and writings. They started a review called
the
Eco di Savonarola. We did not relish them much, though we thought Crespi and Di Menna
(the latter a very feeble-minded personage) honest in their views. There
were also Ferretti and Mapei—the last little to our taste. I
cannot recollect that we ever saw Gavazzi, the admired pulpit orator, but we
certainly did see Dr. Achilli —whose character came much
bespattered out of his action against Cardinal Newman for libel—a
heavy beetle-browed man, who looked fit for most things evil.
I have not yet named the two foremost London-dwelling Italians of my
boyhood, Mazzini and Panizzi. That great man, Mazzini, was naturally well
known to my father, and highly esteemed by him—a feeling which
Mazzini reciprocated. They dissented however, to some extent, as to what
should be regarded as practical aims to work for, and practical means of
working. Mazzini was, of course, for a republic, and for any number of
revolutionary attempts, even though manifestly destined to present failure;
whereas Rossetti was fundamentally for a unified constitutional monarchy,
and for a plan of action which would preserve rather than sacrifice valuable
lives. Mazzini was perhaps, of the two, the more nearly in the right; for it
seems as if the result would not, without his ceaseless incitements, have
been attained nearly as soon as it was. I do not think that I ever set eyes
on Mazzini in my father's house; but I well remember seeing him, towards
1842, at a meeting attended by a number of poor Italians, organ-grinders and
others, for whom a school was being started. He spoke after my father; and
the noble, simple utterance of the word with which he began his address
—“Fratelli”—still sounds upon my ear. As to
Panizzi, my
Note: In the first paragraph, “Rufini” should read
“Ruffini”.
father knew him likewise in the early years; but he understood
(I believe correctly) that Panizzi was the writer of an adverse and partly
sneering critique on his theories concerning Dante and other writers; this
he resented, and they met no more. Garibaldi and Saffi, who came into fame
when my father was declining and withdrawn from society, he never saw; nor
do I think he saw the patriot-assassin Felice Orsini, nor Rufini, author of
the admired tale
Doctor Antonio. General Guglielmo Pepe he had known very intimately in Naples, and
they kept up some correspondence to a late date, when Pepe was acting as one
of the heroic defenders of Venice, 1848-49; but the General, so far as I am
aware, never came to England.
The
bête noire of the
political Italians whom we so constantly saw was the King of the French,
Louis Philippe, or Luigi Filippo, as they called him. He was more abhorred,
because more powerful for good or for evil, than even the Pope, the King of
Naples, or the pettier tyrants of Italy. Of course too he was regarded as a
traitor, having come to the throne by a popular revolution, and then
reinforced the cause of retrogression and coercion. There were also the
Austrians —“Gli
Austriaci”—and their hell-hound Metternich.
The number of times I have heard Luigi Filippo denounced would tax the
resources of the Calculating Boy. My mind's eye presents a curious group,
though it seemed natural enough at the time. My father and three or four
foreigners engaged in animated talk on the affairs of Europe, from the point
of view of patriotic aspiration, and hope long deferred till it became
almost hopeless, with frequent and fervent recitations of poetry
intervening; my mother quiet but interested, and sometimes taking her mild
womanly part in the conversation; and we four children—Maria more
especially, with her dark Italian countenance and rapt
eyes—drinking it all in as a sort of necessary atmosphere of the
daily life, yet with our own little interests and occupations as
well—reading, colouring prints, looking into illustrated books,
nursing a cat, or whatever came uppermost. The talk was essentially of a serious
and often an elevated kind, but varied with any
amount of lively banter, anecdote, or jest, and with those familiar
reminiscences of the old days and the old country so poignantly dear to the
exile's heart. As has already been partly indicated, no period passed, even
in our infancy, at which we were much less capable of following a
conversation in Italian than in English; and we could pick out tolerably
something of French in talk, even before being set to learn the language
grammatically. Italian grammar we—with the exception of
Maria—hardly looked into at all as a matter of system, and
English grammar was counted as pretty well explaining itself.
I regard it as more than probable that the perpetual excited and of
course one-sided talk about Luigi Filippo and other political matters had
something to do with the marked alienation from current politics which
characterized my brother in his adolescent and adult years. He was not of a
long-suffering temper, and may have thought the whole affair a considerable
nuisance at times, and resolved that he at least would leave Luigi Filippo
and the other potentates of Europe and their ministers, to take care of
themselves.
I find some remarks in John Stuart Mill's
Autobiography (1873) which appear well worth attention; here I quote them as
indicating the kind of intellectual savour which we absorbed in childhood,
and which I conceive to have been eminently well adapted for ripening the
faculties and keeping the feelings undebased. Mill, it will be perceived, is
speaking of French (as contrasted with English) society, but what he says
would apply in a general way to those Italians whom we were in the habit of
seeing; though it must be allowed that several of them were commonplace
persons in the fullest sense of the term. Mill says, speaking of the
fifteenth year of his life—I abridge the passage here and there:—
“The greatest perhaps of the many
advantages which I owed to this episode in my education was that of
having breathed for a whole year the free and genial atmosphere of
continental life. Having so little experience of English life, and the
few people I knew being mostly such as had public objects, of a large and
personally disinterested kind, at heart, I was
ignorant of the low moral tone of what in England is called Society; the
habit of, not indeed professing, but taking for granted in every mode of
implication, that conduct is of course always directed towards low and
petty objects. I could not then know or estimate the difference between
this manner of existence, and that of a people like the French, whose
faults, if equally real, are at all events different; among whom
sentiments, which by comparison at least may be called elevated, are the
current coin of human intercourse, both in books and in private life;
and, though often evaporating in profession, are yet kept alive in the
nation at large by constant exercise, and stimulated by sympathy, so as
to form a living and active part of the existence of great numbers of
persons, and to be recognized and understood by all. Neither could I
then appreciate the general culture of the understanding which results
from the habitual exercise of the feelings, and is thus carried down
into the most uneducated classes of several countries on the continent,
in a degree not equalled in England among the so-called educated, except
where an unusual tenderness of conscience leads to a habitual exercise
of the intellect on questions of right and wrong. I even then felt,
though without stating it clearly to myself, the contrast between the
frank sociability and amiability of French personal intercourse, and the
English mode of existence, in which everybody acts as if everybody else
(with few or no exceptions) was either an enemy or a bore. In France, it
is true, the bad as well as the good points, both of individual and of
national character, come more to the surface, and break out more
fearlessly in ordinary intercourse, than in England; but the general
habit of the people is to show, as well as to expect, friendly feeling
in every one towards every other, wherever there is not some positive
cause for the opposite.”
I will add here one word or two on the contrary side. I think that the
base passion of envy is more common among Italian than among English people;
likewise a certain penurious or stingy habit, which may
however—among the Italians I knew in boyhood—have been
chiefly due to the much greater expense of living which they found in
England, beyond what they had known in Italy. To spend a pound sterling
wore, in their eyes, a different aspect from what it
does in a Londoner's. As to what is commonly
called “morality,” those Italians (so far as I can
review them now) look to me, as a class, quite up to the British level; but
of course the point could not be estimated by me in boyhood, and since the
close of my father's life my knowledge of Italians in England is practically
a blank; and the same was the case with my brother.
Dante Rossetti's earliest education was conducted by our
mother; little or not at all by our father, apart from the general mental
incitement (and this assuredly counted for a good deal) which his
conversation, his using the Italian language, and his readings of his poems,
supplied. I may say in this connexion that my own
education—allowing for the moderate difference of
age—proceeded
pari passu with my brother's; and that my two sisters owed
everything in the way of early substantial instruction to our
mother. To school they never went at all. Thus all four of us were
constantly together in infancy and childhood. Wherever one was, there the
other was—and that was almost always at home. In what I have next
to say I shall aim at confining myself to Dante Gabriel, but it will be
understood that what is true of him applies mainly to the other three
children as well.
Of course our religious mother gave Dante some rudiments of Christian
knowledge, from the Bible and the “Church Catechism,”
and at a suitable age took him to church. He got to know the whole Bible
fairly well, and necessarily regarded it with reverence as one of the
greatest and sublimest books in the world.
Job,
Ecclesiastes, and the
Apocalypse, were the sections of the Scripture which, before he attained
manhood and ever afterwards, he viewed with peculiar interest and homage. He
must have been able to read currently, and to write with moderate neatness, soon
after completing five years of age. His early
reading seems to have been all in English; although, as he spoke Italian,
for ordinary household purposes, about as readily as English, and as the
reading process in Italian is incomparably the easier of the two for a
beginner, no reason is apparent to me why this was the case.
I lately came across two letters addressed by my father to my mother,
August and September 1836, which give a clear indication as to the knowledge
of Italian then possessed by Dante, in his ninth year. The first expresses
some surprise at finding that Dante and his two juniors (Christina was not
yet six) had perfectly understood a letter in Italian from their mother,
read out to them. In his second letter, my father says that Dante and I,
having received notes from Maria, chanted aloud, with great demonstrations
of glee, the following stave:—
- “L'amabile
Maria
- Ringraziata sia
- De' due biglietti suoi
- Mandati ad ambi noi.”
1
This extemporized effusion must, I suppose, have been the performance
of Dante Gabriel. These seem to be the first rhymes he ever concocted, and,
if so, he rhymed in Italian earlier than in English. My father of course
smiles over verses of such a calibre—which are, nevertheless,
correct in rhyme and rhythm, and not (I should say) wrong in diction.
I think that the very first book my brother took to with strong
personal zest was Shakespear's
Hamlet—
i.e., certain scenes of
Hamlet, giving a fairly complete idea of the story, which were printed to
accompany the outlines to that tragedy engraved after the then universally
celebrated German artist, Retzsch. Both outlines and scenes interested him
vastly at the age of five, or it may be even of four; and soon a relative
(probably one of our aunts) gave him a Bowdler's Shakespear, in which he
read numerous plays—and indeed
Transcribed Footnote (page 58):
1 Thanks to good-natured Maria for her two notes
sent to both of us.
Note: In the last paragraph,
“Fitz-Eustace” should read “De
Wilton”.
he read, unchecked, in un-Bowdlerised editions as well. A
little incident serves to fix my memory as to dates etc. in this matter.
Before I was six years of age, and therefore before the close of September
1835, I had a dangerous gastric illness; and, while I was recovering from
that, Dante produced for my diversion, “out of his own
head,” a little
series of drawn and
coloured figures of the leading personages
in the three parts
of
Henry VI. I need not say that these were childish performances in the most
absolute sense. He can then have been at the utmost seven years and four
months old, and was, I fancy, some months younger. The trilogy of
Henry VI. was a great favourite with all of us; but, by the time when Dante was
familiar with that drama, he was not less versed in several other plays of
Shakespear. I might with confidence specify
The Tempest,
Midsummer Night's Dream,
The Merchant of Venice,
Henry IV.,
Richard III.,
Romeo and Juliet,
Macbeth, and there were others as well. Of four of these we had outline-books
similar to that of
Hamlet—the designs by Retzsch, or by a less prominent German
artist, Ruhl. There were also Retzsch's famous outlines to
Göthe's
Faust. Through these, with their accompanying text in English, my brother
got to know, and to admire, something of
Faust, not very long after
Hamlet. Here was, at any rate, a good beginning for taste in poetry. Two
other books with similar outlines were
Fridolin, translated from Schiller (which we thought feeble stuff), and the
Dragon of Rhodes.
The next immense favourite was Walter Scott. Some relative presented a
pocket-edition of
Marmion to Dante Rossetti at a very childish age. He ramped through it, and
recited whole pages at a stretch—the death of Constance, the
battle and death of Marmion, etc. Fitz-Eustace was regarded as a tame and
correct-minded character rousing no interest.
The Lay of the Last Minstrel and
The Lady of the Lake excited fully as much delight as
Marmion;
The Lord of the Isles and
Rokeby only a little less. I can still recollect that one afternoon the
junior master at our first school, the younger Mr.
Paul, called at our house for some purpose, and
found us all four racing and tumbling about the floor, repeating in semi-drama the Battle of Clan Alpin, from
The Lady of the Lake. Dante was then just about nine years of age. Along with Scott's poems
the
Arabian Nights went on at a great
rate; the old English translation after Galland, and not long afterwards Lane's very different version.
The Waverly Novels ensued pretty soon after the poems—
Ivanhoe (the prime favourite),
Kenilworth,
Quentin Durward, etc. It may perhaps be as well to give here the opinion which, at a
mature age, Dante Rossetti entertained of Walter Scott's novels. It is
expressed in a letter of October 1871, addressed to Mr. William Bell Scott:—
“
I have read several
of Scott's novels here, and been surprised both at their usual
melodramatic absurdities of plot, and their astounding command of
character in the personages by whom all these improbabilities are
enacted. The novels are wonderful works, with all their faults.
Guy Mannering and
St. Ronan's Well—neither of which I knew before—delighted
me extremely. Another I read is
The Fair Maid of Perth; which is on a level with the Victoria drama in some respects,
but, in some points of conception and vivid reality in parts, can
only be compared to the greatest imaginative works
existing.”
These books—Shakespear,
Faust, Scott, and the
Arabian Nights—and, along with these, Keightley's
Fairy Mythology (mentioned in a previous section), Monk Lewis's verse-collection
Tales of Wonder (
Alonzo the Brave, etc.), and the stirring ballad of
Chevy Chase—may certainly be regarded as the staple and the
fine fleur of what Dante Rossetti revelled
in up to the close of his tenth year or thereabouts. He always discerned the
difference between the “Ghost in
Hamlet” and a ghost by Monk Lewis. Other things are present to me
as well: Carleton's
Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry,
Robinson Crusoe,
Gulliver, Gay's
Fables,
Pascal Bruno (a tale translated from Dumas), Fitzgreene Halleck's short poem of
Marco Bozaris, an incident
of the Greek War of Independence. Of Burns he had
a kind of idea, through looking into an edition sparsely illustrated by
Westall; but the dialect was a bar to his taking very kindly to the poems.
Lamb's
Tales from Shakespear he skimmed and slighted. Of directly “funny”
things I remember only
John Gilpin and some jocosities of Hood in a
Comic Annual. Naturally, too, there were the old nursery-rhymes in infantine years,
and
The Peacock at Home; and the old Fairy-tales, such as
Puss in Boots,
Bluebeard,
Cinderella,
Jack the Giant-Killer,
Beauty and the Beast, etc. Our mother kept us adequately supplied with books having a
directly religious or didactic aim—stories about “good
little boys and girls,” or the alternative naughty ones, and
other such matter; but she, like a sensible woman, did not tie us down to
liking them, in case we happened to dislike them—which we
generally did. There were some of Miss Edgeworth's stories for children,
such as
Frank; Day's
Sandford and Merton;
The Fairchild Family, by Mrs. Sherwood, which last we were far from relishing. The one
which I recollect as best esteemed was
The Son of a Genius, by Mrs. Hofland; a companion story was
The Daughter of a Genius. A minute edition of
Stories from English History, by James Mill, was very frequently in our hands, with prints
—the Druids burning victims in wicker cages to their gods, Queen
Margaret and the Robber, and so on.
Illustrated books and engravings were not very numerous in our house,
but still in fair quantity. One that Dante and the rest of us looked at
continually, beginning well nigh in infancy, was an old-fashioned little
book (1700) in the Dutch language, named
Metamorphosis Naturalis, by a painter (Goedaerdt), with coloured prints of insects and their
transformations. Blank wonderment, with much of stimulating pleasure and
something of repulsion, was the result. Later on, and never tired of, came
Martin and Westall's Illustrations of the
Bible
; and to his last day Dante would have told you that Martin was an
imaginative pictorial genius of no mean power. Afterwards some one gave him
a book of
rather large outline engravings from Scripture,
after the Old Masters—emptyish-looking things which he frequently
inspected, with little real sympathy. I have always thought that his
indifference to the respectable conventions of Old-Masterhood, leading on
to the Præraphaelite movement, had something to do with this
book. Our grandfather had at Holmer Green some engravings after Rubens, the
subjects from the story of Achilles. They met his fancy in a certain way,
but he did not like their fleshy forms and florid manner. Also (belonging
probably to Eliza Polidori) a book of English engravings from Raphael's
Cartoons, with highly laudatory descriptions. Another of our grandfather's
possessions was a fine large edition of Ariosto, with French engravings of
last century. These were an endless delight to Dante, from the age of eleven
or so onwards. He owned much earlier, as a present from the same relative, a
little book of French or Flemish woodcut-illustrations to Bible history,
dating towards 1580. They were probably artistic things of their kind, and
he enjoyed their arbitrary treatment and unreasonable costumes. Among our
father's books were a
Poliphili Hypnerotomachia; Gombauld's
Endymion, in English, with engravings, dated 1639; and a volume of pagan
mythology with startling woodcuts of about the early seventeenth
century—I presume it to have been the
De Naturâ Deorum of Boccaccio. All these Dante inspected from time to time, with some
gusto not unmingled with awe—each book being pronounced by our
father to be a “
libro sommamente mistico,
1” according to his system of
interpretation of mediæval and renaissance literature. In his
opening years no prints were more frequently in Dante's hands than a series
of lithographs from Roman history, the work of Filippo Pistrucci (there was
also a different series, coloured allegorical
designs); not very superior efforts of art, but far from being amiss
in treatment of the subjects. At one time, after Dante had passed out of
mere childhood, some one brought into our
Transcribed Footnote (page 62):
1 Book in the highest degree mystical.
house Pinelli's outlines from
Roman history. These we admired most heartily, and I suppose
with good reason. Some of Pinelli's subjects of Italian peasant and street
life we knew already. Various other prints and drawings occur to my mind;
but somewhere I must stop, and I stop here. Occasionally—it seems
to me by no means often—he went to the National Gallery in
childhood. Mr. Frederick J. Shields has recorded an interesting point that
he heard from Dante Rossetti, who mentioned it to show the sound direction
which, in many instances, his mother gave to his taste. On his first visit
to the National Gallery—he may, I suppose,
have been then just ten years of age
1 —he was inclined to admire the big, showy, and (to an
untrained eye) somewhat telling picture by Benjamin West,
Christ healing the Sick; but his mother, who made no
pretence to technical knowledge in art, at once set him right by remarking
that it was “commonplace and
expressionless.” What two epithets could go closer to the
root of the thing?
It has often been said, by writers who know nothing very definite about
the matter, that Dante Rossetti was, from childhood or early boyhood, a
devoted admirer of the stupendous poet after whom he was christened. This is
a mistake. No doubt our father's Dantesque studies saturated the household
air with wafts and rumours of the mighty Alighieri; therefore the child
breathed Dante (so to speak), but he did not think Dante, nor lay him to
heart. On the contrary, our father's speculations and talk about
Dante— which, although he highly valued the poetry as such, all
took an abstruse or theoretic turn—rather alienated my brother
than otherwise, and withheld him from “looking up” the
Florentine, to see whether his poems were things readable, like those of
Shakespear, Scott, or Göthe. With all of us children the case was
the same. I question whether my
Transcribed Footnote (page 63):
1 The National Gallery, in its present building,
opened to the public in April 1838. The first nucleus of the
collection had previously been housed in Pall Mall, but I surmise
that none of my family ever went there.
brother had ever read twenty consecutive lines of
Dante until he was some fifteen or sixteen years of age; no doubt after that
he rapidly made up for lost time. Our father, when writing about the
Comedia or the
Vita Nuova, was seen surrounded by ponderous folios in italic type,
“libri mistici”
and the like (often about alchemy, freemasonry, Brahminism, Swedenborg, the
Cabbala, etc.), and filling page after page of prose, in impeccable
handwriting, full of underscorings, interlineations, and cancellings. We
contemplated his labours with a certain hushed feeling, which partook of
respect and also of levity, but were assuredly not much tempted to take up
one of his books, and see whether it would “do to
read.” The
Convito was always a name of dread to us, as being the very essence of arid
unreadableness. Dante Alighieri was a sort of banshee in the Charlotte
Street houses; his shriek audible even to familiarity, but the message of it
not scrutinized.
As to all this, a passage in my brother's Preface to his book
Dante and his Circle
ought to have prevented any misapprehension concerning the supposed
constant reading of Alighieri in very childish years. He says:—
“
The first associations I
have are connected with my father's devoted studies, which, from his
own point of view, have done so much towards the general
investigation of Dante's writings. Thus, in those early days, all
around me partook of the influence of the great Florentine; till,
from viewing it as a natural element, I also,
growing
older
, was drawn within the circle.”
There was an English artist named Seymour Kirkup, domiciled in
Florence. He was made a Barone of the Italian Kingdom, and must be
remembered by many persons now living, as he only died towards 1879, aged
ninety-two or thereabouts. He was an enthusiast for Dante, and was a
profound believer in my father's scheme of Dantesque interpretation. He
began corresponding with my father towards 1837, and kept this up for
several years. It was in 1839 that he took a leading part in discovering the
portrait of the youthful
Dante, by Giotto, in the Bargello of Florence, long lost under
whitewash. He made at once a good full-sized coloured drawing of this
invaluable portrait (now, sad to say, no longer in a perfectly authentic
state), and sent the drawing as a present to my father; from him it came to
my brother, and was only disposed of in the sale of his effects which
followed his death in 1882. The receipt of this portrait probably put the
mind and feelings of Dante Rossetti as much
en
rapport
with the Florentine poet as any incident which had preceded
it; but even so he did not take any immediate steps for acquainting himself
with the poems.
My brother's first “poem”—his almost solitary drama
1— was written in his own handwriting, towards the age of
five. He may have been just six, rather than five, but I am not certain. It
is entitled
The Slave
, and it lies before me at this moment. Why he wrote
The Slave
, or what he supposed himself to mean in writing it, is not clear to
me. One can, however, form one safe inference—that his
inspiration derived from seeing,
passim in
Shakespear, the words “Slave, Traitor, Villain,” and
what not.
The Slave
consists of three Scenes in two “Acts”; it only
fills nine small pages of large writing. The writing begins by imitating
print, but goes on into an ordinary (very childish) cursive hand. Probably
Dante Gabriel learned how to write cursively while the drama was in course
of composition. It surprises me to note that the spelling is strictly
correct: the blank verse (when it occurs, for some parts are in truncated
verse, or practical prose) is also correct enough—as here:—
- “Ho, if thou be alive, come out
and fight me!”
- “Down, slave, I dare thee on!
Coward, thou diest!”
- “But yet I will not live to see
thee thus.”
This matter of versification correct in accent and number of feet,
however puerile in other respects, may to some readers seem stranger than it
does to me; for I cannot, with reference
Transcribed Footnote (page 65):
1 I say “
almost solitary,” because I
possess another trifle in the dramatic form—a mere piece
of grotesque banter—of a late date, 1878.
to any one of us four, remember any time when,
knowing what a verse was, we did not also know and feel what a
correct verse was. The early reading of really good poetry, and
perhaps quite as much the constant hearing of our father's verses recited
with perfect articulation and emphasis, may account for this.
The
Dramatis Personæ of
The Slave
are set down thus:—“
Don Manuel, a Spanish Lord; Traitor,
an Officer; Slave, a Servant to Traitor; Mortimer, an English
Knight; Guards, Messengers, etc.” No plot is apparent, only constant objurgation and
fighting. The utmost stretch of conjecture as to a plot would amount simply
to this: Don Manuel is entitled to the allegiance of Traitor, who has
deserted him, and sides with Mortimer; Slave is viewed with suspicion by all
three; Traitor, getting the worst of it in a fight, kills himself; Mortimer,
as an act of condolence for Traitor, kills
himself; Slave
is killed by Don Manuel, who is left surviving,
faute de mieux. It will be observed that there is no
“female interest” in the
The Slave
; and in fact the “gushing or ecstatic female”
was, to all us infants, a personage less provocative of sentiment than of
mirth. Often and fatuously did we laugh over Coleridge's poem of
Love (
Genevieve)—the very poem which, in an
edition of Coleridge that I possess, my brother, in one of his latest years,
marked with the word “Perfection.”
In the same minute paper-book which contains
The Slave
Dante followed on, in a rather less rudimentary handwriting, with
The Beauties of Shakespeare. These
consist singly of Portia's speech, “The quality of mercy
is not strained.” Then comes
Alladin, or The Wonderful Lamp, by Gabriel
Rossetti, Painter of Play-Pictures
(this refers to his constant industry in colouring prints of
stage-characters).
Alladin
is in prose, and only a few lines were written, totally uninteresting.
The sole amusing point about it is the List of Personages, which are
assigned to such minor performers as “
Mrs. Siddons, Mr. Kemble, Mr.
Kean,” and others whose names he got no doubt from his
theatrical prints. The three
above named were already dead at the time. Mrs.
Siddons, and more particularly Kemble (John Philip), had been well
known—I may here observe—to Gaetano Polidori. After
Alladin
, a few pages of the book are filled with drawings (of a kind). One is
Guy Fawkes, with lantern and dagger. He is done in heavy ink-silhouette, which
is blotted down upon the page that faces him.
And so much for
The Slave
and its adjuncts; which I might barely have mentioned, but for the
fact that this “drama” has been adverted to in print
before now, and it seemed desirable to settle once for all what it amounted
to.
I must say a little more about infantine drawings—some in
pencil, most in pen and ink, many of them coloured. Two
represent
his dormouse “Dwanging”; and, as Dwanging (so it
appears to me) hardly existed at a date later than the completion of Dante's
sixth year (12 May 1834), these must be extremely early affairs, not wholly
unlike the look of the animal. To 1834 belongs also (as I have said) a
portrait of his rocking-horse. These three are so
far tolerable as to show that it was a pity he did not draw a little oftener
from actual objects, but almost always mere inventions (such as they were),
prompted to a large extent by his theatrical-character prints, with
straddling legs and irrational pretences at costume. One that seems to my
memory very early indeed is
Macbeth contemplating the aërial
dagger
. A little book of childish drawings exists, chiefly from various
plays. I will only name one subject from each play, as marked in our
mother's handwriting—a pretty good indication that Dante himself
was barely competent to write neatly at the time. These comprise
Talbot rescuing his son John from Orleans
(Shakespear's
Henry VI.);
Buckingham and Catesby presenting the crown to
Richard
;
Prince Henry throwing Falstaff's bottle of sack
at him
;
Combat between Macbeth and young Siward
;
Casca stabbing Cæsar;
Rolla carrying off the Child
(from Sheridan's
Pizarro).
In concluding this account of Dante Rossetti's earliest years, I must
observe that he was certainly fortunate in his
family surroundings. His father was a poet and man
of letters, his grandfather the same; his mother had a good appreciation of
literary matters; his sisters and brother all watched with interest and
seconded with zest whatever he did as a beginning at writing and at drawing.
He had also the vast advantage of speaking two languages, of which one
served as a direct introduction to Latin. In no quarter did he encounter
anything to thwart his inclinations, to divert his steps, or to throw cold
water on his small performances. He was not wilfully spoiled nor absurdly
petted, nor was any difference made between him and the other children; but
he felt himself to be encouraged as well as loved, and in most matters he
had his own way. This, with the temper which was innate in him, he would
perhaps have got anyhow; as things went, he got it unenforced. Naturally
this favourable condition of family relations continued to grow with his
growth.
It must have been after the midsummer holidays of 1836
that Dante Rossetti first went to school; I followed him after the Christmas
holidays. The school was that of the Rev. Mr. Paul, in Foley Street,
Portland Place—a day-school for most of the pupils, or perhaps
all. There was, I think, only one assistant master, Mr. Paul's son. The
pupils were not numerous—say twenty-five to thirty-five. They
must chiefly have been sons of local tradesmen. I remember one set of
boys—three brothers—of gentle birth and breeding, the
Cummings; also Aikman, who (I have an impression) became an officer of some
distinction in the Indian army. We were instructed in some rudimentary
matters—writing, arithmetic (Dante Gabriel was always bad at
this, and to the end of his days I fancy he would have been at fault here
and there in the multiplication table), English grammar, geography,
history, and the first steps in Latin. We also had
to do a “theme” once or twice—a composition upon some given subject;
1 and we received some little drawing tuition from a French Master,
M. Abeille, whom we considered deft in his touch of foliage. We liked the
younger Mr. Paul; to the elder we had—and ought to have
had—no objection, but I remember little of him. One of my few
individual recollections of the school is that of hearing there the tolling
bell which announced the death of King William the Fourth. Among our
school-books was a volume of selections, prose and poetry, named
The Rhetorical Class-book, containing such
pieces as Campbell's
Lochiel's Warning, and his
Last Man, with marginal directions as to the proper tone, inflexion, gesture,
etc., for reciting them. We enjoyed a great deal of the text in this book,
and giggled over the directions—having always had in our father,
and indeed in our mother too, models that would have bettered that form of
instruction.
An English school such as that of Mr. Paul (and I must say the same of
King's College School, to which we went afterwards) is not an academy of
good manners, nor yet of high thinking; and it would be too true to
acknowledge that Dante Rossetti rapidly deteriorated here. I would add the
same very emphatically of myself, but that I am not exactly in question, and
need not intrude my small personality. At home he had witnessed nothing but
resolute and cheerful performance of duty, and heard nothing that was not
pure right, high-minded, and looking to loftier things. School first brought
him face to face with that which is “common and
unclean.” There is always some nasty-thinking boy to egg-on his
juniors upon a path of unsavouriness. A certain
Transcribed Footnote (page 69):
1 If the reader would like a laugh, he may
perhaps get it out of the following. One of the schoolboys (I do not
mean either Dante or myself) was told to do a theme on Candour. His
theme—I have never forgotten it—was in the
following words, as near as may be: “My dear
father—I want to write to you on the subject of
Candour. He is a most benevolent, candid, honourable, sordid,
and surly young man. His friends love him
dearly.”
A. (his initial shall stand instead of his name),
who sat next to Dante Gabriel, beset him with promptings of a worse than
useless kind. One thing was pointing out phrases in the Bible which he held
to be vastly amusing, but which little Dante did not want to be teazed with.
Dante mentioned the matter to his father, who conferred with Mr. Paul; and
A. was ordered to take a different seat in the school, and stick to it. This
is nearly all that I remember in a definite way about Mr. Paul's school.
Dante was a ready learner, and a willing one enough. The last performance,
as the school was breaking up for the holidays, was an evening of
recitations in the presence of parents and friends. Dante delivered (from
Shakespear's
Julius Cæsar) the speech of Antony over the body of Cæsar, and I the
speech of Brutus. We were clapped to our heart's content.
As a Professor in King's College, Gabriele Rossetti was entitled to
send one son to the day-school there free of charge, and a second son at
reduced fees. It had therefore always been intended that we boys should go
to that school as soon as a little preliminary instruction had been gained
at Mr. Paul's establishment; and thither accordingly we went after the
midsummer holidays of 1837. Dante was rightfully admissible, having attained
the regulation age of nine; I was not so, being not quite eight, but was
allowed to pass muster. As this is a day-school (although a few pupils were
housed as boarders), we went daily to and fro. At first we took the route by
Regent Street and the Strand to Somerset House, but afterwards preferred the
more plebeian, and to us more amusing, shops of Tottenham Court Road and St.
Giles's (no New Oxford Street then existed). The Head Master was the Rev.
Dr. Major, of whom, in Dante Gabriel's time, we saw little. The Principal
was Dr. Lonsdale, Bishop of Lichfield. The school was then, as it is now, of
strict Church-of England principle, and most of the masters were clergymen.
On one or two occasions I saw prizes distributed by the Archbishop of
Canterbury, Dr. Howley—a little old man, still wearing the
episcopal white wig, of the gentlest manner and address, almost apologetic
to the students (so it seemed)
for so far putting himself forward. He
was—in regard at least to aspect and
demeanour—anything but one of those
vescovi pettoruti (bishops high in flesh) who were frequently in my father's mouth; for
the latter disliked the worldly well-being and brow-beating respectability
of the Anglican clergy only a little less than the arrogant bigotry of their
Roman compeers. The great prize-receiver in those days was Arthur Cayley,
the pre-eminent Cambridge Mathematician, who would come up for three or four
successive prizes in one afternoon. His younger brother, Charles Bagot
Cayley, was one of my father's pupils in Italian, and learned the language
admirably, as shown by his fine translations of Dante and
Petrarca—a most estimable scholarly man, without a taint of
mundane self-seeking. I forget how many languages he knew. If he did not
know one, he only had to learn it. He was once asked, by some missionary or
other society, to translate the Gospels for the Iroquois. He went to the
British Museum Library, looked up an Iroquois grammar or two, and, at the
end of six weeks or so, he undertook the task, and performed it.
My brother and myself entered King's College School in the lowest
class—the Lower First—of which the Rev. Mr. Hayes was
the Master. Some schoolboy called him “Bantam,” from
his red complexion and facial angle; and every other schoolboy followed
suit. To us he was kind; and he perhaps stretched a point by returning our
“characters,” in the first quarterly report, as
“in every respect satisfactory” for
Dante, and for myself “in the highest degree
commendable.” Some other good reports of us may have
followed, but certainly none so flowery as that.
Dante Rossetti's school-life at King's College lasted just five years,
from the autumn of 1837 to the summer of 1842. He had no further schooling
of any kind, except some German lessons taken at home, and his instruction
for the pictorial profession. When he left school, he wrote an excellent
hand; knew Latin reasonably well, up to Sallust, Ovid, Virgil, etc.; had the
beginning of a knowledge of Greek, but I can hardly
say whether, after a few years' interval, he could
even read the Greek characters with any readiness; understood French
well—well enough to begin forthwith, which he did, reading any
number of French novels for himself; and had some inkling on subjects of
history, geography, etc. He always saw easily into linguistic and
grammatical matters, so far as he cared to pursue them. He had also been
brought on a little in drawing, of a more or less sketchy kind. In the
classes generally (but not in the drawing-class) the boys had to be seated
in the order of their proficiency, one of them “taking the
place” of another as occasion arose; and Dante was usually pretty
near the head of a class. Of anything even distantly tending to
science—algebra, geometry, etc.— he learned nothing
whatever. The religious instruction at King's College School counted for
little: there were some prayers and a chapter of the Bible in the morning.
But all this time he continued going to church
en famille, without much liking or any serious distaste. In early childhood came
Trinity Church, Marylebone Road; then St. Katharine's, Regent's Park; then
Christ Church, Albany Street.
I will run over a few other particulars—I hope, with due
brevity. The Upper First Class was conducted by the Rev. Mr. Cockayne, who
became—or possibly then was—a good scholar in Early
English. The Second, by the Rev. Swinburne Carr, author of a serviceable
History of Greece. The Third, by the Rev. Mr. Hodgson, an ungainly little man whom the
boys did not like. I cannot say that Dante or myself had any reason to
complain of him. There was a legend that he knew very little about the
matters on which he instructed the boys, and that he had to prepare his own
lessons over-night. As to this I of course know nothing. In the Fourth
Class, the last which Dante Gabriel entered, the Master was the Rev. Mr.
Fearnley. Of him also a legend was current, purporting to account for a seam
visible in his throat. It was really, I presume, a seam of a scrofulous
nature; but the legend ran that he had once cut his throat with suicidal
intention, and had only been saved at the last gasp. Mr. Fearnley,
a large stalwart man, was considered severe, and
the boys were not very fond of being promoted into his
class—which may be a reason why some one concocted the legend.
Each of these classes numbered some thirty boys, more or less; perhaps one
or two of them attained to forty.
There were also the Writing and Arithmetic Masters, the French Masters,
and the Drawing Masters. Mr. Allsop, the Head Writing Master, was a great
adept in his craft, and would at times come round to one class or another
displaying a
chef d'œuvre of
caligraphy, full of the most astonishing flourishes. He was odd, and left
the school not long after we entered it; and I fear that the story I was
told, that he had gone out of his mind, was a true one. His successor was a
small old man, Mr. Hutton, of venerable grandfatherly aspect, with white
hair. He was easily put out, and some of the boys, being as pitiless as
other boys, put him out when they could. Dante held aloof from this
indignity. The French Masters were Mm. Gassion and Wattez, and Professor
Brasseur, all very competent men; the first two considerate to their pupils,
and the third, who could be sarcastic as well as considerate, a scholar of
some rank. He was afterwards French Preceptor to the Prince of Wales, and
died at a recent date, aged, I think, about ninety. The Drawing Master was
the most interesting personage of all—the celebrated member of
the Norwich School of Painting, John Sell Cotman. He was aged fifty-five
when Dante Rossetti entered King's College School—an alert,
forceful-looking man, of moderate stature, with a fine well-moulded face,
which testified to an impulsive nature somewhat worn and wearied. He seemed
sparing of speech, but high-strung in whatever he said. In fact, the seeds
of madness lurked in this distinguished artist, although, apart from a
rather excitable or abrupt manner in ruling his bear-garden, I never noticed
any symptoms of it. Pretty soon he left the school, and, just as Dante also
was leaving it, in July 1842, he died insane. Mr. Cotman's course of
instruction did not extend far beyond giving us pencil-sketches, often of
his own, to copy—fisher-folk, troopers, peasants,
boating, etc. Dante's copies were, I suppose,
considered to count among the more satisfactory, but I am not aware that
Cotman ever fixed particular attention upon him. As Drawing Master he was
succeeded by his son, Miles Edward Cotman. The latter died in 1858, aged
only forty-seven; and I fancy that he also, though perfectly quiet and
collected in manner, was a little peculiar.
In Mr. Hall Caine's book—
Recollections of Dante Gabriel
Rossetti
, 1882— there is a passage which deserves quotation here:—
“He is described, by those who remember
him at this period, as a boy of a gentle and affectionate nature, albeit
prone to outbursts of masterfulness. It is said that he was brave and
manly of temperament, courageous as to personal suffering, eminently
solicitous of the welfare of others, and kind and considerate to such as
he had claims upon. This is no doubt true portraiture; but it must be
stated (however open to explanation, on grounds of laudable
self-depreciation) that it is not the picture which he himself used to
paint of his character as a boy. He often described himself as being
destitute of personal courage when at school, as shrinking from the
amusements of school-fellows, and fearful of their
quarrels—not wholly without generous impulses, but in the
main selfish of nature, and reclusive in habit of life. He would have
had you believe that school was to him a place of semi-purgatorial
probation.”
All this is put in a very fair spirit by Mr. Caine, and it merits a
little reflection. No one now alive perhaps, except myself, could, with any
clear knowledge and recollection, say whether Dante Rossetti was
“destitute of personal courage when at
school.” I do not consider that he was by any means thus
destitute. I have seen him fight with a proper degree of tenacity when the
occasion arose; but it is strictly true that he was
“fearful of the quarrels” of
schoolfellows, in the sense that he totally disliked that loutish horse-play
and that scrambling pugnacity which are so eminently distinctive of the
British stripling. The meaningless defiance, the bullying onset, and the
mauling scuffle, looked to him ugly, base, detestable, and semi-human. If he
was mistaken, I should
Note: Toward the end of the page, “be passed it off lightly”
should read “he passed it off lightly”.
like to know wherein. The bull-dog propensity to pin somebody
by the muzzle, whether deserving to be so pinned or not, was not any part of
his character, inborn or acquired. Neither had he any liking for being set
up by his schoolfellows, without quarrel of his own, to fight a boy two or
three inches taller than himself, and with half as much again in thews and
sinews. That he was “in the main selfish of
nature” is true when the statement is properly
understood, but it might easily be misconstrued. He was selfish, in the
sense of self-centred. His own aims, his own opportunities, the working-out
of such faculty as he found within himself —these were always his
chief concern. To term him
“self-willed”—which he most eminently was
from first to last— would give a much more correct idea than to
term him “selfish.” He was not selfish
in the sense of being dull in affection to others, indifferent to their
welfare, or unwilling to exert himself to do them a benefit. He had a
theory, which I have heard him express at various periods of life, that men
who have an originating gift—or, in a broad sense, what we call
men of genius—are all selfish in that same mood of being
self-centred. He would say it of such poets as Dante, Milton,
Göthe, Wordsworth, Shelley, or of Shakespear if the facts of his
life were adequately known—of such painters and sculptors as
Titian, Cellini, Rembrandt, Blake, and Turner. And here again I apprehend
that he was remote from being wrong. That “school was to
him a place of semi-purgatorial probation” is, I dare
say, nearly true. It is a fact however that, if in reality he felt this at
the time deeply, be passed it off lightly; for to me, who was his daily
colleague and confidant, he never, so far as I can remember, unbosomed
himself to any such effect. That contact with school-life did the reverse of
good to the character of the boyish Rossetti is what I have already avowed.
His regard for veracity, the strictness of his sense of honour, his
readiness to brave inconvenience for principle, were subject to daily
undermining; for the moral atmosphere around reeked too perceptibly of
unveracity, slipperiness, and
shirking. His temper too, which was always an
arbitrary and peremptory one, did not improve; but he retained unimpaired
two valuable qualities—an easy good-nature, and a facility at
forgiving and forgetting. From infancy onwards he was always a great
favourite with servants, shoe-blacking men, organ-grinders, and people of
the like class. Brightness of parts and brightness of manner ensured this.
I have not yet referred to the statement reported by Mr. Caine about
“shrinking from the amusements of
schoolfellows.” This is entirely true, if
“shrinking” means “abstaining.”
He cared nothing for rough pastimes—though he would race about in
the scanty playground with others, bear a hand in snowballing, and so on;
but anything which would derive from personal liking, and would require
time, pains, and practice—such as skating, fishing, or
cricket—he left entirely aside. He did not want it; therefore he
did not pursue it. To learn swimming, boating, and riding, would, no doubt,
at school and after school, have been a benefit to him—a benefit
which the habits and circumstances of the family and his own indifference
withheld.
I was interested lately at finding, in a little
Memorial Volume on Edgar Allan Poe, a poet of my brother's marked predilection, an
account of that singular genius as a schoolboy which might almost have been
penned for Dante Rossetti. The volume was published at Baltimore in 1877,
and cannot be widely known on this side of the Atlantic. The writer of the
passage is Poe's schoolfellow at Richmond, Virginia, Colonel J. T. L.
Preston. He says:—
“Poe, as I recall my impressions now, was
self-willed, capricious, inclined to be imperious, and, though of
generous impulses, not steadily kind or even amiable.”
For Rossetti, the last clause should rather
run—“not definitely amiable, nor even always steadily
kind.”
The punishments in King's College School were of a mild character.
There was no flogging. Now and again an irritated master would cuff a boy,
or give him a bang on the
head with a book. This was an extempore, and I
suppose an unsanctioned, performance. An offender was made to stand out in
the middle of the room, or to stand upon a form for a while; or he was
“kept in” during playtime; or he had to do an
“imposition,” such as copying out the same line from
Virgil fifty times over. An ingenious boy would brace together two or three
pens at a proper gradient, and thus write two or three lines with one turn
of the hand.
There was no schoolfellow with whom Dante Rossetti contracted an
intimate acquaintance, far less a life-long friendship; but two or three
were in our house at times, or we in theirs. One of these was young
Lockhart, a grandson of Sir Walter Scott, aged about thirteen when Dante was
nine; a handsome, slim, straight-built youth, with very correct features. He
was a great hand at cutting out little models of boats. He became the
Lieutenant Walter Scott Lockhart-Scott, owner of Abbotsford, and died in
1853, aged only twenty-seven. Another boy was a son of William Westall the
Landscape-painter (brother of the Richard Westall so well-known to Dante
Rossetti through
Martin and Westall's Illustrations of the
Bible
, a painter of some note in his day, who gave instructions to the
Princess Victoria). This boy had a brother of weak mind and sometimes rather
dangerous (not in King's College School), who went by the undignified name
of “Sillikin.” Another boy was Geldart Evans Riadore,
who became a clergyman, and (I believe) Domestic Chaplain to the Duke of
Buccleuch, a lad of good parts and refinement, son of a Doctor. Also the
Wrays, sons of a deceased Colonial Judge; Boys, son of a leading
printseller; Capper, whose father was a coal-merchant; Charles Anderson, who
became a clergyman, doing good service in the East End of London; and the
Willoughbys, sons of a legal gentleman living in Lancaster Place, close to
King's College. Their family had the
entrée to the Terrace of Somerset House overlooking the
river; and we would sometimes join them on a half-holiday or holiday, taking
possession of a little lodge there, burning shavings in an empty grate, and
making an amount of noise
which was not kindly taken by the Government
Clerks whose windows opened on to the Terrace. These several boys are about
all I could specify. I make no mention of a very few others who were little
or not at all known to my brother in his schooldays, but only to myself
while my schooling was prolonged beyond his.
Dante Rossetti had a certain faint repute among his class-fellows as
being addicted to drawing or sketching—making, on an
exercise-book or the margin of a school-book, something that was understood
to figure a knight, cavalier, trooper, brigand, or what not—or as
buying and colouring theatrical characters, illustrated serials, and the
like. To this small extent, therefore, he was noted as a little uncommon;
and of course his foreign name and comparatively unschoolboy-like habits
counted for something. I suppose also—though I do not recollect
precise instances in point—that he was known for reciting verses.
A certain schoolfellow, probably after Dante had left, handed over to me
three or four poetical compositions which he himself had produced, one of
them beginning with the words, “I would I were a smiling
bird.” Dante laughed over the term, and made a portrait of the bird
in the act of smiling.
The Year 1842, when he quitted school, was the year of the
Anglo-Chinese Opium War. He and I were told by a Master to make an original
composition on the subject of China, and I think the composition had to be
in verse. What he or I wrote I have totally forgotten: seemingly each of us
must have produced some lines. Christina saw us at work, and chose to enter
the poetic lists. She was then eleven years of age. She indited the
following epical lines, which must (I apprehend) have been nearly the
first verses she ever wrote.
1 Will the reader pardon my printing them?
Transcribed Footnote (page 78):
1 There was a neat couplet which
may have been earlier:—
- “‘Come cheer up,
my lads, 'tis to glory we steer!’
- As the soldier remarked whose post lay
in the rear.”
Two stanzas, dated 27 April 1842, for our mother's birthday
(our grandfather printed them on a card) were, I consider, earlier
also. The original MS.—of a very childish
aspect—is now in the British Museum.
THE CHINAMAN.
- “‘Centre of
Earth!’ a Chinaman he said,
- And bent over a map his pig-tailed
head,—
- That map in which, portrayed in colours bright,
- China, all dazzling, burst upon the sight:
- ‘Centre of Earth!’
repeatedly he cries,
- ‘Land of the brave, the beautiful,
the wise!’
- Thus he exclaimed; when lo his words arrested
- Showed what sharp agony his head had tested.
- He feels a tug—another, and
another—
-
10And quick exclaims, ‘Hallo! what's
now the bother?’
- But soon alas perceives. And, ‘Why,
false night,
- Why not from men shut out the hateful sight?
- The faithless English have cut off my tail,
- And left me my sad fortunes to bewail.
- Now in the streets I can no more appear,
- For all the other men a pig-tail
wear.’
- He said, and furious cast into the fire
- His tail: those flames became its
funeral-pyre.”
I have already said that Dante Rossetti (as well as the
rest of us) used in early childhood to get some countrifying at our
grandfather's house, Holmer Green in Buckinghamshire. There he loitered
about a little, doing nothing particular. His chief amusement was to haunt a
pond in the grounds, and catch frogs. It concerned him to notice that, if he
held a frog any considerable while in his hand, the skin of the amphibian's
throat, lacking its proper quota of moisture, would split across. This did
not cure him of catching frogs; but he was fain to hope that his captive, on
being restored to its pond, would find its throat “sewing itself
up again.” All his life he liked most animals (though he had
little ado with dogs, and none with horses), and was not ill-natured to any.
Even a black beetle was regarded with a certain indulgence; it was an
animal, much like another.
These little and never frequent country excursions came to an end in
1839, when our grandfather resettled in London; and then Dante Rossetti, for
two or three years, went out of London not at all, for our father had not
the habit of making any annual seaside or rural trip. Dante's holidays, when
school closed, were spent at home in London, varied by casual walks up to
Hampstead, or the like. He painted theatrical characters, read books, and
amused himself as the chance offered; and now he had at least the resource
of going to his grandfather's house near Regent's Park whenever he felt so
inclined. The house contained many books. It had, at the back, a
moderate-sized garden, sloping down towards Regent's Canal; and in this
garden a shed or summer-house sheltered the private printing-press which
Polidori used. The fact—such I believe it to be—that
Dante never once tried what he could do as a compositor is one more symptom
of his great inaptitude at anything of a mechanical or directly practical
kind. The workaday world was not
his world.
In this house occurred a small incident which Mr. Caine has
related—not with perfect accuracy. It did not take place when
Dante was “rather less than nine years of
age,” for he was already eleven when our grandfather
entered the house. The incident may really belong to his twelfth, or
possibly his thirteenth, year. He did not deliberately set-to at reciting
the closing scene of
Othello; but, taking up a chisel, he playfully motioned to strike Christina
with it. As Maria had sense enough to object that it might hurt, he insisted
that it would not; and (then for the first time speaking a few lines from
Othello, ending—
- “I took by the throat the circumcisèd
dog,
- And smote him thus”)
he struck the chisel forcibly against his chest. Naturally there was an
incision, but not a serious one. Sangiovanni probed it, and pretty soon it
was healed. The small matter is hardly worth adverting to, but may as well
be set right.
Another small matter, a little more symptomatic as to the
boyhood of Rossetti, is the following. Maria was, as
previously intimated, of an uncommonly enthusiastic temper, which eventually
settled down into religious devotion. As she read very early and very
constantly, her enthusiasms developed in divers directions: British tars,
Napoleon, Englishmen
versus Scotchmen (in
relation to Walter Scott's writings), Grecian mythology, and the
Iliad. Pope's translation alone was known to her. When Dante and I began learning Greek she
resolved to learn some too, partly to help us in our lessons; and she made
her way into the Greek New Testament, and could in her later years still
read it fairly with the aid of a dictionary. While the
Iliad fit was at its height, Dante, to please her, undertook to do a
series of pen-and-ink designs for the epic, on a
small scale, one design to each Book. This was in February 1840, when he was
eleven years of age. These drawings—they still
exist—are not in any tolerable degree good, nor even distinctly
promising; but they may count for something as showing the lad's ambitious
temper in design, and his willingness to take up any attempt that offered,
however ludicrously inadequate his means for coping with it. I may add that
Dante at this time, although he had not that glowing love of the
Iliad which his sister entertained, liked it highly, and read it much. In
later years he knew, and he also preferred, the
Odyssey.
From the
Iliad I pass to other books read by Dante in his school-days, as a sequel to
the details previously given relating to a still earlier period. The poet
who superseded Walter Scott as prime favourite (always allowing for
Shakespear, who was never superseded though he may have been less constantly
read) was Byron.
The Siege of Corinth came first in the boy's esteem, and next
Mazeppa and
Manfred, with
The Corsair and others to follow.
Childe Harold he read, but without special zest; in fact, throughout his life, the
poetry of sentimental or reflective description had a very minor attraction
for him. Of Dickens's
Pickwick, which came out in 1836, he seems to me to have known comparatively
little; but
Nicholas Nickleby, 1838-9, was very potent with
him, followed by
Oliver Twist,
The Old Curiosity Shop,
Barnaby Rudge, etc. An illustrated serial named
Tales of Chivalry (but chivalry is not more prominent in its pages than some other
things) was constantly read, and its woodcuts inspected and coloured; also
another serial, of earlier date, called
Legends of Terror, full of ghosts, fiends, and magic, in prose and verse. There was
likewise
The Seven Champions of Christendom, abounding in dragons, enchanters, and other marvels of
pseudo-chivalry.
Hone's Every-day Book, with its amusing woodcuts, and the
Newgate Calendar, were marked favourites. The mere thieves in the last-named repertory
excited but a languid interest, but the murderers, and their
“last dying speeches and
confessions,” were conned with decided gusto. Of
highly-reputed romances there were Bulwer's
Rienzi and
Last Days of Pompeii, and, of minor romances, three serials—
Robin Hood and
Wat Tyler, both by Pierce Egan the younger, and
Ada the Betrayed, or The Murder at the Old
Smithy
, by some obscure author whose name did not transpire.
Gil Blas and
Don Quixote were enjoyed, though not in any extreme degree. But perhaps in his
earlier school-days—or from the age of nine to eleven—
nothing delighted Dante quite so much as a small-sized series entitled
Brigand Tales, with coloured illustrations. A subsequent series appeared, which he
relished somewhat less, whether because he was growing out of them, or on
account of their being more forced and worked up in incident. The opening
series comprised
Moriano the Outlaw, or the Bandit of the Charmed
Wrist
;
Beauty and the Bear, or The Bandit's
Stratagem
;
The Female Brigand, or The Lover's Doom; and a number of others: with such illustrations as
Desperate Encounter between Benedetto the Brigand and Jeronymo
Arondini
;
Guillen Martino plundering
the Monks of the Abbey of San Isidor
;
Pietro d'Armorelli, Captain of Banditti, refusing to stay the
Execution of his own Son
, etc., etc. This publication was
followed by
Dramatic Tales, a set of narratives from popular plays, contemporary or antecedent.
These also were highly appreciated by Dante Rossetti. By
the time he left school—turned of
fourteen—he had devoured numerous novels, poems, and dramas,
apart from those here specified, almost all of them being in English. In
Italian there was little beyond Ariosto; in French, it may be that Hugo's
Notre Dame de Paris preceded the close of his schooling, but I am not sure. At any rate
this, and many other works of Hugo, both prose and verse, fascinated him
hugely very soon afterwards; and French novels by a variety of authors were
greatly in the ascendant for two or three years. It may be feared there was
no solid reading —whether history,
biography, or anything else—irrespectively of the few and
fragmentary things that he had to get up as a part of the school course. His
intellectual life was nurtured upon fancy and sympathy, not upon knowledge
or information.
Dante Rossetti did not write much in boyhood, but he wrote something. I
question whether
The Slave
and
Aladdin
had any successor until in 1840 a grand scheme was started that every
one of us four should write a romantic tale. I suppose each made a
beginning, but I cannot affirm that any one of the quartette made an ending,
unless it was Dante. His tale alone has been preserved, and it is so far
completed as to bring a single set of incidents to a climax, without
implying that anything else remains to be added. The tale is named
Roderick and Rosalba, a Story of the Round
Table
. Its first chapter is headed,
The Knight,
the Messenger, the Departure, the Hostelry, the Quarrel
; and it
begins with the following sentence:—
“
It was a dark and stormy night in the month of
December when a figure, closely wrapped in the sable folds of his
cloak, and mounted on a jaded steed, was seen hurrying across a
bleak common towards a stately castle in the distance, whose lofty
towers and time-worn battlements frowned over the wide expanse
beneath.”
This may suffice; with the bare addition that the tale narrates how a
lady was captured by a “marauder” who wanted to wed
her perforce, and how she was rescued by her affianced
knight. At some later date—it was 1843,
or possibly just afterwards—Dante took up his old MS., and
evidently regarded it as much behind the time. He altered its title to
The Free Companions, a Tale of the Days of King
Stephen
, cut it down freely, revised the phraseology of several remaining
passages, and added a concluding sentence.
Rossetti's first printed “poem,”
Sir Hugh the Heron, a Legendary Tale in Four
Parts
, seems to have been begun and nearly completed much about the same
time as
Roderick and Rosalba
, or not later than May 1841. It is founded on a prose story by Allan
Cunningham, which Rossetti had read in the
Legends of Terror, and I think elsewhere as well. His zest in writing this ballad-poem
waned, and he laid it aside: but later on his grandfather Polidori told him
that, if he would finish it, the luxury of print should be his at the
private printing-press. So it was wound up, and printed in 1843, when Dante
was either fourteen or fifteen years of age. The title-page is marked
“for private circulation only”; and
even private circulation was more than commensurate to the merit of
Sir Hugh the Heron
. The story is substantially that of a knight who quits England for a
foreign war, leaving his betrothed to the care of his cousin. While abroad,
he discovers, by a vision in a magic mirror, that the cousin has betrayed
his trust, and is offering violence to the lady. The knight hastens home,
slays the aggressor, and recovers his bride. The ballad is versified with
ease and correctness, in three or four different metres, and is not wholly
destitute of spirit in its boyish way; but the way is boyish in the fullest
sense, and the poem cannot be said to show any express faculty or superior
promise. Rossetti, when he grew up, hated to hear this puerile attempt
alluded to. I used to have a large remainder-stock of
Sir Hugh the Heron
; but at his particular request, somewhere towards 1875, I rather
reluctantly destroyed the whole impression, with the exception of a very few
copies, and the ballad exists only for a dozen or so of curious collectors
here and there, and for readers in the British Museum Library. My brother left
behind him a little memorandum (the handwriting
indicates a date towards 1881), which runs as follows:—
“
I make this note
after a conversation with a friend who had been reading in the
British Museum a ridiculous first attempt of mine in verse,
called
Sir Hugh the Heron
, which was printed when I was fourteen, but written (except
the last page or two) at twelve—as my family would
probably remember. When I was fourteen my grandfather (who amused
himself by having a small private printing-press) offered, if I
would finish it, to print it. I accordingly added the last precious
touches two years after writing the rest. I leave this important
explanation, as there is no knowing what fool may some day foist the
absurd trash into print as a production of mine. It is curious and
surprising to myself, as evincing absolutely no promise at
all—less than should exist even at twelve. When I wrote
it, the
only English poet I had read was Sir. W.
Scott, as is plain enough in it.”
This last statement is not wholly correct. There had been Shakespear,
and I am sure, before my brother was twelve, a good deal of Byron as well.
I have by me a MS. of an effusion,
William and Marie
, shorter than
Sir Hugh the Heron
, written when my brother was fifteen, in a style which is compounded
of Walter Scott and the old Scottish ballads; it may also present some trace
of Bürger's
Lenore. This may be accounted a trifle inferior even to the performance
denounced by its author in such vigorous terms. It narrates how a wicked
Knight slew a virtuous one, hurled into a moat the virtuous one's lady-love,
and got killed by an avenging flash of lightning. This my brother offered
for publication to the Editor of some magazine —I fancy
Smallwood's Magazine—along with an outline design to illustrate it. The outline,
not so greatly amiss, is adapted from a group in one of Filippo Pistrucci's
lithographs from Roman history, the Rape of the Sabines. The Editor was too
sensible to publish either poem or design. It will be perceived that this
small transaction belongs to a date a little later than that when Rossetti
left school; but it is mentioned
Note: The third drawing of Bulwer's
Rienzi mentioned
at the bottom of the page is unknown.
here so as to close my references to these very
early efforts in verse. There may possibly have been a few others, but I
fail to recollect any. The reader may have noticed that the times of
chivalry always furnished his boyish inspiration; in fact, he thought of
little else about this date. Neither the antique nor the modern exercised
the least sway over his fancy.
A few words more may be bestowed upon childish drawings; I mention
such only as I find inscribed with a distinct date. Two are coloured
designs, October 1836 (age eight), from Monk Lewis's thrilling drama of
The Castle Spectre. One is
Percy and Motley
, the other
Osmond and Kenrick
, each personage being in full face, which may suggest that little
Dante hardly knew how to set about a profile. In 1838 he produced a scene of
school-life from his “Lower First” class. It is
lettered
Bantam battering (
i.e.,
pummelling a boy);
Lower Division—Upper
Division
. These two Divisions of the schoolboys are represented as indulging
in a free fight. The design is not quite so bad as might be expected, the
actions having a certain degree of natural spirit and diversity. Then comes,
1840, an illustrated title-page, forming a neat and rather prettyish
decorative combination, for the four juvenile stories of which
Roderick and Rosalba
was one. Anyhow he got a great deal into the small space of a page of
note-paper. There are
four circular half-figures of armoured knights, and
four oblong compositions
exhibiting incidents in the tales. The four knights
are inscribed thus:
A Romance of the 14th Century, Sir Aubrey de
Metford
;
Roderick and Rosalba, Sir Roderick de
Malvon
;
Raimond and Matilda, Sir Raimond de Meryl;
Retribution, Sir Guy de Linton. And the four compositions thus:
Sir Aubrey killing Herman Rudesheim;
Sir Roderick rescuing Rosalba de Clare;
Sir Raimond conquering Sir Richard;
Sir Guy finding the letter of Ali. Next are three small designs, 1840, from the
Arabian Nights—
The Genius about to kill the Princess of the Isle
of Ebony
, and two others. Three largeish separate figures
[drawing 1]
[drawing 2]
from
Bulwer's
Rienzi, May to July 1840, come next; done with pen and ink in a
painstaking manner, though not with anything, in
character or costume, above the types which Dante derived from his beloved
theatrical characters. November 1840 witnessed the production of
Earl Warenne
(dictating, it would seem, the signing of Magna Charta). This is a
companion-drawing to the
Rienzi trio, but perceptibly better. Last we find a
modern subject of a patriotic turn, taken, I assume, from a
little volume of naval anecdotes which Maria used to cherish. Its theme is
inscribed as follows:—
“‘As you are not of my
parish,’ said a gentleman to a begging sailor,
‘I cannot think of relieving you.’
‘Sir,’ replied the tar with an air of heroism,
‘I lost my leg fighting for
all
parishes.’”
This is dated August 1841, and certainly shows some increased degree of
facility in putting a couple of figures together so as to form a group and
tell a story.
It must have been, I think, just before Dante Rossetti left school
that he began learning German. He learned it well up to a certain point, yet
not so as to read freely; and I suppose that, by the age of twenty-five to
thirty, he may have forgotten four-fifths of what he had acquired. One day
Dr. Adolf Heimann, the Professor of German at University College, presented
himself in our house, saying that he wished to learn Italian from our
father, and would be prepared in recompense to teach German to the four
children. He was a German-Jew, an excellent little man of considerable
acquirements, and as kind-hearted, open, genial a person as any one could
wish to know. The arrangement was assented to; and Dante, with the rest of
us, set to at German, learning the grammar and pronunciation, reading the
Sagen und
Mährchen
(folk-stories), some easy things in Schiller, etc. For several years
after this date—or up to 1848 or thereabouts—we saw
more of the Heimann family than of any other. The Doctor married towards
1843, and soon there were children in the house.
Dante Rossetti now—summer of
1842—craved to launch into the definite study of pictorial art.
Of ordinary schooling he supposed himself to have had about as much as would
serve his turn. Our father's health was already so far broken as to give
cause for serious anxiety; he therefore concurred with Dante in holding that
the sooner artistic studies were undertaken the better. My brother did not
return to King's College School after the summer vacation, but looked out
for an Academy of Art.
Gabriele Rossetti had known the Rev. Mr. Cary, the translator of Dante,
whose son, F. S. Cary, a painter of no great mark, kept at this time that
well-reputed drawing academy which was termed
“Sass's,” in Bloomsbury Street, Bedford Square. To
this institution my brother betook himself— perhaps as soon as he
left King's College School, but at all events not long afterwards. Our
father's acquaintance in the world of art was far from extensive. He knew
pretty well Mr. Eastlake, afterwards Sir Charles Eastlake, P.R.A., Mr.
Severn the friend of Keats, and Mr. and Mrs. Bartholomew the
flower-painters; he also saw once or twice John Martin, and Mr. Solomon
Hart, R.A., but this latter may have been at a date rather after that of
which I am now speaking. These appear to have been all.
Of what my brother did at Cary's, and whom he knew there, I can give
but a meagre account; his Family-letters throw a little, but only a little,
light on the subject. He and I were still always together in the evening;
but in the day, while he was at the drawing academy, I continued in
attendance at King's College School, up to February 1845, and then I went to
the Excise Office in Old Broad Street. He drew from the antique and the
skeleton, with immense liking for the profession of art, but with only
moderate interest in
these preliminaries. He also studied anatomy in
some books, but never, I think, in the actual subject, human or animal. Of
his class-fellows we saw little. I can vaguely recollect Sintzenich, a youth
whose sympathies were shared between painting and music, and who finally
took to the latter. There was also a youth named Thomas Doughty, son of a
self-taught American Landscape-painter, who had come over to London in
quest of fortune, which did not smile upon him. I cannot say with certainty
that the younger Doughty was a student at Cary's rather than the Royal
Academy, but I am pretty sure that so he was. For a year or two he was my
brother's chief intimate. I have not unfrequently accompanied Dante to drink
tea and spend the evening in the house of the Doughtys, a small semi-villa
residence close to Gloucester Gate, Regent's Park. The father was a rather
convivial plain-spoken man; the mother a pleasant bright-mannered little
lady, who had, I dare say, more than enough of domestic disquietude. The
intimacy with young Doughty may have begun early in 1846, and, lasting
throughout 1847, was brought to a close by the return of the family to
America—presumably before the middle of 1848. We saw them off on
their ship. Thomas Doughty must have been two years or more older than my
brother, and had seen a good deal more of “life.” I
recollect he introduced us to two odd characters. One was a semi-artistic
working shoemaker, living near Westminster Bridge. The other was a
quick-witted lively young American, Charley Ware, leading a harum-scarum
kind of life in lodgings off Leicester Square. I will not here tread rashly
into his domestic penetralia. He had literary likings, much concerned with
Edgar Poe, which was a bond of sympathy with my brother; and he was the
first person to reveal to the latter the glories of Bailey's
Festus (which Dante read over and over again for a while) by reciting the
sublime opening—
- “Eternity hath snowed its years upon
them;
- And the white winter of their age is come,
- The world and all its worlds, and all shall
end.”
Charley Ware had some hankerings also after pictorial art, without any
training. He produced a little oil-picture of a queer kind. I would give
something to see it now, but presume it has long since
“ended” among the
“world and all its worlds.” It
represented the Devil, with Ware himself, Doughty, and Dante Gabriel;
possibly one or two others. They were either playing whist at Ware's
lodgings, or enjoying a light symposium. Each head was a tolerably
characteristic likeness. Mr. Ware returned to America, perhaps before the
Doughtys. I have often been rather surprised that, in all my miscellaneous
readings, I never came across the name of him as doing something or
other—for his sharpness of faculty was a good deal beyond the
average. Thomas Doughty, I believe, remained in America quite
undistinguished. I take him to be dead for many years past.
It may have been through the Doughty connexion that my brother got to
see, in an American journal, a little copy of verses whose monumental
imbecility delighted him beyond measure. It is named
The Atheist, by Flora McIver. Often and to many an auditor have I heard my brother repeat
The Atheist, and I suppose he could have done so to his dying day.
“The idea,” he would say,
“of a confirmed Atheist who has never yet considered
whether or not a flower was made by a God!” I am
tempted to extract the poem here; it may perhaps again excite some of that
glee with which I have often seen it greeted aforetime.
- “The Atheist in his garden stood
- At twilight's pensive hour;
- His little daughter by his side
- Was gazing on a flower.
- “‘Oh pick that blossom,
Pa, for me,’
- The little prattler said;
- ‘It is the fairest one that blooms
- Within that lowly bed.’
- “The father plucked the chosen
flower,
-
10And gave it to his child;
- With parted lips and sparkling eye
- She seized the gift, and smiled.
- “‘Oh Pa, who made this
pretty flower,
- This little violet blue?
- Who gave it such a fragrant smell
- And such a lovely hue?’
- “A change came o'er the father's
brow,
- His eye grew strangely wild;
- New thoughts within him had been stirred
-
20By that sweet artless child.
- “The truth flashed on the father's
mind,
- The truth in all its power;
- ‘There is a God, my
child,’ he said,
- ‘Who made that little
flower.’”
This matter of Thomas Doughty and his circle has let me somewhat out of
my track of date. I now return to the days of Cary's Academy, which lasted
for my brother from about July 1842 to July 1846. As to what he did there I
am unable to distinguish much between the earlier and the later years. In
Mrs. Esther Wood's book,
Dante Rossetti and the
Præraphaelite Movement
(1894),
1 some anecdotes are given upon the authority of a fellow-student,
Mr. J. A. Vinter. They speak of waywardness as a pupil, irregular
attendance, “a certain brusquerie and unapproachableness
of bearing,” combined with warm affection and
generosity, fondness for practical jokes, boisterous hilarity, loud singing,
especially of a song about Alice Gray, the sketching of caricatures of
antiques, and attractive outlining produced by a process contrary to his
master's precepts. Some of these points I know, and others I readily
surmise, to be correct; am not however so sure about
“practical jokes.” A practical joke
played off by one young student upon another is usually something
Transcribed Footnote (page 91):
1 This book has been loudly and widely praised,
and also severely criticized. It is very laudatory of Rossetti, a
fact which I cannot view without some favourable bias towards the
book. In other respects I may perhaps be permitted to say that Mrs.
Wood, having commendably lofty ideals and ideas of her own, reads
these (in my opinion) far too freely into the performances of the
so-called Præraphaelite painters and poets, and has not
much notion of the sort of thing that comes uppermost with a painter
when he sets to work.
which either mortifies the victim, or traverses
his work in a troublesome and annoying way; and to jokes of this sort I
should say that Dante Rossetti was not at any time given, but rather
noticeable for shunning and censuring them. However, Mr. Vinter ought to
know best, and I am sure that he does not mean to lead to any mistaken
inference; moreover, one practical joke is clearly traceable in my Letter B.
8. At home my brother never played any such jokes; neither was he addicted
to them at school, nor in the slightest degree at any period of his fully
adult life. For singing he had naturally a more than tolerable voice; but,
apart from mere juvenile outbursts, he never cared to use it, still less to
train it, and was even put out if the subject was alluded to.
One of the principal anecdotes developes the following dialogue.
Cary: Why were you not here yesterday?
Rossetti: I had a fit of idleness—this reply being
succeeded by the distribution among the students of “a
bundle of manuscript sonnets.” Mr. Vinter (or else
Mrs. Wood) assumes that these sonnets were juvenile affairs, which Rossetti,
at a later date, would have been sorry to see forthcoming. To the best of my
recollection, Rossetti, up to July 1846 when he left Cary's, did not produce
any sonnets of his own—unless
possibly (and
even these seem to me to have begun rather later) sonnets written to
bouts rimés, of which at one period he rattled
off a very large number. The Vinter sonnets may perhaps have been some of
his translations from Dante and other Italian poets; these commenced as
early as 1845. They were, from the first, good work—indeed
excellent work—of which he would not at any date have been
ashamed; although it is true that at starting the youthful translator
indulged in some mannerisms and quaintnesses which he corrected before the
versions appeared in print in 1861.
Apart from the direct course of his studies, the greatest artistic
event to Dante Rossetti during his time at Cary's was the opening of the
Exhibitions, at Westminster Hall, of Cartoons, prior to the pictorial
decoration of the new Houses of Parliament. These displays took place in
1843, '44, and '45.
His letter of 7 July 1843 bears testimony to the
extreme interest he took in the first of these Exhibitions; the second was a
still more marking event in his career, as it made known to him, by the
Cartoons of
Wilhelmus Conquistator
(the Body of Harold brought to William of Normandy), and
Adam and Eve after the Fall, the genius of
Mr. Ford Madox Brown; the third contained the Cartoon of
Justice and some examples of fresco-painting by the same
artist.
1 Rossetti also saw at an early date two of Brown's oil-pictures,
The Death-bed of the Giaour
, and
Parisina
.
In July 1846, having sent-in the requisite probation-drawings, Rossetti
was admitted as a student in the Antique School of the Royal Academy, and
Cary's knew him no more. Mr. George Jones, R.A., was the Keeper of the
Antique School; a rather aged painter, noted as resembling, on a feeble
scale, the great Duke of Wellington, whose costume he imitated. Towards this
date he chiefly exhibited sepia-drawings of scriptural or military subjects.
A gradual and reasonable amount of progress was made in the Academy School,
but only (I apprehend) on the same general lines as in the initial stages at
Cary's; in other words, Rossetti worked with a genuine sense of enthusiasm
as to the end in view, but with something which might count as indifference
and laxity with regard to the means dictated to him as conducing to that
end. He once said to me—it may have been towards 1857 or
later—“As soon as a thing is imposed on me
as an obligation, my aptitude for doing it is gone; what I
ought to do is what I
can't
do.” This went close to the essence of his character, and
was true of him through life. As the years rolled on, what he ought to do
was very often what he chose and liked to do, and then the difficulty
vanished; but in his student days it consisted in attending assiduously to
matters for which, in themselves, he cared little or not at all, and a real
obstruction was the result. As his gift for fine art was indisputably far
superior to that of the great majority of his fellow-
Transcribed Footnote (page 93):
1 I
believe I am correct as to
these several dates; far wrong I cannot be.
students, and as his drawings from the antique
etc. were (I presume) in reasonable proportion to his gift, I know of no
reason why he did not rapidly complete his course in the Antique School, and
proceed to the Life and the Painting Schools—which he never
did—except this same:—That the obligation which lay
upon him was to fag over the antique and cognate first steps in art, and
that, being obliged, he found the will to be lacking. A resolute sense of
duty, firm faith in his instructors, and a disposition to do what was wanted
in the same way as other people, might have furnished the will. But all
these qualities were also at that time lacking, or present in a scanty
degree. He liked to do what he himself chose, and, even if he did what some
one else prescribed, he liked to do that more or less in his own way.
We are now approaching, though we have not yet reached, the period
when the “Præraphaelite idea” developed
itself in the minds of three Academy students—John Everett
Millais and William Holman Hunt, each of whom had already exhibited some
pictures of his own, and Dante Gabriel Rossetti, who had not exhibited. It
will be well therefore that I should guide my narrative of Rossetti's
student-days, as far as manageable, by the details
published by Mr. Hunt, and also by another of the original
Præraphaelites, Mr. Stephens.
1 Rossetti preceded Hunt as an Academy student. Up to May 1848, as
Mr. Hunt says,—
“I had only been on nodding-terms with him
in the school. He had always a following of noisy students there, and
these had kept me from approaching him with more than a nod, except when
once I found him perched on some steps drawing Ghiberti, whom I also
studied; that nobody else did so had given us subject for five minutes'
talk.”
The statement that Rossetti was “drawing
Ghiberti”
Transcribed Footnote (page 94):
1 Mr. Hunt's contribution consists of three
articles in
The Contemporary Review
for 1886,
The
Præraphaelite Brotherhood
. Mr. Stephens's
monograph has been already referred to. Mr. Hunt has also published
an able article
Præraphaelitism, in
Chambers's Encyclopædia.
means, of course, that he was drawing from a cast
of the famous Florentine bronze doors, Ghiberti's work in the early
fifteenth century. I remember that he used to speak to me with great
fervency of the grace of motive, the abundance of artistic invention, and
the fine handling, of the doors; and Mr. Hunt's statement on this small
point is of substantial interest, as showing that both he and Rossetti had
gravitated towards this mediæval work at a date possibly a full
year before Præraphaelitism took any sort of definite shape.
I will also extract (with a few comments) Mr. Hunt's description of
Rossetti's person and manner. It is better—at any rate, in some
respects—than any which I could supply, and will moreover be more
readily believed in by the public.
“A young man of decidedly foreign aspect,
about 5 feet 7¼ in height, with long brown hair touching his
shoulders [this is strongly shown in
the pencil drawing by
Rossetti now in the National Portrait Gallery
, but it did not continue
long], not taking care to walk erect, but rolling carelessly
as he slouched along, pouting with parted lips, staring with dreaming
eyes—the pupils not reaching the bottom lids—grey
eyes, not looking directly at any point, but gazing listlessly about;
the openings large and oval, the lower orbits dark-coloured. His nose
was aquiline but delicate, with a depression from the frontal sinus
shaping the bridge [a very observable point]; the
nostrils full, the brow rounded and prominent, and the line of the jaw
angular and marked, while still uncovered with beard [the
angularity departed or diminished with advancing years]. His
shoulders were not square, but yet fairly masculine in shape. The
singularity of gait depended upon the width of hip, which was unusual.
Altogether he was a lightly built man [later on he was often
decidedly but varyingly fat], with delicate hands and feet:
although neither weak nor fragile in constitution, he was nevertheless
altogether unaffected by any athletic exercises. He was careless in his
dress, which then was, as usual with professional men, black and of
evening cut [this matter of black evening dress altered very
soon; and indeed, from 1851 or thereabouts, my brother ceased to be, in
any noticeable way, careless or odd in attire, and at times was even
rather particular about it]. So superior
was he to the ordinary vanities of young men
that he would allow the spots of mud to remain dry on his legs for
several days. His overcoat was brown, and not put on with ordinary
attention; and, with his pushing stride and loud voice [I
feel some doubt as to the
loud voice—should
call it emphatic and full-toned rather than loud], a special
scrutiny would have been needed to discern the reserved tenderness that
dwelt in the breast of the apparently careless and defiant youth. But
any one who approached and addressed him was struck with sudden surprise
to find all his critical impressions dissipated in a moment; for the
language of the painter was refined and polished, and he proved to be
courteous, gentle, and winsome, generous in compliment, rich in interest
in the pursuit of others, and in every respect, so far as could be shown
by manner, a cultivated gentleman. . . . In these early days, with all
his headstrongness and a certain want of consideration, his life within
was untainted to an exemplary degree, and he worthily rejoiced in the
poetic atmosphere of the sacred and spiritual dreams that then encircled
him, however some of his noisy demonstrations at the time might hinder
this from being recognized by a hasty judgment.”
Mr. Stephens, quoting from “a fellow-student,”
says that —
“Fame of a sort had
preceded” Rossetti from Cary's to the Academy School.
Other Caryites had talked of him “as a poet whose verses
had been actually printed [this can only mean
Sir Hugh the Heron
], and as a clever sketcher of chivalric and satiric
subjects, who in addition did all sorts of things in all sorts of
unconventional ways. His rather high cheek-bones were the more
observable because his cheeks were roseless and hollow enough to
indicate the waste of life and midnight oil to which the youth was
addicted.” He, on his first appearance in the Academy
School, “came forward among his fellows with a jerky step,
tossed the falling hair back from his face, and having both hands in his
pockets, faced the student-world with an
insouciant air which savoured of defiance, mental pride, and thorough
self-reliance.”
The reference here to “waste of midnight
oil” is quite true. My brother had already acquired
habits, which stuck to him through life, of not going to bed until he
happened to be so disposed, often at two or three in the morning, and
of not getting up until necessity compelled or fancy
suggested. “Always wilful, never methodical, and the consequences
to take care of themselves,” might have been his motto. It is
true, however, that in mature life he settled down into habits of the utmost
day-by-day regularity in professional work.
Rossetti went a great deal to the theatre towards 1845, and for some
six or seven years ensuing, and again about 1861; little at other dates, and
after 1868 or so not at all. He liked—in its
way—almost any theatre, and almost any piece that was either
genuinely poetical, or exciting, or entertaining; nothing of a dull or
stuck-up kind. Miss Woolgar (Mrs Mellon) at the Adelphi, and afterwards Miss
Glyn at Sadler's Wells, were two of his favourite actresses. If Shakespear
or John Webster was not “going,” an Adelphi drama by
Buckstone or a burlesque of the Forty Thieves would do perfectly well. He
was also much amused at thoroughly
bad drama and acting,
such as could be seen at the Queen's Theatre near Tottenham Court Road
(afterwards Prince of Wales's Theatre).
As we have just seen, Dante Rossetti was known at Cary's
Academy for sketching “chivalric and satiric
subjects.” There must have been great numbers of these,
proper both to the Cary period and to the Royal Academy period. Possibly
some still exist, in the hands of his companions of those days; I myself
know of but few. There is nothing in them tending to what we call
Præraphaelitism.
The early letters of Rossetti show that no artist delighted him more
intensely than Gavarni (Guillaume Sulpice Chevalier), the French designer
for lithographs and woodcuts. Among his series are
Les Artistes,
Les Coulisses,
Le Carnaval,
Les Enfants
Terribles
,
Les Étudiants de Paris,
Les Lorettes,
Fourberies de Femmes en
matière de Sentiment
etc. He was a designer of
supreme facility, with much of elegance and
esprit, and in his way a master; but
naturally the way does not tend towards anything castigated or ideal. It
will be observed in the Letters that in 1843 and 1844 my brother spent some
time in Boulogne with the Maenza family. This served to fix his attention
still further upon Gavarni and other French designers of a vivacious and
picturesque kind; though not wholly to the exclusion of British artists,
among whom he greatly (and indeed permanently) admired Sir John Gilbert as a
woodcut-draughtsman, and soon afterwards as a painter. In some pen-and-ink
designs by Dante Rossetti, of the close of 1844 and on to September 1846, I
trace much of what he saw in Gavarni, and tried to reproduce in his own
practice. They are sketchy, and rather rough or unrefined in execution, but
not wanting in spirit—the work now of an artist, though only of
an artist at the beginning of his career. One is termed
Quartier Latin, the Modern Raphael and his
Fornarina
. To April 1846 belongs a half-figure of
Mephistopheles at the door of Gretchen's cell. The malignant expression is telling. Undated, but belonging I
suppose to 1847, is a drawing, clever in its way, of
a
man seated, and reaching towards a flitting ghost
; two other
figures are evidently unconscious of the apparition.
Lady Anne Bothwell's Lament
, from
Percy's Reliques, is a drawing, not fully completed, of some sentiment and some
picturesqueness. At one time, I suppose 1845, he tried his hand at
lithographing, and produced a
figure of
Juliette
, from Frédéric Soulié's
novel (a prime favourite with him in these days)
Les Mémoires du
Diable
. This is poor enough, yet not destitute of a certain
chique. He also lithographed a set of humorous
playing-cards—
Ireland as the Queen of Clubs,
Shakespear as the King of Hearts,
Death as the King of Spades, etc. They have some fancy and point, with pleasing arrangement here
and there, and might perhaps have been popular if published. He thought of
trying for a publisher, but I doubt whether he ever took any practical steps
for this end. Death is represented as a Grave-digger, wearing a pair of
baggy breeches, and standing in a grave. One sees only a part of
his leg-bones. These may perhaps be meant for his
thigh-bones; but it seems quite as likely that they are intended for the
bones of the lower leg. If so, it is worthy of remark that Rossetti gave
this skeleton only one bone to each of his lower legs, instead of the normal
two, and his anatomical knowledge could thus have been small indeed towards
1845. Strange to say, Holbein, in his
Dance of
Death
knew no better. Of more present interest is an illustrated
copy of the little privately-printed volume,
Verses by Christina G. Rossetti, 1847. I possess the copy of this volume bearing the inscriptions,
“Frances Mary Lavinia Rossetti, from her loving
daughter Christina, 24 July 1854,” and then
“Fratri Soror, C.G.R., Sept. 25,
1890” (my sixty-first birthday). It contains five pencil
drawings by Dante, all of them produced, I should say, before the year 1847
had closed. The frontispiece is a profile
portrait of Christina, carefully and delicately done. The
illustrations are to the poems,
A Ruined Cross [
DGR
illustration
],
Tasso and Leonora [
DGR
illustration
],
The Dream [
DGR
illustration
], and
Lady Isabella [
DGR
illustration
] (who was Lady Isabella Howard, a daughter of
the Earl of Wicklow, and a pupil of our Aunt Charlotte Polidori). These
designs, though inferior to the portrait, are also handled with nicety and
good taste. The last-named must have been produced a little later than the
others, as it is not bound into the volume. A noteworthy point about the
designs is the total absence of any feeling for costume. There are clothes,
but of that nondescript kind which, in the male figures, is evidenced by
little more than a slight line at the throat, and two others at the wrists.
Tasso and Leonora might be anybody or nobody.
Before Præraphaelitism came at all into question my brother
began an oil-picture of good dimensions. It was named
Retro me Sathana
, and formed a group of three mediæval-costumed
figures—an aged churchman and a youthful lady, and the devil
slinking behind them baffled. He was a human being with a tail. This must
have been undertaken in 1847, when my brother had no practice with pigments,
and was continued for some three or four months. It was not, I
apprehend, altogether amiss; at what date it was
destroyed I hardly know. He had begun the colouring, and showed the work
privately to Sir Charles Eastlake, who did not encourage him to proceed with
any such subject. Soon after this it was abandoned.
Rossetti's taste for reading, in all the days of his youth, was never
stationary; it continued shifting and developing. Having drunk deep of one
author, he went on to another. In 1844 some one told him that there was
another poet of the Byronic epoch, Shelley, even greater than Byron. He
bought a small pirated Shelley, and surged through its pages like a flame. I
do not think that he ever afterwards read much of Byron; although, as his
mind matured, he was not inclined to allow that the poet of such an
actuality as
Don Juan could be deemed inferior to the poet of such a vision as
Prometheus Unbound. (Not indeed that he
approved of
Don Juan, as regards the spirit in which it is written. Early in 1880 he went
so far as to tell me that he considered it a truly immoral and harmful
book.) Keats followed not long after Shelley, in 1846, or perhaps 1845. My
brother considered himself to have been one of the earliest strenuous
admirers of Keats, but this can only be correct in a certain sense. The Old
British Ballads and Mrs. Browning were read with endless enjoyment; also
Alfred de Musset (I have previously mentioned Victor Hugo), Dumas (dramas,
and afterwards novels), Tennyson, Edgar Poe, Coleridge, Blake, Sir Henry
Taylor's
Philip van Artevelde, Thomas Hood—more especially some of his serious poems,
such as
Lycus the Centaur and
The Haunted House, and the semi-serious
Miss Killmansegg and her Precious Leg, though some of his roaring jocularities were also much in favour. As
to Dr. Hake's nebulous but impressive romance,
Vates, some details will appear elsewhere. Hoffmann's
Contes Fantastiques (in French), and in English Chamisso's
Peter Schlemihl, and Lamotte-Fouqué's
Undine and other stories, represented the Teutonic element in romance and
legend. It may have been towards 1846 that my brother came upon the prose
Stories after Nature of Charles Wells, and his poetic
drama of
Joseph and his Brethren. These works, already half-forgotten at that date, were enormously
admired by Rossetti, and the ultimate outcome of his admiration, transfused
through the potent faculty and pen of Mr. Swinburne, was the republication
of the drama about 1877. Earlier than most of these— beginning, I
suppose, in 1844—was the Irish romancist Maturin, who held Dante
Rossetti spellbound with the gloomy and thrilling horrors of
Melmoth the Wanderer. He and I used often to sit far into the night reading the pages one
over the other's shoulder; and, if to stir the imagination of an imaginative
youth is one aim of such a romance as
Melmoth, no author can ever have succeeded more manifestly than Maturin with
Dante Rossetti. There was another grim romance of his, named
Montorio, which we thought a splendid pendent to
Melmoth; not to speak of
Women,
The Wild Irish Boy, and
The Albigenses; Maturin's once-celebrated verse-drama of
Bertram, and some other poems of his, were eagerly inspected, but without any
genuine result to correspond. Two other English novels which he read in
these years with keen enjoyment were the
Tristram Shandy of Sterne, and the
Richard Savage of Charles Whitehead; and in French, by Reybaud,
Jérôme Paturot
à la recherche d'une Position Sociale
and, by Eugène Sue, the
Mystères de Paris, the
Juif Errant, and
Mathilde. In Dickens my brother's interest may have been on the wane when
Dombey and Son began in 1846, though I suppose he also read
David Copperfield, 1849. In his last days he was much struck with the
Tale of Two Cities. To Dickens succeeded Thackeray, who was most highly appreciated: his
early tales in
Fraser's Magazine, such as
Fitzboodle's Confessions and
Barry Lyndon, and
The Paris Sketchbook (even before
Vanity Fair appeared in 1846), also
The Book of Snobs. Later on, a novel ascribed to Lady Malet,
Violet or the Danseuse, was a great favourite; and he had a positive passion for Meinhold's
wondrous
Sidonia the Sorceress (translated), which he much preferred to the
Amber Witch of the same phenomenal author.
At last—it may have been in 1847—everything took a
secondary place in comparison with Robert
Browning.
Paracelsus,
Sordello,
Pippa Passes,
The Blot on the Scutcheon, and the short poems in the
Bells and Pomegranates series, were endless delights; endless were the readings, and endless
the recitations. Allowing for a labyrinthine passage here and there,
Rossetti never seemed to find this poet difficult to understand; he
discerned in him plenty of sonorous rhythmical effect, and revelled in what,
to some other readers, was mere crabbedness. Confronted with Browning, all
else seemed pale and in neutral tint. Here were passion, observation,
aspiration, mediævalism, the dramatic perception of character,
act, and incident. In short, if at this date Rossetti had been accomplished
in the art of painting, he would have carried out in that art very much the
same range of subject and treatment which he found in Browning's poetry; and
it speaks something for his originality and self- respecting independence
that, when it came to verse-writing, he never based himself upon Browning to
any appreciable extent, and for the most part pursued a wholly diverse path.
It should not be supposed that, in glorifying Browning, Rossetti slighted
other poets previously the objects of his homage. He valued them at the same
rate as before, though he thought Browning a step further in advance. I need
scarcely add that Shakespear and Dante are to be excepted, for at no time
would he have denied or contested the superiority of these, even to the poet
of
Sordello. The time of Dante had come some three years before that of Browning
began, and the current of Rossetti's love for the Florentine flowed wider
and deeper month by month.
It may be noted that (as in a previous instance) I have not specified
any books of a so-called solid kind—history, biography, or
voyages. Science and metaphysics were totally out of Rossetti's ken. I do
not believe that he read any such books at this period—very few
at any later period, among the few
Boswell's Johnson holding a high place. In current talk Rossetti did not appear to be
much behind other persons when history or biography was referred to; but I hardly
know what historical volumes he opened, other
than Carlyle's
French Revolution, Merivale's
Roman Empire, and something of Plutarch and of Gibbon. The great Duke of
Marlborough's English History came out of Shakespear's plays; Rossetti's
English and other history derived largely from the same source, supplemented
by those adust chroniclers, Walter Scott, Bulwer, Victor Hugo, and Dumas.
This was not to our father's liking. I have more than once heard him say,
“When you have read a novel of Walter Scott, what do
you know? The fancies of Walter Scott.”
Rossetti had commenced some prose story before he left King's College
School in the summer of 1842. I am not certain whether that story was or was
not the same thing as
Sorrentino
. At any rate, a prose tale named
Sorrentino
was in course of composition in August 1843. I remember something of
it, but not in clear detail. The Devil (a personage of great predilection
with my brother ever since his early acquaintance with Göthe's
Faust, which drama he read and re-read afterwards in Filmore's translation)
was a principal character. There was a love-story, in the course of which
the Devil interfered in a very exasperating way between the lover and his
fair one. He either personated the lover, or conjured-up a phantom of the
lady, and made love to her, and was seen by the lover in the
act—or something of this kind. There was also a duel in which he
intermixed. Rossetti wrote some four or five chapters of this story, on the
scale of chapters in an ordinary novel, and he contemplated offering
Sorrentino
for publication. Finally he abandoned it, and I dare say he had
destroyed the MS. before he was of age. I have always rather regretted the
disappearance of
Sorrentino
. To my boyish notion, it was spirited, effective, and well told; and I
fancy that, were it extant, it would be found by far better than his
previous small literary attempts. That he entered fully into the spirit of a
story of
diablerie is certain; and, having by this time some moderate command over his
pen, he may have been not incapable of doing something in that line himself.
His next literary incentive arose out of his German studies
—which began, as already mentioned, towards the earlier part of
1842. Dr. Heimann brought him so far on in German that Dante Rossetti made a
verse-translation of
Bürger's
Lenore, perhaps in 1844. This likewise has perished. I suppose it was much on
a par with most other versions of the ballad. I can recollect two stanzas
(and might, were there a little prompting, recollect others as well), one
close to the beginning of the poem, and the other at its end:—
- “The Empress and the King,
- With ceaseless quarrel tired,
- At length relaxed the stubborn hate
- Which rivalry inspired.”
And
- “Patience, patience, while thy
heart is breaking—
- With thy God there is no question-making;
- Of thy body thou art quit and
free—
- Heaven keep thy soul
eternally!”
From
Lenore he proceeded to a more ambitious adventure —no less than a
translation of the
Nibelungenlied.
This mighty old poem seized hold upon him with a vice-like clench;
yet I do not suppose he ever read the whole of it, his knowledge of German,
unaided, being hardly sufficient for such an effort. Neureuther's
illustrated edition, combined with Dr. Heimann's explanations, showed him
the course of the narrative. The translation was begun in October 1845, and
went on to the end of the 5th Geste, or thereabouts, where Siegfried first
sees Kriemhild. No trace of it remains. Speaking from long-past memory, I
should say that this was really a fine translation, with rolling march and a
sense of the heroic. The merits of the next translation are not matter of
conjecture, for it got finally printed in Rossetti's
Collected Works
, 1886. It is from the
Arme Heinrich of the twelfth-century poet Hartmann von Aue, and belongs probably to
the year 1846. For simplicity, vigour, perception of the character of the
original, and tact in conveying this along
with a certain heightened and spontaneous
colouring of his own, this version could not easily be excelled. My brother
put some finishing touches to the translation in 1871. Probably he cut out
some juvenilities, but it remains substantially and essentially the
performance of his adolescence.
Even before the
Arme Heinrich Rossetti's translations from the early Italian poets must have begun.
The dates of most of these range from 1845 to 1849. Glowing from the
flame-breath of Dante Alighieri, Dante Rossetti made continual incursions
into the Old Reading-room of the British Museum, hunting up volumes of the
most ancient Italian lyrists, and also volumes of modern British poets, and
maybe of French as well. No doubt this pursuit involved some partial neglect
of his artistic studies. When he found an Italian poem that pleased him he
set-to at translating it. He had soon got together a good deal of material,
and gradually the idea of collecting all into a book, including a
version of Dante's
Vita Nuova grew into shape. Almost all the translations from Dante may have been
done at home, where of course the youth had ready access to his writings,
and to those of several other old Italians. I cannot say which branch of the
subject may have been undertaken first; possibly the
version of the
Vita Nuova, prose and poetry, had been made before any researches at the British
Museum commenced. This
version was shown in
November 1850 to Tennyson, with whom my brother and others of our circle had
made some acquaintance through Mr. Conventry Patmore. He returned the MS.,
saying that it was very strong and earnest, but disfigured by some cockney
rhymes, such as “
calm” and “
arm.” Rossetti at once determined to remove these. The book
of
The Early Italian Poets
did not appear in print until 1861, and meanwhile my brother had often
gone over his first MSS., revising, improving, and suppressing crudities or
quaintnesses. Still (as in the case of the
Arme Heinrich) the published translations are, in main essentials, the same which
Rossetti wrote down in these juvenile years—the impulse and the
savour of them are the same; and any praise
deserved by and awarded to the man who issued the
book in 1861 appertains rightfully to the youth who worked upon it in 1845
and the few following years. The translations have been very generally
recognized as first-class work of their order—re-castings of
poems into another language such as could only be accomplished by a poet in
his own right. Instead of expressing any opinion of my own, I will reproduce
two verdicts by writers of exceptional competence from their respective
standpoints. Mr. Swinburne, the most lavishly generous of critics when he
finds something that he can have the luxury of praising, says in that review
of the
Poems
of Rossetti which he published in 1870: “All Mr.
Rossetti's translations bear the same evidence of a power not merely
beyond reach but beyond attempt of other artists in
language.” My other authority is Signor Carlo Placci of
Florence, who, immediately after Rossetti's death in 1882, produced a
brochure entitled
Dante Gabriele Rossetti. The testimony of a native Italian well versed in English may carry
with it a weight hardly inferior to that of the greatest contemporary master
of English verse. I quote it with the more pleasure as it does justice also
to Mr. Swinburne's own powers as a translator:—
“The
collection
of the Poets of Italy of the first centuries
is a work
undoubtedly extraordinary. The diverse styles, the opposite turns of
sentiment, the various and complicated forms, the difficult allegories,
the intricate rhymes, all is rendered in a surprising way; and the very
spirit of our language seems reflected, with all its poetry and its
pictorial aspect, in these translations—which certainly do
not yield to the best version of a foreign poet done in our days, I mean
that of Villon executed by Swinburne. Like him, Rossetti has been able
not only to enter into that life so different from the English, and
steal the spark proper to another idiom, in such wise as to astound even
those who know the original thoroughly; but, preserving all the grace
and elegance and candour of his model, he has sought, and successfully,
to re-fashion, without visible effort, their metres and repeated rhymes,
and all the devices of alliteration, assonance, and repetition, which
are certainly not less difficult in
the
canzoni
of our thirteen-century men than in the daring
ballades of François Villon. In the case of both poets this has
been not merely a masterpiece, but a true struggle crowned with success,
especially when we reflect on the intrinsic difference which exists
between the Teutonic and the Latin families of
language.”
Not as a translator only but also as an original poet, Rossetti's
faculty was fully developed by 1847. One proof of this
suffices—that he wrote
The Blessed Damozel
before 12 May of that year, or while still in the nineteenth year of
his age. By saying that his faculty was now fully developed, I do not mean
to imply that it did not afterwards ripen—which assuredly it
did—in several important respects; but that he had now ideas of a
memorable kind to express, and could and did express them in verse wholly
adequate for their embodiment. He meant something good—he knew
what he meant—and he knew how to convey it to others.
The Blessed Damozel
was written with a view to its insertion in a MS. Family-magazine, of
brief vitality. In 1881 Rossetti gave Mr. Caine an account of its origin, as
deriving from his perusal and admiration of Edgar Poe's
Raven. “I saw” (this is Mr. Caine's
version of Rossetti's statement) “that Poe had done the
utmost it was possible to do with the grief of the lover on earth, and I
determined to reverse the conditions, and give utterance to the yearning
of the loved one in heaven.” Along with
The Raven, other poems by Poe—
Ulalume,
For Annie,
The Haunted Palace, and many another —were a deep well of delight to Rossetti
in all these years. He once wrote a
parody
of
Ulalume
. I do not rightly remember it, nor has it left a vestige behind.
The poem named
My Sister's Sleep
was, I think, even earlier than
The Blessed Damozel
;
The Portrait
and
Ave
very little later, also all the opening portion of
Dante at Verona
,
A Last Confession
, and
The Bride's Prelude
.
Jenny
(in its first form, which had none of that slight framework of
incident now belonging to the poem) was begun almost as soon as
The Blessed Damozel
; only some fifty lines of the original draft are retained. The sonnet
Retro me Sathana
must belong to 1847, being intended to pair with
his picture of the same name; and the trio of sonnets named
The Choice
appertain to the same year, or perhaps to an early date in 1848. This
trio is important, as indicating Rossetti's youthful conception of life as a
moral discipline and problem. He propounds three theories—1,
Eat thou and drink,
to-morrow thou shalt die; 2,
Watch thou and
pray; 3,
Think thou and
act. Each sonnet exhibits its own theme, without any direct reference
to the themes of the other two. It is manifest, however, that Rossetti
intends us to set aside the “
Eat thou and
drink” theory of life, and not to accept, without much
reservation, the “
Watch thou and
pray” theory. “
Think thou and
act” is what he abides by.
There was another very early poem, begun perhaps in 1846 rather than
1847, and nearly completed at the time. It then remained wholly neglected,
until, on his deathbed, my brother took it up, and supplied the finishing
touches. Its final name is
Jan van Hunks
. For this long ballad-poem Rossetti found his main subject (but by no
means all his incidents) in a prose story,
Henkerwyssel's Challenge, printed in his old favourite, the
Tales of Chivalry. The ballad relates how a Dutchman, celebrated for his prowess in
smoking, treated certain members of his family with callous cruelty, and was
then challenged by the Devil in human form to engage in a smoking-duel. Of
course the Devil's capabilities at such an exercise exceeded even the
Dutchman's; so Van Hunks, dying of over-smoking, was marched off to hell,
where his carcass was converted into a pipe for the devil's accustomed use.
The ballad is humorously grim, treated with great force and no compromise,
and is a pleasant piece of unpleasant reading. It is most fully deserving of
publication; but has not been included in Rossetti's
Collected Works
, because he gave the MS. to his devoted friend Mr. Theodore Watts,
with whom alone now rests the decision of presenting it or not to the
public.
I may mention yet another “copy of verses,”
belonging to March 1848. It is named
The English Revolution of 1848
,
and ridicules the street-spoutings of Chartists
and others in that year of vast continental upheavals. It is more than
tolerably good in its burlesque way, but is not likely to be published. My
brother had some feeling for political ideals and great movements, but none,
except one of annoyance and disdain, for noise and bluster. It may well be
that he did not always appreciate correctly the distinction between the
noise and the ideals.
A small incident, of literary and artistic bearing, proved to be
hardly less important in Rossetti's career than the composition of an
original poem. He was already a hearty admirer of William Blake's
Songs of Innocence and Experience. One day, while attending at the British Museum Reading-room on one of
his ordinary errands, he received, from an attendant named Palmer, the offer
of a MS. book by Blake, crammed with prose and verse, and with designs. This
was in April 1847. The price asked was ten shillings. Dante's pockets were
in their normal state of depletion, so he applied to me, urging that so
brilliant an opportunity should not be let slip, and I produced the required
coin. He then proceeded to copy out, across a confused tangle of false
starts, alternative forms, and cancellings, all the poetry in the book, and
I did the like for the prose. His ownership of this truly precious volume
certainly stimulated in some degree his disregard or scorn of some aspects
of art held in reverence by
dilettanti and routine-students, and thus conduced to the
Præraphaelite movement; for he found here the most outspoken (and
no doubt, in a sense, the most irrational) epigrams and jeers against such
painters as Correggio, Titian, Rubens, Rembrandt, Reynolds, and
Gainsborough—any men whom Blake regarded as fulsomely florid, or
lax, or swamping ideas in mere manipulation. These were balsam to Rossetti's
soul, and grist to his mill. The volume was moreover the origin of all his
after-concern in Blake literature; as Alexander Gilchrist, when preparing
the
Life of Blake
published in 1863, got to hear of the MS. book, which my brother then
entrusted to him, and, after Gilchrist's premature death, Rossetti did a
good deal towards completing certain parts of the
biography, and in especial edited all the poems introduced into the second
Section. He again did something for the re-edition dated 1880. At the sale
of my brother's library and effects the Blake MS. sold for £110.
5
s., so that the venture of ten shillings turned out a
pretty good investment.
Besides the families which I have already
mentioned—Dr. Heimann and his wife, a very pretty pleasant young
English Jewess, whose maiden name was Amelia Barnard, and the American
Doughtys—Dante Rossetti knew, as he grew up towards manhood, two
persons more particularly, of whom I ought here to give some account. They
were Major Calder Campbell and Mr. William Bell Scott.
To Major Campbell Rossetti was, I think, introduced by an affectionate
friend, a year or two older than himself, the sculptor Alexander
Munro—an Inverness man who had come to London under the patronage
of the Duke and Duchess of Sutherland, and who, being ingenuous and
agreeable in manner, and of graceful gift as a sculptor, made some way both
in society and in art. He died abroad towards the beginning of 1871. Calder
Campbell was a retired officer from the Indian army, a bachelor turned of
fifty. He took to my brother most heartily; was a firm believer in his
future, and watched with the kindliest interest his actual stage of
development. He was the author of a large number of verses, tales, and
sketches, in Annuals and other fleeting forms of publication, and from time
to time produced a volume as well. To pretend that he was an author of high
mark, or capable of something greatly better than what he gave forth, would
be futile; but he was a lively writer in a minor way, an amusing chatty
talker, who had seen many things here and there, and knew something of the publishing
world, and a straightforward, most unassuming
gentleman, whose society could do nothing but good to a youth like Rossetti.
For a couple of years or so my brother and I used to pass an evening weekly
at his lodgings in University Street, Tottenham Court Road. Tea, literature,
and a spice of bantering scandal, were the ingredients for a light-hearted
and not unimproving colloquy. Mostly no one else was present. On one
occasion—to please Dante Rossetti, who took a great deal of
interest in a rather eccentric but certainly able volume of poems entitled
Studies of Sensation and Event —Major Campbell secured the attendance of its author,
Ebenezer Jones. He was a well-grown, thin, pale man, still young, with
decayed teeth and a general air of shaky health, which brought him to his
grave before many years had passed. He seemed pleased in a way, but without
any ease of manner or flow of spirits. We never saw him again. Dante did
not, however, lose his interest in Ebenezer Jones. As late as February 1870
he made some emphatic observations upon this poet in
Notes and Queries
; and his remarks led ultimately to a re-publication of the
Studies, and to a good deal of printed matter about Jones in the
Athenæum.
Rossetti was quite inclined now to make a little way in the literary
world, if he could find an opening. Major Campbell was more than willing to
assist him, and he showed
My Sister's Sleep
to the editress of the
Belle Assemblée, a philandering magazine which had seen better days. The editress
expressed great admiration of the poem, but did not publish it. Perhaps
payment was wanted, and funds were at a low ebb. This may have been before
the year 1848 was far advanced. I cannot recollect that my brother made any
further endeavour for publication. Pretty soon
The Germ
was projected, and was to be the medium for introducing to the public
the writings of himself and others.
Mr. Bell Scott has narrated (
Autobiographical Notes) the origin of his acquaintance with Dante Rossetti. On 25 November
1847 the latter took the first step by sending to Mr. Scott, then Master of
the Government School of
Design in Newcastle-on-Tyne, a letter of which
the Autobiographist gives an abstract. I condense still further.
“
A few years
ago,” said Rossetti, “
I met for the first
time, in a publication called
The Story-teller, with your two poems,
Rosabell and
A Dream of Love. So beautiful, so original, did they appear to me, that I
assure you I could think of little else for several days; and I
became possessed by quite a troublesome anxiety to know what else
you had written, and where it was to be found. Seeing that the two
poems were extracted from
The Monthly Repository, I went to the Museum, where I found a set of that magazine,
but met only with a paper on Art. . . . At the beginning of the
present year I fell in with a most inadequate paragraph, in the
Art-Union Journal, which informed me of the publication of
The Year of the World. I was about to bid you imagine my delight, but that would not
be easy. I rushed from my friend's house where I had seen the
announcement (for the wretched thing was no more), and, having got
the book, fell upon it like a vulture. You may be pretty certain
that you had in me one of those readers who read the volume at a
single sitting. A finer, a more dignitous,
1 a more deeply thoughtful production, a work that is more
truly a
work, has seldom indeed shed its light
upon me. To me I can truly say that it revealed
- ‘Some depth unknown, some
inner life unlived.’”
This is the first line of
The Year of the World.—Rossetti proceeded to say that he was aware of the
existence of another poem by Scott named
Hades or the Transit; and, being unable to light upon this or other works by the same
author, he ventured to enquire at headquarters.
It may be questioned whether readers of the present day know very much
about Mr. Scott's poems. I will therefore say a few words about
Rosabell and
The Year of the World.
Rosabell—afterwards reissued under the name of
Mary Anne— is a poem, in irregular form and various metres, about an
innocent country-girl who becomes a gentleman's mistress,
Transcribed Footnote (page 112):
1 So in Mr. Scott's book. My brother was not
fond of such strained or affected words, and was much more likely to
write “dignified.” Still I suppose that the
printed word is correct, and that he was misled for a moment by the
analogy of the Italian adjective
dignitoso.
and finally sinks into the lowest depths of shame and
destitution. Though deficient in some executive respects, it reads an
impressive lesson in impressive and poignant terms, and deserves to live.
The Year of the World is a much longer poem in blank verse. The subject extends (to use the
author's own words) “from the golden age of the Garden of
Eden, the period of instinct and innocence, to the end of the race,
when, all the adverse powers of Nature subjugated, Man will have
attained a happy and quiescent immortality.” I have
read this ambitious and remarkable poem several times, but not of late
years. I will, however, undertake to say that it contains a large amount of
strong thought mixed with ideal aspiration; that it comprises many lines of
true poetry, and many passages of majestic scope; and that, if a reading
public who do not greatly want such productions would consent to read the
work, they would find in it much to reward their pains, and to uphold the
claims of its author as a poet of a high standard, and of some veritable
though not uniformly realized attainment. I do not coincide with some
critics of the present day (and of past days as well) who hold that Scott's
executive touch is so uncertain, and the instances where he falls short of
his aim so numerous, as to disentitle him altogether to the name of poet. On
the contrary, I can and do still admire his work to a large extent, although
far from unconscious of its too frequently obvious, and sometimes almost
unaccountable, blemishes.
Mr. Scott, now aged thirty-six, naturally had not the least idea who
“Gabriel Charles Rossetti” might be, beyond what
appeared in his letter as to his being a student of painting, etc. He made
some sort of reply, and soon received a further letter enclosing a number of
verse MSS., which included
The Blessed Damozel
,
My Sister's Sleep
, and (as Scott expresses it) “many other admirable
poems, marshalled under the title of
Songs of the Art Catholic
.” I hardly think that my brother had by this
date completed “many” poems, unless
translations are to be reckoned in. There may easily, however, have been a
round half dozen of original compositions,
comprising, in all probability,
Ave
—also the beginnings of some others, such as
The Bride's Prelude
(which at this time was called
Bride-Chamber Talk
). My brother's general title of
Songs of the Art Catholic
is worth a moment's attention. By “Art” he
decidedly meant something more than “
poetic
art.” He meant to suggest that the poems embodied conceptions and
a point of view related to pictorial art—also that this art was,
in sentiment though not necessarily in dogma,
Catholic—mediæval and un-modern. He never was, and
never affected to be, a Roman-catholic, nor yet an Anglican-catholic. All
the then excited debates concerning “Puseyism,”
Tractarianism, and afterwards Ritualism, passed by him like the idle wind.
If he knew anything about “the Gorham Controversy,” it
was only that Carlyle coupled “prevenient grace” with
“supervenient moonshine.” Indeed, by this
date—so far as opinion went, which is a very different thing from
sentiment and traditional bias—he was already a decided sceptic.
He was never confirmed, professed no religious faith, and practised no
regular religious observances; but he had (more especially two or three
years after this) sufficient sympathy with the abstract ideas and the
venerable forms of Christianity to go occasionally to an Anglican
church—very occasionally, and only as the inclination ruled him.
Not long after this letter-writing (I have already expressed the
opinion that it was about the new year of 1848) Mr. Scott called in 50
Charlotte Street, and saw Dante and other members of the family. I well
remember his first appearance, in the evening. He was then a handsome and
highly impressive-looking man; of good stature, bony and well-developed but
rather thin frame, pondering and somewhat melancholy air, and deliberate
low-toned utterance. His hair (which he lost entirely some years afterwards)
was blackish, and of free abundant growth, his eyebrows bushy, his eyes of a
very pale clear blue. This hue must have been too cold and steely for a
southern sympathy; for, when he and I were travelling in Italy in 1862, a
Pisan female fellow-
traveller felt disconcerted under its influence,
and whispered to me that he certainly had “the evil
eye.” We in Charlotte Street did not think so, but took very
warmly indeed to Mr. Scott, and found him not only attractive but even
fascinating.
Some time after he had written to Mr. Scott—it seems to have
been in the summer of 1850—Dante Rossetti wrote likewise to
Robert Browning. In the British Museum he had come across an anonymous poem
entitled
Pauline. He admired it much, and copied out every line of it. He observed one
or two verses which he already knew in Browning's avowed poems. From this
circumstance, and from general internal evidence, he came to the conclusion
that the author of
Pauline could be no other than Browning, and he wrote to the poet at a venture
to enquire whether his inference was correct. Browning was at that time in
Venice. He replied in the affirmative; and, being two years afterwards back
in London, he made the acquaintance of Rossetti, who called upon him
companioned by the poet William Allingham.
A certain day in March 1848—I don't know
which day— formed one of the most important
landmarks in the career of Dante Rossetti. It was on that day that he wrote
to Mr. Ford Madox Brown, personally quite unknown to him, asking whether he
could become Brown's pupil in the practical work of painting. He thus
commenced the most intimate friendship of his life; and the letter led on to
his familiar companionship with Holman Hunt, and hence to the
Præraphaelite movement, and all subsequent developments of his
art.
It may be questioned—Why did Rossetti look out for private
instruction in painting, when he might, with moderate exertion, have
advanced from the Antique School of the Royal Academy to the Life School and
the Painting School, and might, in the last-named section, have obtained, from
accredited painters, all the training that he
could want? My recollections on this point do not supply me with any very
precise information. Some
data are however clear enough to
me. Few young men were more impetuous or more impatient than my brother, or
more ambitious to boot. He had now been an art-student for nearly six years,
and he wanted to be a student no longer, but a practising painter, testing
by actual performance the faculty that was within him, and the recognition
which the public might be willing or compelled to accord thereto. His study
in the Academy's Antique School had not yet lasted two years. Fully as much
might still be needed before he would get into the Painting School, and,
when there, he might find little to respect in his instructors (for he had
no belief in an R.A., merely as such), and little furtherance in that
particular line of work which attracted him. He had plenty of ideas. What he
needed was such an immediate knowledge of brush-work as would enable him to
cover a canvas. I do not say—to cover it well or ill; for the
idea of doing the thing ill would at this time, as at all others, have been
most repugnant to him. He wanted to cover the canvas, and to do it as well
as his utmost endeavour would permit. These considerations were amply
sufficient to impel him to look out for a prompt training in painting
elsewhere than by the graduated processes of the Royal Academy. As he was
not yet twenty years of age, it could not be held that he was at all
belated, if only now he could make a real beginning.
The letter to Mr. Brown is so important from all points of view that I
think well to transcribe it here verbatim.
“
March 1848.
“50 Charlotte
Street, Portland Place.
“Sir,—
“I am a student in the Antique School of
the Royal Academy. Since the first time I ever went to an
exhibition (which was several years ago, and when I saw a
picture of yours from Byron's
Giaour) I have always listened with avidity if your name
happened to be mentioned, and rushed first of all to your
number in the Catalogue.
The
Parisina
, the
Study in the Manner
of the Early Masters
,
Our Lady of
Saturday-night
, and the other glorious works you have exhibited, have
successively raised my admiration, and kept me standing on
the same spot for fabulous lengths of time. The outline from
your
Abstract Representation of
Justice
which appeared in one of the Illustrated Papers constitutes, together with an engraving after that
great painter Von Holst,
1 the sole pictorial adornment of my room
[this was a room, originally our father's
dressing-room, quite at the top of the house 50 Charlotte
Street. Small and bare and uncared-for it was, but how many
hours, which in retrospect seem glorious hours, have I not
passed in it with my brother! how many books have we not
read to one another, how many
bouts-rimés sonnets have we not
written, over its scanty fireplace!]. And, as for
the
Mary Queen of Scots
, if ever I do anything in the art, it will certainly
be attributable in a great degree to the constant study of
that work [this was a very large painting,
The Execution of Mary Queen of
Scots
, now in the possession of Mr. Boddington. My brother
had seen it in the Pantheon Bazaar, where it hung for years
rather than months].
“It is not therefore to be wondered at if,
wishing to obtain some knowledge of colour (which I have as
yet scarcely attempted), the hope suggests itself that you
may possibly admit pupils to profit by your invaluable
assistance. If, such being the case, you would do me the
honour to inform me what your terms would be for six months'
instruction, I feel convinced that I should then have some
chance in the Art.
“I remain, Sir, very
truly yours,
“Gabriel C.
Rossetti.”
It is somewhat remarkable that, apart from his allusion to a print of
the
Justice, my brother did not here
refer to Madox Brown's three Cartoons in Westminster Hall—works
which he assuredly and very rightly admired as much at least as any of the
paintings specified, and more than most
Transcribed Footnote (page 117):
1 Von Holst is not much remembered now. He was
an Anglo-German painter, greatly addicted to supernatural subjects,
which he treated with imaginative impulse and considerable pictorial
skill—
Lord Lyttelton and the Ghost,
Faust and Mephistopheles in the
Wine-cellar
,
The Death of Lady Macbeth,
etc. He died towards 1850, in early middle age.
of them. Apparently he dwelt on paintings alone,
because his immediate object was to obtain guidance in the use of colour.
Mr. Brown, born on 16 April 1821, was close upon twenty-seven years of
age when he received this letter, or about seven years older than Rossetti.
He was a vigorous-looking young man, with a face full of insight and
purpose; thick straight brown hair, fair skin, well-coloured visage, blueish
eyes, broad brow, square and rather high shoulders, slow and distinct
articulation. His face was good-looking as well as fine; but less decidedly
handsome, I think, than it became towards the age of forty. As an old
man—he died on 6 October 1893— he had a grand
patriarchal aspect; his hair, of a pure white, being fully as abundant as
when first I knew him, supplemented now by a long beard. Born in Calais of
English parents, and brought up chiefly abroad, he was the sort of man who
had no idea of being twitted without exacting the reason why. Such profuse
praise as he now received from his unknown correspondent was what fortune
had not accustomed him to, and he suspected that some ill-advised person was
trying to make game of him. From his studio in Clipstone Street, very near
Charlotte Street, he sallied forth with a stout stick in his hand. Knocking
at No. 50, he would not give his name, nor proceed further than the passage.
When Dante came down, Brown's enquiry was “Is your name
Rossetti, and is this your writing?” An affirmative
being returned, the next question was, “What do you mean
by it?” to which Rossetti rationally replied that he
meant what he had written. Brown now perceived that after all the whole
affair was
bonâ fide; and (as the
Family-letters show) he not only consented to put his neophyte in the right
path of painting, but would entertain no offer of payment, and made Rossetti
his friend on the spot—a friend for that day, in the spring of
1848, and a friend for life.
For these details I have relied chiefly on the book of Mr. Bell Scott,
who relates the interview in the words (such they purport to be) of Rossetti
himself in conversation with Scott.
Note: In the second paragraph, “I have not the least recollection
of what it was” should read “the Study in the
manner of the Early Masters”.
Mr. Stephens gives a similar though briefer narrative, on the
authority of Brown's anecdotic discourse, which was often of a very amusing
kind, and replete with minute particulars. For truth's sake I will say that
I cannot remember having ever heard either Brown or my brother refer to
these minor incidents of the stout stick, etc.; but I am bound to believe
Mr. Scott and Mr. Stephens, and I do believe them.
After paying a visit or two to the studio of Madox Brown
—who was then engaged on his important picture of
Wiclif and John of Gaunt
(or possibly it was
Cordelia watching the bedside of Lear
)—Rossetti was informed by his instructor that he should
set-to at copying a picture, and at painting some
still-life—pickle-jars or bottles. According to Mr. Holman Hunt,
he copied the picture (I have not the least recollection of what it was),
but his aspiring soul chafed sorely against the pickle-jars. This, however
reasonably enjoined by Mr. Brown, was the very sort of drudgery which, in
applying to him, Rossetti had hoped to avoid. The
pickle-jars were nevertheless painted. The study remained in the
hands of Mr. Madox Brown, and, at the sale which was held at his house in
May 1894, it turned up, and was purchased by Mr. Herbert H. Gilchrist. My
brother made also many original drawings or slight paintings under Brown's
eye. These I no longer remember; but I have lately seen one, which is said
to be the first of all, and which was presented by Brown, only a few days
before his death, to the young lady who is now Mrs. Ford M. Hueffer. It is a
drawing of long narrow shape, in body-colour barely a little tinted, with a
plain gilt ground; and represents
a young
woman
, auburn-haired, standing with joined hands. The face seems to
be a reminiscence of Christina, but the nose is unduly long; the drapery is
delicately felt and done, and the whole thing has a forecast of the
“Præraphaelite” manner. Without being
exactly good, the work shows distinct promise for a youth, almost a novice
at handling the brush.
From the pickle-jars ensued the second stage in this pictorial
progress, and the beginning of my brother's close
intimacy with Hunt, who was about thirteen months
his senior. Just towards the date when Dante was getting adequately, or more
than adequately, disgusted with his still-life probation, the annual
Exhibition of the Royal Academy opened at the commencement of May. He saw
there Hunt's picture—an uncommonly fine one for so youthful a
painter— of
The Eve of St. Agnes
(escape of Madeline and Porphyro from the castle). He
“came up boisterously” (says Mr.
Hunt), “and in loud tongue made me feel very confused by
declaring that mine was the best picture of the
year.” It seems that the like had occurred in 1847, when
Hunt's exhibited picture was from Walter Scott's
Woodstock. “Rossetti frankly asked me to let him call upon
me.” When he did call,
1 he bewailed the pickle-jars or bottles, and sounded Hunt as to
whether he need do any more of them. Hunt, without detracting from the
general correctness of Brown's scheme of training, opined that Rossetti
might permit himself to select for painting some composition of his own, and
might begin on the canvas with the still-life proper to such a composition;
and then this accessory part of the subject would no longer be repulsive,
for it would be the mere adjunct or preparation for the interesting part. No
advice could possibly have been more reasonable, considering on the one hand
the temperament and aspirations of Rossetti, and on the other his great
inexperience in the use of pigment. Mr. Hunt recommended that he should at
once select for his picture a design recently contributed to a Sketching
Society, and approved by Millais. This design must have been either
La Belle Dame sans Merci
, from Keats, or the scene of
Gretchen in Church
, from
Faust; in all probability the latter. The
Belle Dame
seems
Transcribed Footnote (page 120):
1 Mr. Hunt says that the encounter at the
Academy exhibition was on the opening day (first Monday in May), and
the visit to his studio “in a few days
more.” Considering the date when the
Gretchen
design (mentioned by me in this context) was sent round and
criticized, July 1848, and the date, 20 August, when Rossetti was
finally settled with Hunt in a studio, I incline to think that the
visit in question must have been about a couple of months later than
the writer puts it.
to have passed out of observation, though I
suppose not out of existence. At any rate, the
Gretchen
exists, and was exhibited in 1883 in the Burlington Club collection of
my brother's works.
A word or two must be given to the Sketching Society here in question.
It was termed the Cyclographic Society. Each member produced a design, and
sent it round to colleagues in a portfolio, to be inspected and criticized.
The members, besides Millais and Rossetti, were Hunt, John Hancock the
sculptor, William Dennis, N. E. Green, J. T. Clifton, Walter Howell
Deverell, J. B. Keene, T. Watkins, James Collinson, Richard Burchett, F. G.
Stephens, Thomas Woolner, and J. A. Vinter. As Sir John Millais's criticism
on the
Gretchen
is interesting on every ground, and especially in this connexion, I
give it here:—
“A very clever and original design,
beautifully executed. The figures which deserve the greatest attention
are the four figures praying to the left. The young girl's face is very
pretty, but the head is too large; the other three are full of piety.
The Devil is in my opinion a mistake; his head wants drawing, and the
horns through the cowl are commonplace, and therefore objectionable. The
right arm of Margaret should have been shown, for, by hiding the Devil's
right hand (which is not sufficiently prominent), you are impressed with
the idea that he is tearing her to pieces for a meal. The drawing and
composition of Margaret are original, and expressive of utter
prostration. The greatest objection is the figure with his back towards
you, who is unaccountably short; the pleasing group of lovers should
have occupied his place. The girl and child in the foreground are
exquisite in feeling, the flaming sword well introduced and highly
emblematic of the subject, which is well chosen, and, with a few
alterations in its treatment, should be painted. Chairs out of
perspective.”
I can easily believe this last item; for Rossetti never paid any
attention, worth speaking of, to perspective, and indeed —so far
as his own interest in matters of art was concerned —was at all
times almost indifferent to the question whether
his works were in perspective or out of it. Mr.
Stephens did something to arrange the perspective of Rossetti's picture
(1849-50) of
The Annunciation
, now in the National Gallery, and in 1850 gave him a few
lessons—and would not have minded giving many more—in
this bugbear science. The reader will not fail to note the thoroughly
practical and well-balanced tone of Millais's remarks in all other
respects. The Cyclographic Society did not last long, as may be gathered
from Rossetti's letter of 30 August 1848. I think the more progressive
artists among its members got tired of association with some others, and
hastened its dissolution. I can remember attending one or two meetings of
the Society; though why I was admitted—unless it be that Dante
sic voluit, sic jussit— I fail to see.
At the interview of which I have been speaking Rossetti (according to
Holman Hunt) gave the latter to understand that, being oppressed by the
pickle-jars, he had written to Leigh Hunt (whom he did not know), submitting
some of his poems, original and translated, for courteous perusal, and
asking whether it might seem feasible for him to trust to literature rather
than fine art as a profession. A copy of Leigh Hunt's letter in reply is
still extant. The date (it will be perceived) is 31 March, and it was
written “
at length”—
i.e., some good while
after he had received the poems. Rossetti's letter to Brown was only sent at
some date in March; and, looking to these dates, I rather question whether
his communication to Leigh Hunt could have been consequent upon his
affliction over the pickle-jars. Here is the veteran poet's very kind and
considerate letter to a youth in all ways totally unknown:—
“Kensington,
March 31, 1848.
“My dear Sir,—
“I have at length had the pleasure of
reading your manuscripts, but am still forced to be very brief. I
hope the agreeableness of my remarks will make amends for their
shortness, since you have been good enough to constitute me a judge
of powers of which you ought to have no doubt. I felt perplexed, it
is true, at first, by
By D. G. Rossetti. 1848.
Gaetano Polidori.
Figure: Head and shoulders, facing left. Signed "G. C. R. June/48" in
lower right corner.
the translations, which, though containing evidences of a strong
feeling of the truth and simplicity of the originals, appeared to me
harsh, and want correctness in the versification. I guess indeed
that you are altogether not so musical as pictorial. But, when I
came to the originals of your own, I recognized an unquestionable
poet, thoughtful, imaginative, and with rare powers of expression. I
hailed you as such at once, without any misgiving; and, besides your
Dantesque heavens (without any hell to spoil them), admired the
complete and genial round of your sympathies with humanity. I know
not what sort of painter you are. If you paint as well as you write,
you may be a rich man; or at all events, if you do not care to be
rich, may get leisure enough to cultivate your writing. But I hardly
need tell you that poetry, even the very best—nay, the
best, in this respect, is apt to be the worst—is not a
thing for a man to live upon while he is in the flesh, however
immortal it may render him in spirit.—When I have
succeeded in finding another house, I hope you will give me the
pleasure of your acquaintance: and meantime I am, Dear Sir, with
hearty zeal in the welfare of your genius,
“Your obliged and faithful
Servant,
“Leigh Hunt.
“P.S.—You will see some
pencil-marks at the side of the passages I most
admired.”
I possess a
portrait done by my brother
in pencil in June 1848, representing our grandfather, head and shoulders. It
is excellently good; and so strongly and exactly realistic as to prove to
demonstration that Rossetti, a short while before the
Præraphaelite scheme began, required no further prompting from
outside as to the artistic virtues inherent in a scrupulous fidelity to
Nature. Mr. Brown had no doubt impressed this upon him, if he had not
already found it out for himself. In one way or another he had laid the
lesson thoroughly to heart, and was more than a mere apprentice to Truth. My
reader can judge for himself of this portrait, as it is here reproduced.
Rossetti closed eagerly with Holman Hunt's suggestion as to beginning
a picture, to combine practice in still-life and accessory with more
palatable work; and he asked to be
allowed to become joint-tenant of a studio which
Hunt was about to take. To this his new friend acceded; and nothing surely
could have been more serviceable to my brother as a beginner in the
painting-art. The studio selected was a back-room on the first floor at No.
7 (now 46) Cleveland Street, Fitzroy Square, close to Howland Street. Mr.
Stephens has given an amusingly cheerless account of this establishment. I
will borrow a few sentences from him; though my own reminiscences of the
place, tinted as they are by the light-heartedness of youth, do not present
quite so gloomy a picture.
- “Dans un grenier qu'on
est bien a vingt ans!”
And indeed I was not fully nineteen when my brother entered upon his
studio at No 7 Cleveland Street, his living and sleeping rooms being still
at No 50 Charlotte Street.
“It was even then a dismal place, the one
big window of which looked to the East, and through which, when neither
smoke, fog, nor rain, obscured the unlovely view, you could see the damp
orange-coloured piles of timber a neighbouring dealer in that material
had, within a few yards of the room, piled in monstrous heaps upon his
backyard. Nothing could be more depressing than the large gaunt chamber,
. . . where the dingy walls, distempered of a dark maroon which dust and
smoke stains had deepened, added a most undesirable gloom. The approach
to it was by a half-lighted staircase up which the fuss and clatter of a
boys'-school kept by the landlord of the house . . . frequently
arose.”
And now we come to the third link in this chain of
acquaintanceship—namely, to Rossetti's close fellowship with
Millais. Brown had indirectly led on to Hunt, and Hunt led on directly to
Millais. The latter, born in the summer of 1829, was Rossetti's junior by
more than a year, but vastly in advance of him as an artist. I need not
enter here upon the early career of this great painter; his quite singular
promise in mere boyhood, his conspicuous successes in his first youth.
Millais was the pattern—the unattainable pattern—for all
Academy-students, and was by this date an
exhibiting painter of some performance and any amount of promise. My brother
could not but know him by sight long before now, and must have exchanged
speech with him more than once both at the Royal Academy and at the
Cyclographic Society. With Millais however he was not as yet on a footing of
friendship, which Hunt was. “The companionship of Rossetti
and myself,” says Mr. Hunt, “soon
brought about a meeting with Millais, at whose house one night we
found
a book of engravings of the
frescoes in the Campo Santo at Pisa
.” The house was
that at which Millais lived with his parents, No. 83 (now 7) Gower street,
having a long rather shed-like studio, built out on the ground-floor along
the line of a narrow turning. The juncture was a momentous one for all the
three young painters.
Mr. Holman Hunt considers, and I would be willing to
confirm his view if it needed any confirmation, that it was the inspection
of the
Campo Santo engravings, “at this special time,
which caused the establishment of the Præraphaelite
Brotherhood.” They are not engravings doing justice
to the works represented—indeed, Ruskin has somewhere termed them
“Lasinio's execrable engravings.”
But they give some idea of the motives, feeling, and treatment, of the
paintings of Gozzoli, and of those ascribed to Orcagna and other
mediæval masters. It seems that Rossetti was not quite prepared
beforehand to believe in these very olden painters, and Brown specially
cautioned him not to undervalue them. I well recollect the enthusiasm with
which, subsequently to seeing the engravings, Dante spoke to me on the
subject, and soon afterwards I was allowed an opportunity of examining the
prints for myself. Most things, whether books or ideas, were in common, at
this time and for years afterwards,
between my brother and myself, and whatever one
of us lighted upon was rapidly imparted to the other. Mr. Hunt makes some
valuable observations on the direction of mind which started the
Præraphaelite idea, and on the respective contributions which the
very diverse temperaments and gifts of its three initiators brought to the
common stock. I will not take the liberty of borrowing his remarks
en bloc; but, bearing them heedfully in
mind, I will say what I can on the subject from my own standing-point.
The Lasinio incident may be proper to the month of August or of
September 1848, when Hunt was twenty-one years of age, Rossetti twenty, and
Millais nineteen. They had thus barely cased to be big boys; but Hunt and
Millais were already very capable and recognized painters, and all three
were enthusiasts—enthusiasts with a difference. Millais perceived
within himself powers which far exceeded those of most of the acknowledged
heads of his profession, but which had been exercised as yet without any
inbreathing of new and original life; Hunt was not only stubbornly
persistent, but eagerly desirous of developing something at once solid and
uncommon; Rossetti, a beginner in the art, was fired with inventive
imaginings and a love of beauty, and was just as anxious as his colleagues
to distinguish himself, though as yet not equally certain to do so. All
three contemned the commonplace anecdotical subjects of most British
painters of the day, and their flimsy pretences at cleverness of execution,
unsupported either by clear intuition into the facts of Nature, or by lofty
or masculine style, or by an effort at sturdy realization. There were of
course exceptions, some distinguished and some noble exceptions; but the
British School of Painting, as a school, was in 1848 wishy-washy to the
last degree; nothing imagined finely, nor descried keenly, nor executed
puissantly. The three young men hated all this. They hated the cant about
Raphael and the Great Masters, for utter cant it was in the mouths of such
underlings of the brush as they saw all around them; and they determined to
make a new start on a firm basis. What
was the basis to be? It was to be serious and
elevated invention of subject, along with earnest scrutiny of visible facts,
and an earnest endeavour to present them veraciously and exactly.
This does not fully account for their calling themselves
Præraphaelites. Mr. Hunt says—and he must be
correct—that the word Præraphaelites “had
first been used as a term of contempt by our enemies”; founded,
it would seem, more upon the talk of the young men than upon anything (apart
from such minor matters as the study of the Ghiberti Gates) which they had
actually done. Hunt's pictures as yet had no distinctively
Præraphaelite quality, Millais's were quite in the contrary line,
and Rossetti was not known to have painted at all. But they saw, in the
Italian painters from Giotto to Leonardo, and in certain early Flemish and
German painters so far as they knew about them (which was little), a
manifest emotional sincerity, expressed sometimes in a lofty and solemn way,
and sometimes with a candid
naïveté; they saw strong evidences of grace,
decorative charm, observation and definition of certain appearances of
Nature, and patient and loving but not mechanical labour. In the language of
art there is, or ought to be, a certain distinction between the terms
“conventionalism” and
“conventionality.” Of conventionalism— an
adherence to certain types, traditions, and preconceptions —there
is assuredly a vast deal in these early masters; but of conventionality, as
a lifeless application of school-precepts, accepted on authority, muddled in
the very act of acceptance, and paraded with conceited or pedantic
self-applause, there is, in the men who carried the art forward from point
to point, no defined trace. Each of them did his best as he best could, and
handed on the art to be bettered by his successor.
It was with this feeling, and obviously not with any idea of actually
imitating any painters who had preceded Raphael, that the youths adopted as
a designation, instead of repelling as an imputation, the word
Præraphaelite. The word “Brotherhood” was,
it seems, Rossetti's term, put forward as
being preferable—which it most clearly
was—to any such term as Clique or Association. And thus was the
Præraphaelite Brotherhood constituted as the autumn of 1848
began.
Some writers have said that Rossetti was the originator of
Præraphaelitism. This ignores the just claims of Hunt and
Millais, which I regard as co-equal with his. Rossetti had an abundance of
ideas, pictorial and also literary, and was fuller of
“notions” than the other two, and had more turn for
proselytizing and “pronunciamentos”; but he was not at
all more resolute in wanting to do something good which should also be
something new. He was perhaps the most defiant of the three; and undoubtedly
a kind of adolescent defiance, along with art-sympathies highly developed in
one direction, and unduly or even ignorantly restricted in others, played a
part, and no small part, in Præraphaelitism. But Hunt, if less
strictly defiant, was still more tough, and Millais was all eagerness for
the fray— “longing to be at 'em,” and to
show his own mettle. The fact is that not one of the three could have done
much as an innovator without the other two. A bond of mutual support was
essential, and an isolated attempt might have fizzed off as a mere personal
eccentricity. As it was, Præraphaelitism proved to be very
up-hill work. It was more abused, as being the principle of a few men in
unison, than it would have been if exemplified by one of them only; but the
very abuse was the beginning of its triumph. Any one of them, if acting by
himself, might have been recognized as a man of genius; he would hardly have
become a power in art. If the invention of “the
Præraphaelite Brotherhood” was a craze, it was a craze
spiced with a deal of long- headedness. Some method in that sort of madness.
But, on these points as to his own relation to other
Præraphaelite painters, Dante Rossetti has himself given a very
distinct explanation. It appears in a letter which he addressed on 7
November 1868 to M. Ernest Chesneau, consequent on the publication of that
able critic's book
Les Nations Rivales dans
l'Art
. The passage which I here quote
is printed in Professor Edouard Rod's volume,
Études sur le Dix-neuvième
Siècle
, 1888, and the Professor leaves unaltered Rossetti's
“incorrections de langue”:—
“
En ce qui concerne la qualification de
‘Chef de l'Ecole
Préraphaélite’ que vous
m'attribuez d'après vos renseignements, je dois vous
assurer le plus chaudement possible qu'elle ne m'est nullement
due. Loin d'être ‘Chef de
l'Ecole’ par priorité ou par
mérite, je puis à peine me
reconnaître comme y appartenant, si le style du peu
que j'ai fait en peinture venait à être
comparé avec les ouvrages des autres peintres
nommés Préraphaélites. Ainsi,
quand je trouve un peintre si absolument original que l'est
Holman Hunt décrit comme étant mon
‘disciple,’ il m'est impossible de ne pas
me sentir humilié en face de la
vérité, et de ne pas vous assurer du
contraire avec le plus grand empressement. Les
qualités de réalisme,
émotionnel mais extrêmement minutieux, qui
donnent le cachet au style nommé
Préraphaélite, se trouvent principalement
dans tous les tableaux de Holman Hunt, dans le plupart de ceux de
Madox Brown, dans quelques morceaux de Hughes, et dans
l'œuvre admirable de la jeunesse de Millais. C'est la
camaraderie, plutôt que la collaboration
réelle du style, qui a uni mon nom aux leurs dans les
jours d'enthousiasme d'il y a vingt ans.”
The charge that the Præraphaelite trio applied themselves
slavishly to mere copyism, microscopic detail, and the like, has been so
often alleged that it had better be dealt with here at once. Mr. Hunt puts
the matter plainly, and is a final authority upon it. I will therefore
extract a few of his words:—
“It may be seen that we were never, what
often we have been called, ‘Realists.’ I think the
art would have ceased to have the slightest interest for any one of the
three painters concerned, had the object been only to make a
representation, elaborate or unelaborate, of a fact in Nature. . . . In
agreeing to use the utmost elaboration in painting our first pictures,
we never meant more than that the practice was essential for training
the eye and the hand of the young artist. We should never have admitted
that the relinquishment of this habit of work by a matured painter would
make him less of a Præraphaelite.”
To add anything to Mr. Hunt's dictum on this matter is
almost an impertinence. I will nevertheless confirm it, as being a point of
which I also was cognizant—and indeed the like view was expressed
in a kind of declaration of principles of the Brotherhood which I drew up at
the beginning of 1851, but which seems to be lost this long while. I will
however concede thus much to the antagonist—that, although it is
certainly true that the Præraphaelites looked upon elaboration of
detail as being rather a discipline for students than a necessary practice
for proficients, they were not always sufficiently careful to affirm this,
but, in the heat of controversy, would sometimes seem to imply that such
elaboration was really requisite, as well as admissible and useful.
I will advert briefly to one other point. It has been said that Madox
Brown declined to join the Præraphaelite Brotherhood (and that he
did decline is true) on the ground partly that he had no faith in coteries,
and partly that the Præraphaelites insisted upon copying from a
model exactly as he or she stood, and without permitting any modification of
visage, etc., to suit the picture. The objection to coteries was, I believe,
made by Brown, and was far from unreasonable; but, as for the objection to
not deviating from the model, I entertain considerable doubt. Some such rule
as a theory may perhaps have been in some degree of favour with the
Brotherhood at one time or other; but I am certain it was not acted upon
even in their first fervid year. The head of Lorenzo, in Millais's picture
of 1848-9,
Lorenzo and Isabella
from Keats's poem, was painted from me, but the hair was made golden,
whereas mine was black. The head of the Virgin Mary, in Rossetti's picture
of the same year, was painted from our sister Christina, and here again the
hair was made golden instead of dark brown. From Hunt's picture I have no
doubt that some similar detail might be cited. All this I say without
implying that that notion of strictest adherence to the model has
no value. I think it has some, as conducing to a general
air of genuineness and
vraisemblance, though it should not be pushed to a pragmatical extreme.
The three youths who founded the Præraphaelite Brotherhood
did not aim at confining it to themselves, supposing that other eligible men
could be discovered and enlisted. This was done with four young
men—Thomas Woolner the sculptor, James Collinson a painter,
Frederic George Stephens, an Academy-student of painting, and myself. I
hardly know whether any of the three former had been sounded before the
Lasinio evening, and the consequent formation of a Præraphaelite
Brotherhood consisting of Millais, Hunt, and Rossetti. I presume not. Mr.
Stephens was a particular ally of Mr. Hunt, who must, I apprehend, have been
his introducer into the Brotherhood. Mr. Woolner was probably known to all
three, and I could not affirm to which of them most— maybe Mr.
Millais. Mr. Collinson, and of course myself, were nominated by my brother.
I will say a little about three members of the Præraphaelite
Brotherhood, or “P.R.B.”; the
“P.R.B.'s,” as they called and for a while signed
themselves. I omit Millais and Hunt, as being living men of renown with whom
I need not meddle.
Thomas Woolner was a Suffolk man, born in December 1825, and was
therefore about two years and a half older than Rossetti. He studied under
the sculptor Behnes, and had already exhibited some few works before the
P.R.B. was formed. Ultimately he became an R.A., and he died in October
1892. He produced some ideal works of superior quality, but became chiefly
known as a portrait and bust sculptor. In this branch of the art, an
energetic insight into character, and scrupulous skill in modelling and
finish, were his leading merits. He was a genial manly personage, full of
gusto for many things in life; a vigorous believer in himself and his
performances, and (it may be allowed) rather disinclined to admit the
deservings of any rivals in his art.
James Collinson, born in May 1825, was a small thick-necked
man, chiefly a domestic painter, who began with careful and rather timid
practice; in demeanour, modest and retiring. He had been a steady
church-goer in the Anglican communion; but, about the date of the formation
of the
Brotherhood, he became a Roman-catholic, and
after a while saw fit, as a religionist, to resign his position as a P.R.B.
He did not rise to distinction in the pictorial art, and died in the spring
of 1881.
Frederic George Stephens, a little older than Hunt, exhibited a very
few pictures in the early years of Præraphaelitism; but, while
still young, he relinquished painting as a definite profession, and became
an Art-critic, capable and influential. He had—or rather still
has—an uncommonly well-moulded and picturesque face; painted by
Millais as Ferdinand in the early picture
Ferdinand lured by Ariel, and by Madox Brown soon afterwards as Jesus in the admirable work,
now in the National Gallery, of
Jesus washing
Peter's Feet
. It is a fact, and a melancholy one, that Dante
Rossetti, as the years progressed, lost sight of all his
“Præraphaelite Brothers” except only of
Stephens at sparse intervals—“
dear staunch
Stephens, one of my oldest and best friends,” as he wrote to Mr. Caine towards 1879.
Mr. Stephens had a great liking for the early schools of art, Italian
and other. Possibly his knowledge of them exceeded that of any other P.R.B.,
and so far he might reasonably be called a
“Præraphaelite.” As to Woolner and
Collinson, neither of them, from natural inclination or from course of study
and practice, went at all in that direction; a fact which confirms the true
view of the matter—that the Præraphaelites had no
notion of recurring to or imitating old art, but simply aimed at pursuing
the art in that spirit of personal earnestness and modesty, both as to the
treatment of ideals and as to the contemplation of natural truths, which had
animated the earlier Old Masters, and had faltered or failed in the later
ones, and of which, in the current British School, the traces were few and
far between. For myself, I obviously was, and I remained, an outsider, so
far as the practice of fine art goes. I was made Secretary of the
Brotherhood; and pretty soon I became an Art-critic—in
The Critic
(a weekly paper something like the
Athenæum
) from the summer of 1850, and in
The Spectator
from
Note: In the second paragraph, "one purpose or another" should be followed by a period,
rather than a comma.
November in the same year. I sometimes ponder with
astonishment the fact that the first of these papers allowed me to instruct
its public on matters of fine art before I was twenty-one years of age, and
the second immediately afterwards. It is true that
The Germ
had appeared before I wrote in
The Critic.
As soon as the Præraphaelite Brotherhood was formed it
became a focus of boundless companionship, pleasant and touching to recall.
We were really like brothers, continually together, and confiding to one
another all experiences bearing upon questions of art and literature, and
many affecting us as individuals. We dropped using the term
“Esquire” on letters, and substituted
“P.R.B.” I do not exaggerate in saying that every
member of the fraternity was just as much intent upon furthering the advance
and promoting the interests of his “Brothers” as his
own. There were monthly meetings, at the houses or studios of the various
members in succession; occasionally a moonlight walk or a night on the
Thames. Beyond this, but very few days can have passed in a year when two or
more P.R.B.'s did not fore-gather for one purpose or another, The only one
of us who could be regarded as moderately well of, living
en famille on a scale of average comfort, was Millais; others were struggling or
really poor. All that was of no account. We had our thoughts, our
unrestrained converse, our studies, aspirations, efforts, and actual doings;
and for every P.R.B. to drink a cup or two of tea or coffee, or a glass or
two of beer, in the company of other P.R.B.'s, with or without the
accompaniment of tobacco (without it for Dante Rossetti, who never smoked at
all), was a heart-relished luxury, the equal of which the flow of long years
has not often presented, I take it, to any one of us. Those were the days of
youth; and each man in the company, even if he did not project great things
of his own, revelled in poetry or sunned himself in art. Hunt, to my
thinking, was the most sagacious talker; Woolner the most forceful and
entertaining; Dante Rossetti the most intellectual. Such men could not be
mere plodders in conversation:
but all—to their credit be it
spoken—were perfectly free-and-easy, and wholly alien from
anything approaching to affectation, settled self-display, or stilted
“tall talk.” And this holds good of every member of
the Brotherhood. Mr. Hunt has done
more than ample justice
to Rossetti's literary acquirements, saying of him, at the date when he
entered upon the studio in Cleveland Street:—
“Rossetti had then perhaps a greater
acquaintance with the poetical literature of Europe than any living man.
His storehouse of treasures seemed inexhaustible. If he read twice or
thrice a long poem, it was literally at his tongue's end; and he had a
voice rarely equalled for simple recitations. . . .
Sordello and
Paracelsus he would give by forty and fifty pages at a time. . . . Then would
come the pathetic strains of W. B. Scott's
Rosabell. . . . These, and there were countless other examples, all showed
a wide field of interest as to poetic schools.”
Had the Præraphaelite Brotherhood any ulterior aim beyond
that of producing good works of art? Yes, and No. Assuredly it had the aim
of developing such
ideas as are suited to the medium of
fine art, and of bringing the arts of form into general unison with what is
highest in other arts, especially poetry. Likewise the aim of showing by
contrast how threadbare were the pretensions of most painters of the day,
and how incapable they were of constituting or developing any sort of School
of Art worthy of the name. In the person of two at least of its members,
Hunt and Collinson, it had also a definite relation to a Christian, and not
a pagan or latitudinarian, line of thought. On the other hand, the notion
that the Brotherhood, as such, had anything whatever to do with particular
movements in the religious world—whether Roman Catholicism,
Anglican Tractarianism, or what not—is totally, and, to one who
formed a link in its composition, even ludicrously, erroneous. To say that
Præraphaelitism was part of “the ever-rising protest
and rebellion of our century against artificial authority,” as in
the cases of “the French Revolution” and Wordsworth and
Note: In the third sentence, “Fuhrich” should read
“Steinle”.
Darwin, etc.,
1 is not indeed untrue, but is far too vague to account for
anything. Again, the so-called German Præraphaelites
—such as Schnorr, Overbeck, and Cornelius—were in no
repute with the young British artists. They did, however, admire very much
certain designs by Fuhrich from the Legend of St. Genevieve. Neither was
Ruskin their inciter, though it is true that Hunt had read and laid to heart
in 1847 the first volume of
Modern Painters, the only thing then current as Ruskin's work. I do not think any
other P.R.B. (with the possible exception of Collinson) had, up to 1848 or
later, read him at all. That the Præraphaelites valued moral and
spiritual ideas as an important section of the ideas germane to fine art is
most true, and not one of them was in the least inclined to do any work of a
gross, lascivious, or sensual description; but neither did they limit the
province of art to the spiritual or the moral. I will therefore take it upon
me to say that the bond of union among the Members of the Brotherhood was
really and simply this—1, To have genuine ideas to express; 2, to
study Nature attentively, so as to know how to express them; 3, to
sympathize with what is direct and serious and heartfelt in previous art, to
the exclusion of what is conventional and self-parading and learned by rote;
and 4, and most indispensable of all, to produce thoroughly good pictures
and statues.
After the first fervour of youth was past, Rossetti was somewhat
impatient of the terms Præraphaelitism and
Præraphaelite. In 1880 he said to Mr. Caine something which that
author records in the following words: “As for all the
prattle about Præraphaelitism, I confess to you I am weary of
it, and long have been. Why should we go on talking about the visionary
vanities of half-a-dozen boys? What you call the movement was serious
enough, but the banding together under that title was all a
joke.” And Mr. William Sharp says that, to a lady
enquiring whether he was the Præraphaelite Rossetti (perhaps
towards 1870), he replied,
Transcribed Footnote (page 135):
1 See Mrs. Wood's
Dante Rossetti and the
Præraphaelite Movement
, p. 9.
“Madam, I am not an
‘ite’ of any kind; I am only a
painter.” These statements I accept; but it is not the
less true that in 1848 and for some years afterwards he meant a good deal by
calling himself Præraphaelite, and meant it very heartily.
I will complete here a few details about the Brotherhood, although
these will lead me some way beyond the date which we have as yet reached,
the autumn of 1848. In May 1849 it was settled that I, as Secretary to the
Brotherhood, or its only non-professional member, should keep a Diary of the
proceedings of the Society, and of the art-work of the several P.R.B.'s so
far as that came within my cognizance. This I proceeded to do; and up to 8
April 1850 I kept the Diary without the omission of a day. Afterwards I was
less regular; but still, allowing for several intervals, the Diary goes on
to 29 January 1853. In my hands it continues; but I am sorry to say that at
some date—possibly about 1855—Dante inspected the MS.
when I was not by; and, finding some entries which, for one reason or
another, he did not relish, he tore the pages up freely here and
there—a summary proceeding quite in his style. I surmise that he
saw some particulars about Miss Siddal (shortly to be mentioned); certainly
nothing invidious about her, but he may have decreed in his own mind that
her name should not appear in the record at all. Nevertheless a great deal
still remains; and furnishes a very authentic, if also an unentertaining,
account of what the seven Præraphaelites were doing in those now
remote years. There is a copy of Collinson's letter, May 1850, withdrawing
from the Brotherhood—a step which he attributes to religious
considerations as a Roman-catholic, though these are not defined with any
extreme clearness. After this, in the autumn of the same year, is an entry
purporting that Walter Howell Deverell “has worthily filled up
the place left vacant by Collinson”—his nominator (I
have no doubt, speaking from memory) being Dante Rossetti. But it appears
that this election was considered not entirely valid by some other member or
members, and, at a meeting of 9 February 1851, it was ruled that any such
new member
must be subjected to annual re-election. At a
previous meeting, 13 January, Millais expressed a doubt whether the name
P.R.B. should be continued, as being liable to misconstruction; and a
resolution was passed that each member should put down in writing what
meaning he attached to the name, these declarations to be submitted to the
next ensuing meeting. I feel considerable doubt whether any member, except
myself, gave practical effect to the resolution. At any rate, the Diary
shows nothing further about the matter. These were last dying efforts at a
continuance of regular meetings, which, as recorded on 2 December 1850, had
then already become “thoroughly
obsolete.” With virtuous intentions, new and stringent
rules about meetings, etc., were adopted on 13 January 1851; but they were
forthwith disobeyed, and the Præraphaelite Brotherhood, as a
practical working organization, and something more than a mere knot of
friends, may be regarded as from that date sinking into desuetude. For this
there was at the time no sort of real reason; only that the several members
were developing each in his own proper direction, were hard at work and
scattered in local position, and found that any inclination for assembling
together was subject to too many interruptions and obstacles. I fancy that
Mr. Stephens and myself were the two members who most sincerely regretted
this disruption. And so, as a definite scheme in the art-world, ended the
Præraphaelite Brotherhood. The members got to talk less and less
of Præraphaelitism, the public more and more; and the name still
subsists in a very active condition—which is also a very lax and
undefined one, and in many instances wholly misapplied.
In Rossetti's letter to his sister, dated 8 November 1853, a quotation
may be observed, consequent upon the election of Millais as an Associate of
the Royal Academy—
“
So now the whole
Round Table is dissolved.”
And so it proved to be—if indeed the dissolution is not to
be reckoned as dating earlier, which for most practical purposes it did.
Christina hereupon, 10 November, wrote
a sonnet, neat though irregular, to which I will
give a niche in my narrative:—
THE P.R.B.
- “The P.R.B. is in its decadence:
- For Woolner in Australia cooks his chops,
- And Hunt is yearning for the land of Cheops;
- D. G. Rossetti shuns the vulgar optic;
- While William M. Rossetti merely lops
- His B's in English disesteemed as Coptic;
- Calm Stephens in the twilight smokes his pipe,
- But long the dawning of his public day;
- And he at last the champion great Millais,
-
10Attaining Academic opulence,
- Winds up his signature with A.R.A.
- So rivers merge in the perpetual sea;
- So luscious fruit must fall when over-ripe;
- And so the consummated P.R.B.”
This sonnet had wholly lapsed from my recollection until I happened to
light upon it during the progress of the present Memoir. The only point in
it which in our time seems rather obscure is the reference to
myself—which must mean that I, in my press-criticisms, made light
of my P.R.B. colleagues (which is joke, not fact), and that my utterances
met with no public regard (which is partial but not entire fact; for these
criticisms, appearing in a paper of such high repute as
The Spectator
, and being, in 1850 to 1852, nearly the only press-reviews which
upheld the Præraphaelite cause, did excite some attention, and I
suppose some anger. Mr. Stephens, who succeeded me on
The Critic
, must have co-operated). I will take this opportunity of saying that
the statement, which has been constantly repeated in recent months, that
Christina went among us by the name of “the Queen of the
Præraphaelites,” is, to the best of my knowledge and
remembrance, a mere invention. It was first put forward, I apprehend, by
Mrs. Tooley, in an article on Christina which she published, in the autumn
of 1894, in a serial entitled
The Young Woman. I knew nothing of such an appellative; Christina, to whom I mentioned
it, knew nothing also; and
Mr. Stephens, who has a long memory on all such
details, neither knows nor believes anything of it.
I am minded—and I hope not to the reader's serious disgust
—to insert here those Rules of the Brotherhood which, as
aforesaid, were adopted on 13 January 1851, and were never carried into
effect. They show or suggest not only what we then intended to do, but a
great deal of what had been occupying our attention since the autumn of
1848. The day when we codified proved also to be the day when no code was
really in requisition. The document, which is of course in my handwriting,
runs as follows:—
“P.R.B.—Present, at Hunt's, himself,
Millais, Stephens, and W. M. Rossetti, 13 January 1851.
“In consideration of the unsettled and unwritten
state of the Rules guiding the P.R.B., it is deemed necessary to
determine and adopt a recognized system.
“The P.R.B. originally consisted of seven
members—Hunt, Millais, Dante and William Rossetti,
Stephens, Woolner, and another; and has been reduced to six by the
withdrawal of the last. It was at first positively understood that
the P.R.B. is to consist of these persons and no
others—secession of any original member not being
contemplated; and the principle that neither this highly important
rule nor any other affecting the P.R.B. can be repealed or modified,
nor any finally adopted, unless on unanimous consent of the members,
is hereby declared permanent and unalterable.
“Rule 1. That William Michael Rossetti, not being
an artist, be Secretary of the P.R.B.
“2. Considering the unforeseen vacancy as above
stated, Resolved that the question of the election of a successor be
postponed until after the opening of the year's art-exhibitions.
This Rule to be acted on as a precedent in case of any future
similar contingency.
“3. That, in case a new election be voted, the
person named as eligible be on probation for one year, enjoying
meanwhile all the advantages of full membership, except as to
voting.
“4. That, on the first Friday of every month, a
P.R.B. meeting, such as has hitherto been customary, be held.
“5. That the present meeting be deemed the first
in rotation under the preceding Rule; and that the future meetings
be held
at the abodes of the several members, in
order as follows—Millais, Dante Rossetti, William
Rossetti, Stephens, Woolner.
“6. That, in the event of the absence of the
Member at whose house any meeting falls due, or other
obstacle—to be allowed as valid by the
others—the Secretary be made aware of the fact; and that
the Member next in rotation act for the absent Member: the ensuing
meetings to follow as before provided.
“7. That unjustified absence under such
circumstances subject the defaulter to a fine of 5
s.
“8. That a Probationary Member be not required to
take his turn in this rotation.
“9. That at each such monthly meeting the
Secretary introduce any business that may require
consideration—to the exclusion of other topics until such
business shall have been dispatched.
“10. That any Member unavoidably absent be
entitled to send his written opinion on any subject fixed for
consideration.
“11. That, failing full attendance at a meeting,
or unanimously expressed opinion, the members present may adopt
Resolutions,— to remain in force until a dissenting
opinion shall be made known.
“12. That any member absent from a meeting without
valid excuse—to be allowed by the others—shall
forfeit 2
s. 6
d.; and that no
engagement with any other person whatever be held to supersede the
obligation of a P.R.B. meeting.
“13. That the January meeting of each year be
deemed the Anniversary Meeting.
“14. That the application of fines accruing as
before specified be determined, by majority of votes, at each such
annual meeting.
“15. That at each annual meeting the conduct and
position of each P.R.B. during the past year, in respect of his
membership, be reviewed; it being understood that any member who
shall not appear to have acted up to the best of his opportunities
in furtherance of the objects of the Brotherhood is expected, by
tacit consent, to exert himself more actively in future.
“16. That the Secretary be required, as one chief
part of his duty, to keep a Journal of the P.R.B.
“17. That the Journal remain the property of the
Brotherhood collectively, and not of the Secretary or any other
individual member; that it be considered expedient in ordinary cases
to read the Journal at each meeting at the Secretary's residence;
and that
any member have the power to require its
production whenever he may think fit.
1
“18. That any election which may be hereafter
proposed be determined by ballot.
“19. That any such election be renewable annually
by vote of the six original members.
“20. That any member considered unworthy to
continue in the Brotherhood cease to be a P.R.B. on the unanimous
vote of his peers—
i.e., of those in the
same class, as regards date of election, as
himself.
2
“21. That the fines be received by the Secretary.
“22. That the 23rd of April be kept sacred
annually to Shakespear, as an obligation equally binding as that of
a P.R.B. meeting.
“23. That, in case any P.R.B. should feel disposed
to adopt publicly any course of action affecting the Brotherhood,
the subject be in the first instance brought before the other
members.”
Having now disposed of the Præraphaelite Brotherhood as an
organization, I must revert to the doings of Dante Rossetti in the studio
which from the latter end of August 1848 he shared with Mr. Hunt. It seems
that the idea at starting was that Hunt, Millais, and Rossetti, should each
produce an etching from Keats's
Isabella, and thus show forth to the public their close connexion in purpose
and in work. This intention however did not take effect. Millais, in lieu of
an etching, proceeded to paint his celebrated
picture from
Isabella; Hunt undertook
Rienzi swearing Revenge over
his
Transcribed Footnote (page 141):
1 Up to this point the Rules are written out by me
in a clear deliberate script, being evidently a recast, done at leisure,
from my first hasty jottings. The subsequent Rules are written
hurriedly, and must have reached me in some different way: I forget the
details. The restrictive clause, 17, as to the Journal, was proposed by
myself. It was not a precautionary measure against me taken by some one
else.
Transcribed Footnote (page 141):
2 No doubt this must be imperfectly expressed. The
real intention must be that, whereas an original P.R.B. could only be
discarded by the votes of the other original members, a subsequently
elected P.R.B. could be discarded by the votes of
the
original members, and also
of any members of his own standing
in point of date.
Brother's Corpse
; and Rossetti chose as his subject
The Girlhood of Mary Virgin
, painted on panel, 33 inches by 25. I have no clear recollection of
any details leading up to this selection. He must have thought that the
subject was one particularly worthy of a
“Præraphaelite” painter; and perhaps the
consideration that he could treat it without any strained or difficult
actions, and without any plethora of accessory, and with a certain reserve
of style rather than energetic realism in this his first attempt, may have
weighed with him. Of course however the plan was to paint all parts of the
picture carefully from Nature, and this he did not fail to do. Hunt was of
much use to him as an adviser, and Madox Brown frequently came in to inspect
and control. Rossetti, according to Mr. Hunt, displayed
“unchecked impatience at
difficulties”; and I can remember something of this. A
remonstrance from Hunt had a good effect, and the young painter managed to
curb himself somewhat. “When he had once sat
down,” says Mr. Hunt, “and was immersed
in the effort to express his purpose, and the difficulties had to be
wrestled with, his tongue was hushed, he remained fixed, and inattentive
to all that went on about him; he rocked himself to and fro, and at
times he moaned lowly or hummed for a brief minute, as though telling
off some idea.” He found time also for sitting to
Hunt for the head of Rienzi, and to Brown for that of the Fool of King Lear
in the picture (previously mentioned) of
Cordelia watching the Bedside of
Lear
. Both of these are good likenesses, and must remain of the highest
interest to sympathizers with Rossetti as showing what he appeared in the
birth-year of Præraphaelitism. Moreover he painted in oils a
head of Christina, which must thus be the very
first finished painting he produced.
Perhaps Rossetti had never been forestalled in representing an ideal
scene of the home-life of the Virgin Mary with her parents; certainly not in
the particular invention which this picture embodies. The Virgin, aged about
seventeen, is shown working at an embroidery under the eye of her mother
St. Anna. The embroidery represents a lily, the
emblem of purity, which she copies from a plant watered by a child angel.
The father St. Joachim
1 is behind, trailing up a vine. The Holy Ghost, in the form of a
dove, is also present. The head of the Virgin was painted from Christina
Rossetti, that of St. Anna from our mother: both very faithful likenesses.
The vase containing the lily is mounted upon six large volumes lettered with
the names of virtues, Charity being the uppermost. There are numerous other
details, each with a symbolic or spiritual meaning; and I will venture to
say that every one of the meanings is well conceived and rightly indicated.
For the frame of the picture my brother had a slip of gilt paper printed (I
still possess a copy of it) containing two sonnets of his
composition—the first setting forth the general purport of the
work, and the second its individual symbols. The sonnets have been
reproduced elsewhere, and with some reluctance I omit them here; but may
observe that the leading conception of the picture is expressed in the close
of the second sonnet—
- “She soon shall have achieved
- Her perfect purity; yea God the Lord
- Shall soon vouchsafe His son to be her
son.”
This picture is painted in rather bright but not crude
colours— a love for the primary hues, so much affected by
painters of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, being a very marked
trait in the practice of the Præraphaelite
Brotherhood at its inception. The handling is delicate and finished, aiming
at nicety rather than strength, but it should hardly perhaps be called
timid; the surface is rather thin. If I remember right, the only medium used
was copal, for the P.R.B.'s had a horror of thick and cloggy vehicles. There
is certainly not the least
bravura in the
work, neither did its painter wish that there should be any; but it is very
far from being
Transcribed Footnote (page 143):
1 Mr. Bell Scott says “St.
Joseph,” and laughs at his being occupied otherwise than
as a carpenter; but, the personage being mis-stated, the laugh is
misapplied.
incompetent, and, considered as the first
painting of a youth of twenty, it may claim to be highly remarkable. There
is (or was) some gilding in the hair of the Virgin and in the nimbus round
the Dove. The forms are pure and simple, but not ascetic, and of course with
no sort of copyism from archaic art. The point most approaching to rigidity
is the straight contour-line formed by Mary's legs, running parallel to the
embroidery-frame. This would have been improved by some modification.
There are three sonnets by Rossetti which belong to the early days of
Præraphaelitism, and which well deserve to be considered by
persons who would like to understand that movement, and the temper in which
Rossetti viewed it. They now form a portion of
The House of Life
, and are named collectively
Old and New Art
. The second and third— bearing the titles
Not as These
, and
The Husbandman
—were written in 1848; the first,
St. Luke the Painter
, 1849; and this was intended to illustrate a picture (never painted)
of Luke preaching, having beside him pictures, his own work, of Christ and
the Virgin Mary. These three sonnets testify to a highly religious (not
necessarily dogmatic) view of the function of the Art, to love of the old
painters, and revolt against the more modern ones, and to a modest and yet
resolute desire to aid in reinstating the Art in its legitimate place. The
spirit which animates the sonnets is that of a man destined to dare and do,
and to overcome.
Another painting—his second oil portrait—was
produced by Dante Rossetti towards the close of 1848—the
likeness of our father, half-length life-size,
commissioned by Dante's godfather Mr. Lyell. Both as a likeness and as a
picture this work is creditable and interesting, without being
excellent.
As this is a Memoir of Rossetti, and not a Monograph on
the Præraphaelite Brotherhood, I shall not apply myself to
following out the course of the several members; but will only
say that the three chief painters, Millais, Hunt, and Rossetti, were ready
with their pictures in time for the Exhibiting-season of 1849. Millais and
Hunt sent to the Royal Academy, Rossetti to the so-called Free Exhibition
near Hyde Park Corner. This was the second year of that Exhibition as a
Picture Gallery. Its first year, 1848, had been distinguished by the display
of Madox Brown's highly interesting and important painting,
Wiclif reading his Translation of the New
Testament to John of Gaunt
; a painting which, in its bright but rather pale colouring, lightness
of surface, and general feeling of quietism,
1 had beyond a doubt served in some respects to mould the ideas and
beacon the practice of the P.R.B.'s. The Free Exhibition was not really
free. The exhibiting artists had to pay for their space, and a percentage
upon sales, and the public had to pay for admission. I suppose that it
professed to be free on the very ground that all artists were free to hang
pictures there if only they would pay for the space; and I further suppose
that this was a principal incentive to my brother for betaking himself to
that gallery rather than the Royal Academy. Mr. Brown's example (for he
again exhibited here in 1849) must also have influenced him. My brother was
proud, and in his way prudent as well; and he must have contemplated with
revulsion the mere possibility of being rejected at the
Academy—an institution which (apart from any crudities or
peculiarities in his first picture) might perhaps view him with some
disfavour as having abandoned the Academy course of instruction, and learned
from an outsider how to handle pigments and brushes. Next year, 1850, the
Free Exhibition quitted Hyde Park Corner, and went to Regent Street near
Langham Place, and was there entitled the National Institution, or Portland
Gallery. It continued for some years, dying out towards 1855.
The Girlhood of
Transcribed Footnote (page 145):
1 I have not seen this picture in
late years; have some idea that it was re-worked upon,
and strengthened in tint and tone.
Mary Virgin
was signed “Dante Gabriele
Rossetti, P.R.B.,”
1 and the same initials appeared on the pictures of Millais and
Hunt, and also of Collinson. This year the initials passed without exciting
any definite notice.
It is a fact that the paintings of our three Præraphaelites
were well received by press and public, and Millais and Hunt were more than
tolerably well hung in the Academy. This becomes a remarkable fact when we
consider the storm of disapprobation, rage, and contumely, which the
pictures of the same men—certainly showing an advance in
pictorial quality—encountered in the exhibitions of 1850. The
reason for this differing treatment is obvious enough, and not less
discreditable than obvious. In 1849 the pictures were judged on their
merits, as three independent productions of young and promising men. In 1850
the initials P.R.B. were understood; the young men were discovered to be
working on a common principle, in antagonism more or less decided to
established rules and current reputations; and the floodgates of virulence
were let loose, not because the pictures were bad—they are now
well known to be good—but because their authors were regarded and
detested as pestilent heretics. It is a humiliating retrospect, but not for
the P.R.B.'s.
The Free Exhibition opened at the end of March 1849, the Academy of
course at its usual date, the first Monday in May; and thus, of all the
Præraphaelites, Rossetti happened to be the first to challenge a
public verdict. As I have already intimated, it proved a favourable one. I
cannot say how many papers criticized him. I have before me five extracts,
and possibly these—along with
The Builder, which was also laudatory—were all. They come from the
Art Journal,
Literary Gazette,
Morning Chronicle,
Observer, and
Athenæum
. In all of them there is high praise, intermixed with blame, more or
less mild. Soon after that date I came to know something of Art-critics,
their ways and means; and
Transcribed Footnote (page 146):
1 So Mr. Sharp says. This seems to be the
earliest instance in which Rossetti used
“Dante” as his
first
christian name. In the printed Catalogue the name stands
“G. D. Rossetti.”
I can safely say that in my youth—I
will go no further than that—they knew, as a body of men, only a
very moderate proportion of what they talked about. But clearly Dante
Rossetti had no reason to complain at this period. The critics were more
than courteous to a youth as yet totally unknown. I will give here the
notice from the
Athenæum
, being the most elaborate of the five. In 1850 it was generally
understood by the Præraphaelites—and I believe
correctly so—that Mr. Frank Stone the painter was the Art-critic
of the
Athenæum
. He was then highly abusive. Whether he was the same writer who had
sounded a very different note in 1849 I do not profess to know.
“It is pleasant to turn from the mass of
commonplace, the record of mere fact or the extravagant conceits
exhibited in the illustrations of some of our most cherished writers,
prose and poetic, to a manifestation of true mental power, in which Art
is made the exponent of some high aim, and what is ‘of the
earth, earthy,’ and of the Art, material, is lost sight of in
a dignified and intellectual purpose. Such a work will be found here;
not from a long- practised hand, but from one young in experience, new
to fame, Mr. G. D. Rossetti. He has painted
The Girlhood of Mary Virgin
(368); a work which, for its invention and for many parts of its
design, would be creditable to any exhibition. In idea it forms a
fitting pendent to Mr. Herbert's
Christ
subject to his Parents at Nazareth
. A legend may possibly
have suggested to Mr. Rossetti also the subject of his present work
[I am sure this was not the fact]. The Virgin is,
in this picture, represented as living amongst her family, and engaged
in the task of embroidering drapery—to supply possibly some
future sacred vestment [no such intention]. The
picture, which is full of allegory, has much of that sacred mysticism
inseparable from the works of the early masters, and much of the tone of
the poets of the same time. While immature practice is visible in the
executive department of the work, every allusion gives evidence of
maturity of thought—every detail that might enrich or amplify
the subject has found a place in it. The personification of the Virgin
is an achievement worthy of an older hand. Its spiritualized attributes,
and the great sensibility with which it is wrought, inspire the
expectation that Mr. Rossetti will
continue to pursue the lofty career which he
has here so successfully begun. The sincerity and earnestness of the
picture remind us forcibly of the feeling with which the early
Florentine monastic painters wrought; and the form and face of the
Virgin recall the words employed by Savonarola in one of his powerful
sermons: ‘Or pensa quanta bellezza avea la Vergine,
che avea tanta santità che risplendeva in quella
faccia della quale dice San Tommaso che nessuno che la vedesse
mai la guardò per concupiscenza, tanta era la
santità che rilustrava in lei.’ Mr. Rossetti has, perhaps unknowingly, entered into
the feelings of the renowned Dominican, who in his day wrought as much
reform in Art as in morals. The coincidence is of high value to the
picture.”
The whole transaction with
The Girlhood of Mary Virgin
, considered as a first picture, was a most encouraging success.
Rossetti hung it at his own discretion; he was complimented by the press;
his sonnets passed not unnoticed, Sir Theodore Martin in especial being
singularly struck by them; and he sold the painting promptly for his own
price of £80. The purchaser was the Marchioness Dowager of Bath,
in whose family our aunt, Charlotte Polidori, was governess, and afterwards
companion. The Marchioness after a while presented the picture to her
daughter Lady Louisa Feilding. With this lady the work remained until a
recent date. Who the present owner may be I know not. After getting it back
from the exhibition Dante painted a fresh head to the girl-angel. By 25
August he despatched her purchase to Lady Bath. Perhaps the best success of
all was that, in 1864, receiving the picture for re-framing, he found it to
be “
a long way better
than he thought.” “
It quite surprised me
(and shamed me a little) to see what I did fifteen years
ago,” is an expression in one of his letters.
It has appeared to me no other than requisite to dwell at some length
on the early years of my brother—his family surroundings, his
beginnings in drawing and writing, his sympathies for painters and authors,
his studies, and the commencement of his professional practice. We have now
reached the point where he is an exhibiting and well-accepted painter,
and a poet of considerable though as yet not
public performance. Were I to pursue with equal minuteness his doings from
year to year in art and in literature, I should exceed the bounds which I
contemplate—should perhaps exceed any
reasonable bounds. Many matters remain which will require copious and
free treatment; but I do not propose to turn this Memoir into an
accurate—still less an exhaustive—record of all the
pictures and designs, and all the writings, which he continued to produce
from year to year. Some things stand out as landmarks or milestones in his
career, and these will receive due consideration; others will be passed over
or summarized. Besides, I have already produced a book,
Dante Gabriel Rossetti as Designer and
Writer
,
1 giving in chronological order a great number of details, major and
minor, about his performances, their sales and purchasers, etc. etc.; and
some readers of the present narrative, feeling any interest in those
particulars, can supplement, by reference to that volume, anything which
they may hold to be deficient in this. My present scope is wider and more
personal. The things which Dante Rossetti produced will indeed be of primary
importance to it; but rather as being a symptom and outcome of his
personality—a portion of his life—than as forming my
main subject-matter.
Transcribed Footnote (page 149):
1 Published by Cassell & Co., 1889.
It is now out of print.
If Dante Rossetti cannot rightly be credited (in
derogation of Hunt and Millais) with inventing the Præraphaelite
movement and Brotherhood, a very significant enterprize, he certainly
can be credited with inventing
The Germ
. He was eager to distinguish himself in literature, no less than
painting, and wanted to have some safe vehicle both for ushering his
writings before the public, and for diffusing abroad the
Præraphaelite principles of art. I feel pretty sure that at first
every
one of his colleagues regarded the enterprize as
rash, costly, foredoomed to failure, and an interruption to other more
pressing and less precarious work. But Rossetti was not to be denied. The
magazine was enacted in his mind; it was to be, and was to enlist the
energies of all the P.R.B.'s, and of some other persons as well. With
varying degrees of reluctance his friends yielded. As the project
progressed, some of them seem even to have yielded with willing assent.
Among these, Hunt, Woolner, and myself, may have stood foremost.
The “P.R.B. Diary” shall be my chief guide in
relating the history of
The Germ
; several relevant details will be found also in the Family-letters.
The first entry which I find bearing upon this subject is dated 13 July
1849, and runs as follows:—
“In the evening Gabriel and I went to
Woolner's with the view of seeing North (whom however we did not find at
home) about a project for a monthly sixpenny magazine, for which four or
five of us would write, and one make an etching—each
subscribing a guinea, and thus becoming a proprietor. [As to
North—a very familiar figure in those days with Woolner,
Dante, and myself, but scarcely so with the other
P.R.B.'s—some particulars will be found in my note to Letter
C 8.] The full discussion of the subject is fixed for
to-morrow at Woolner's.”
The title first thought of was
Monthly
Thoughts in Literature, Poetry, and Art
; and it was immediately
projected to increase the magazine to forty pages, two etchings, and a price
of one shilling. On 23 September, being in the Isle of Wight, I received a
letter informing me that I was appointed Editor, “as
difficulties in keeping back the ardour of our new proprietors
[not all of them P.R.B.'s] began to rise
up”; and a prospectus had been sent off to the printer's,
with the title altered to
Thoughts towards
Nature
, which was Dante's idea. Messrs. Aylott &
Jones, of Paternoster Row, were selected as publishers. Soon afterwards a
different title was proposed,
The P.R.B.
Journal
; but to this I objected, partly on the ground that some of
the writers, and even of the proprietors,
Note: In the second transcribed footnote, there should be a period after
the word “Outis.”
would not belong to the Brotherhood. In November we resolved
to do no advertizing, owing to the expense. This decision was almost, yet
not absolutely, adhered to. There was some small amount of ordinary
advertizing; and in May placards were posted and carried about in front of
the Academy exhibition.
We now come to December, the month which was to be devoted to the
printing of our opening number, so that it might appear at the close of that
month, or the beginning of January. On 17 December Rossetti resumed writing
his prose story
Hand and Soul
, for our No. 1; on the 21st he was at it all day
and all night,
1 and finished the narrative—the epilogue remaining over
till the following day. Meanwhile, on the 19th, there had been a meeting of
no small moment to us at his studio—which was, since 10 October,
No. 72 Newman Street, the rent £26 per annum. We had finally to
decide upon the title of our magazine; and the company consisted not only of
the seven members of the Brotherhood, but also of the painters Madox Brown,
Cave Thomas, and Deverell, the sculptor Hancock, and two brothers Tupper.
One of these, George, was a partner in the Firm which had undertaken to
print the magazine. The other, John Lucas, who had been an Academy-student
well known to Hunt, and aiming at sculpture rather than painting, was now
Anatomical Designer at Guy's Hospital, and later on he became Drawing-master
at Rugby School, where he died in 1879—a very capable
conscientious man, quite as earnest after truth in form and presentment as
any P.R.B., learned in his department of art, and with a real gift for
poetry, which received partial expression, and as yet, it may be feared,
next to no recognition.
2 The title
Thoughts towards
Transcribed Footnote (page 151):
1 So stated in the P.R.B. Diary; Dante
Rossetti, in my Section 43, gives a slightly different
account.
Transcribed Footnote (page 151):
2 I believe he has left a large quantity of
unprinted verse and prose. Some of it ought to be published. He
issued anonymously a noticeable book, 1869, entitled
Hiatus, the Void in Modern Education,
by Outis
There was a little lyric of Tupper's on the Garden of Eden
in ruinous
Nature was not viewed with much
predilection. Mr. Cave Thomas had some while before proposed
The Seed; and he now offered (with others)
two new names,
The Scroll, and
The Germ. The last was ultimately approved by a vote of six to four.
The Germ
No. 1 appeared on or about 1 January 1850. I do not propose to go
minutely into the contents of the magazine—still less into its
merits and demerits; but, as regards No. 1, I may perhaps as well recite the
full contents. No authors' names were here given (a point contrary to my
liking); but in subsequent numbers some names, and also some pseudonyms,
were supplied on the wrappers. No. 1 opens with Woolner's poem
My Beautiful Lady
, and
Of my Lady in Death
, accompanied by an
etching
by Hunt
, consisting of two separate compositions. Then
come—
The Love of Beauty
, sonnet, by Madox Brown;
The Subject in Art
, No. 1, by J. L. Tupper;
The Seasons
, by Coventry Patmore (known first to Woolner, and by this time to most
of us);
Dreamland
, by Christina Rossetti;
My Sister's Sleep
(being No. 1 of
Songs of one Household
), by Dante Rossetti;
Hand and Soul
, by the same; a
Review, by myself, of Clough's poem,
The Bothie of Toper na Fuosich
(
Toper-na-Vuolich in later issues);
Her First Season
, sonnet, also by myself;
A Sketch from Nature
, by J. L. Tupper; and
An End
, by Christina Rossetti. On the first page of the wrapper was
a sonnet, my
performance, intended to indicate the point of view from which the
Præraphaelites contemplated the expression of ideas, and the
record of appearances, whether in literature or in art. The last page
contained a slight programme of what the nature of the contents of the
magazine generally would be. I cannot say that it is effectively done, nor
do I now remember who did it. I incline to think that Dante Rossetti made
the first draft, which, being freely overhauled
Transcribed Footnote (page 152):
decay, of which Dante Rossetti thought very highly.
He compared it to Ebenezer Jones's lyric, “When the world is
burning”; and said that, had it been the writing of Edgar Poe, it
would have enjoyed world-wide celebrity.
by others, got muddled more or less. It contains
the following deliverance regarding Fine Art—a deliverance which
shows to a certain extent the principle of the P.R.B., but in a very meagre
and stunted condition:—
“
The endeavour held in
view throughout the writings on Art will be to encourage and enforce
an entire adherence to the simplicity of Nature; and also to direct
attention, as an auxiliary medium, to the comparatively few works
which Art has yet produced in this spirit.”
A different programme—which was not however much more than a
topsy-turvy of the original one—appeared on the wrappers of Nos.
3 and 4, which were less directly under the control of myself as editor, or
of the other members of the Brotherhood.
The issue of No. 1 of
The Germ
was 700 copies, for No. 2 only 500. About 100 of No. 1 were sold by
the publishers, besides nearly or quite as many through our own exertions
among friends and sympathizers; No. 2 went off even less well than this.
There was a fancy in our circle for speaking of the magazine as
“The Gurm.” I am not quite sure how this originated,
but believe that some outsider, seeing the magazine in a shop, and not
realizing to himself what the title meant, asked for it in that form of
pronunciation. For Nos. 3 and 4, which were brought out at the risk of our
friendly printing-firm, a new title,
Art and
Poetry
, was invented by a member of the firm, Mr. Alexander
Tupper. I hardly know how these numbers sold, but am sure it was very
little. With No. 4, issued towards the close of April 1850, the magazine
came to an end. If not before, it was behind, its time. There were some
laudatory notices of the various parts—in
The Dispatch,
John Bull,
The Guardian,
The Critic
, Howitt's
Standard of Freedom; a faintly patronizing one in the
Art Journal, which disappointed us, as the editor, Mr. S. Carter Hall (whom Madox
Brown was wont to call “Shirt-Collar Hall,” as
designating the high respectability of his exterior) had previously written
to one of us speaking of our
band as “the future great
artists of the age and country”; others in
The Morning Chronicle,
The Spectator
, and elsewhere. After balancing receipts and expenditure, we had to
meet a printer's bill of £33 odd. This seems now a very moderate
burden; but it was none the less a troublesome one to all or most of us at
that period. In course of time it was cleared off, with the
result—perhaps a salutary one—that none of us ever
again made any proposal for publishing a magazine. For many years past
The Germ
has been a literary curiosity, fetching high fancy-prices; and more
publishers than one have made proposals for re-printing it, but, owing to
the dissent of one or other contributor, these proposals have had to be set
aside. Even a single contribution to
The Germ
—the
Hand and Soul
of Dante Rossetti, as privately re-printed towards 1869—has
been priced at no less than six guineas.
I will add here a couple of anecdotes about
Hand and Soul
, which is, from all points of view, a very interesting specimen of my
brother's early work. The motto on my title-page is taken from it, and seems
to me very appropriate, both to my brother's intrinsic quality as painter
and poet, and to the material of these volumes. Readers of this tale may
remember that it relates to a supposed Italian painter of the thirteenth
century, Chiaro dell' Erma, who in 1239 saw his own soul in a visible female
form, and painted her; a matter, by the way, which shows that Rossetti's
knowledge of art-history was at this period extremely slight (unless indeed
he voluntarily
chose to go wrong, in the interest of his
idea for the story), as it is totally impossible that, at so remote a date
as 1239, any painter whatever should have produced a work at all
corresponding with the details given concerning this picture. The Epilogue
to the tale is written in a highly realistic tone, and contains many
particulars about the picture, purporting for instance that it is to be
found in the Pitti Gallery of Florence (had Rossetti known more about the
likelihoods of such a case, he would have substituted the Accademia). There
was a young lady of some fortune in
Worcestershire—Kidderminster, I
think—who became the first wife of the landscape-painter Mr.
Andrew McCallum; one of the prettiest and pleasantest little women I ever
saw, with a most beaming splendid pair of eyes. She read
Hand and Soul
in
The Germ
, admired it, and believed it to be substantially true. Either before
or after her marriage she was in Florence, and enquired at the Pitti for
this picture, and was grievously disconcerted to find that nobody knew
anything about it. In Mr. Sharp's book there is a story of some other lady
who, at a much later date, professed to Rossetti that she had actually seen
the picture at the Pitti, adding other relevant but not rigidly veracious
details. This story also may be true; but I know (or at any rate remember)
nothing about it, whereas I do know the story about Mrs. McCallum to be
correct. My second anecdote relates to an etching which my brother undertook
to do for
The Germ
. It has been more than once stated in print that this etching was to
illustrate a different tale which he began writing, called
An Autopsychology
, suggested to him by an image of his own introduced into his poem
The Bride's Prelude
. The tale was not finished, but its beginning appears in his
Collected Works
, under the title
St. Agnes of Intercession
. The fact is that Millais offered to do for
The Germ
an etching for
The Autopsychology
; and he did it, and prints from the etching are still in existence.
But the etching which Dante contemplated was for
Hand and Soul
, to be published in a number of
The Germ
later than that in which the tale itself had appeared. This
etching—representing Chiaro in the
act of painting his Soul—
he drew in March 1850, and he got it
bitten-in by Mr. Shenton the engraver; but, upon seeing a print of it on 28 March, he was so
displeased with the result that, in his vehement mood, he tore up the
impression, and scratched the plate over. I hardly think that I ever saw the
design; would gladly do so now, were that but possible.
Though I do not want to dwell at any further length upon
The Germ
, I will specify the contributions of Dante Rossetti to Nos. 2, 3,
and 4. They are—
The Blessed Damozel
,
The
Carillon
,
From the Cliffs—Noon
,
Pax Vobis
, and six
Sonnets for Pictures
(
Memling,
Mantegna,
Giorgione,
and
Ingres).
1
The Blessed Damozel
, as I have said, had been written in his nineteenth year. Of that
first form of the poem no copy appears to be now extant. Before printing it
in
The Germ
he added four stanzas. I might make some guess as to which they are;
but it would only be a guess, and it shall not here trouble my readers.
Perhaps some of them might be amused to hear the dirge of
The Germ
, as it was chanted at the time by Mr. John Tupper.
“
Dedicated to the P.R.B. on the Death of
‘The Germ,’ otherwise known as
‘Art and Poetry.’
- “Bring leaves of yew to intertwine
- With ‘leaves’ that
evermore are dead,
- Those leaves as pallid-hued as you
- Who wrote them never to be read:
- And let them hang across a thread
- Of funeral-hemp, that, hanging so,
- Made vocal if a wind should blow,
- Their requiem shall be anthemèd.
- “Ah rest, dead leaves!—Ye
cannot rest
-
10Now ye are in your second state;
- Your first was rest so perfect, fate
- Denies you what ye then possessed.
- For you, was not a world of strife,
- And seldom were ye seen of men:
- If death be the reverse of life,
- You never will have peace again.
- “Come, Early Christians, bring a
knife,
- And cut these woful pages down:
- Ye would not have them haunt the town
-
20Where butter or where cheese is rife!
- No, make them in a foolscap-crown
- For all whose inexperience utter
- Believes High Art can once go down
- Without considerable butter.
Transcribed Footnote (page 156):
1 Mr. W. M. Hardinge published, in
Temple Bar, a very suggestive article on these sonnets.
- “Or cut them into little squares
- To curl the long locks of those Brothers
- Præraphaelite who have long
hairs—
- Tremendous long, compared with
others.
1
- As dust should still return to dust,
-
30The P.R.B. shall say its prayers
- That come it will or come
it must—
2
- “A time
Sordello shall be read,
- And arguments be clean abolished,
- And sculpture punched upon the head,
- And mathematics quite demolished;
- And Art and Poetry instead
- Come out without a word of prose in,
- And all who paint as Sloshua did
- Have all their sloshy fingers
frozen.”
3
Transcribed Footnote (page 157):
1 This, I suppose, is a hit at my brother and
Stephens, rather than other members of the P.R.B. The after reference to
abolishing arguments and mathematics, and disliking sculpture, would
also relate principally to my brother. He did not really dislike
sculpture, but he much preferred painting.
Transcribed Footnote (page 157):
2 A line seems to be wanting in this stanza. I am
copying from a transcript made at the time by myself, but I don't think
the oversight can be mine.
Transcribed Footnote (page 157):
3 I have noted elsewhere that
“slosh” was a term much in vogue with the
Præraphaelites in their early days, to indicate a hasty,
washy, indeterminate manner in painting, neglectful of severe form and
accurate detail, and lavish of unctuous vehicle.
“Sloshua” was Sir Joshua
Reynolds(!)
From the early autumn of 1849 to the late spring of 1850
was a busy time with Dante Rossetti. Besides all the eagerness of planning
and the flurry of working for
The Germ
, there was his small continental trip with Holman Hunt in the autumn,
along with the production of a new picture for exhibition. Of the
continental trip his Family-letters bear ample record in prose and verse.
It was a
valuable experience to him, but not one which he
unreservedly enjoyed. He liked England and the English better than any other
country and nation; and he never crossed the sea without severe discomfort,
or contemplated the crossing of it without repulsion. The few acquaintances
that he made abroad played no part in his after-life. Strange to say, this
small trip to Paris and Belgium was the longest, in point of duration and
space combined, that he ever undertook.
I shall give here a brief account of the painting and designing work of
Rossetti between the date in 1849 when he exhibited his first picture, and
the date in 1854, 13 April, when Mr. Ruskin became personally known to him;
followed by a similar summary of his writing-work between the same dates. I
name both in order of time as nearly as I can.
There was the beginning of a large oil-picture, with numerous figures,
from a song in Browning's dramatic poem
Pippa Passes, entitled
Hist, said Kate the Queen
. It was not finished, but a water-colour of the full composition
exists. A pen-and-ink drawing, 1849, given to Millais, of
Dante drawing an Angel in Memory of
Beatrice
—quite a different design from the subsequent
water-colour, 1853, of the same subject. This
pen-and-ink drawing is perhaps more decidedly marked by the
“Præraphaelite” peculiarities of that date
than anything else which Rossetti produced; it is likewise his earliest
subject taken from the
Vita Nuova, to which he so frequently recurred afterwards.
The Laboratory
(from Browning's
poem), which may be called his first water-colour. The pen-and-ink
design
Hesterna Rosa
, with a motto from a song in Henry Taylor's
Philip van Artevelde. The oil-picture, his second exhibited work,
Ecce Ancilla Domini
(or
The Annunciation), now in the
National Gallery. The landscape of trees etc. which he painted at Sevenoaks,
while Mr. Hunt was in the same neighbourhood, in the very rainy autumn of
1850. I cannot recollect what was to have been the subject of this
oil-picture. Long afterwards, 1872, he completed it under the title of
The Bower-meadow
. A water-colour,
Beatrice at a Marriage-feast denies Dante her
Salutation
,
Note: In first paragraph, “ben son Beatrice”
should be followed by a period.
exhibited. The pen-and-ink design,
How they met Themselves
—a lover and his lady encountering their own wraiths in a
forest, an incident ominous of approaching death. A
crayon portrait of William Bell Scott. An exhibited
water-colour,
Giotto painting the Portrait of Dante
. The
scene, water-colour, from Dante's
Purgatorio, where Beatrice says, “Guardami ben, ben son ben son Beatrice” He repeated this subject more than once, but always, I
think, in varying compositions. A very interesting attempt at the beginning
of 1853, not long persisted in, being
an oil-picture
in two compartments
, life-sized half-figures, representing
Dante's resolve to write the
Comedia in memory of Beatrice. A
pencil-head of Holman
Hunt
. The elaborate pen-and-ink design (begun in 1853, but not
finished till 1858) of
Mary Magdalene at the Door of Simon the
Pharisee
. The beginning of the oil-picture named
Found
.
These are the chief, but by no means the only, products of the years of
which we are speaking. They show a considerable range in choice of subject
and mode of treatment. Regarding execution, it may be said in general terms
that Rossetti continued to progress, both in force and in facility, but did
not evince any great disposition for attaining strenuous mastery in
draughtsmanship, or resource in the management of perspective, or of
architectural or landscape accessory. As to draughtsmanship of human and
animal form, he of course always recognized the high importance of this,
whether he fully achieved it or not. But for the other matters he retained
till the last a large measure of personal indifference, though necessarily
conscious—none more so—that these also are required in
order to make a picture conformable to the modern standard. The fact is that
he
preferred the tone of mind which governed the treatment
of such elements of the subject in olden art. That they should convey their
message in a suggestive way he thought fully requisite; that they should be
rigorously realized by scientific rule or naturalistic presentment he did
not care; and, if under a system of that sort they usurped the place of the
main idea or of human
emotion and expressional force, he wished them
well away. I do not aver that he was right in this view—the
reader may judge for himself—but only that his view it assuredly
was.
As to five of these works I may add a few details.
For
Ecce Ancilla Domini
Rossetti began a
sketch on 25 October
1849. To supplement this picture of the Annunciation he intended to execute
a companion-subject, the
Death of the Virgin.
The latter he never even began, having come to the conclusion that
such themes were “not for the market.”
Both pictures were to be chiefly white in hue. For the
Annunciation—“The
Virgin,” so he told me, “is to be in
bed, but without any bedclothes on, an arrangement which may be
justified in consideration of the hot climate; and the Angel Gabriel is
to be presenting a lily to her.” This last point
connects the picture with
The Girlhood of Mary Virgin
; and the remark as to bedclothes testifies that, even in so ideal a
subject as this, Rossetti was not unheedful of the Præraphaelite
doctrine that the treatment should be consistent with probable facts. More
persons than one sat for the head of the Angel—two models named
Maitland and Lambert, and myself, at any rate; for the Virgin's head,
Christina, and also a Miss Love, who was I suppose a model. The head
resembles Christina sufficiently to be accounted a likeness, but it is less
like her than the head in
The Girlhood of Mary Virgin
. Rossetti had all along purposed sending this picture to the Royal
Academy; but at the last moment he altered his mind, and recurred to the
National Institution (Free Exhibition). Its price was £50, but it
remained unsold until the opening of 1853; when Mr. Francis McCracken, a
ship- owner or packing-agent of Belfast, prompted by a friendly suggestion
from Holman Hunt (from whom and from Madox Brown he had already bought some
works), became the purchaser. At the end of 1850, on receiving the picture
back from the National Institution, my brother again worked upon it,
improving it materially by showing the Angel's left hand—for at
first the Angel, like the Virgin herself, had only one
hand visible. He did some further work when Mr. McCracken
settled to buy the picture; and to him he despatched it on 29 January 1853,
altering the Latin title into
The Annunciation
, as a precaution against any charges (then equally rife and
gratuitous) of “popery.” “The blessed white
eyesore” and “The blessed white daub” had
come to be his terms for this now national possession, so long left on his
hands. But his real sentiment on a question of art-work may have received
truer expression in one of his Family-letters (September 1853)—“
I shall never, I
suppose, get over the weakness of making a thing as good as I can
manage.” Even as late as 1874 something was again done to the
“white daub,” but I think very little. He wrote: “
It is best left
alone, except just for a touch or two. Indeed, my impression on
seeing it was that I couldn't do quite so well now!”
I have already referred to the very different reception which the
Præraphaelite pictures of 1850 encountered from artists, press,
and public, from that which had been accorded to the works of 1849. The
pictures were still signed “P.R.B.”; and my brother
had explained to his friend the sculptor Alexander Munro the meaning of
those mysterious initials, which were not intended to be unduly pressed upon
the attention of Academicians. Munro, a man of easy access to all sorts of
people, divulged the matter to a brother-Scotchman, Angus Reach,
1 who was a light writer of those days; and the latter published it
in the
Illustrated London News. Hence much of the fluster, and much of the virulence. When
Ecce Ancilla Domini
appeared in the National Institution, prior to the opening of the
Royal Academy, the
Athenæum
came down upon it on 20 April, in the following terms—and
even these
Transcribed Footnote (page 161):
1 I need scarcely say that I bear no sort of
grudge against Mr. Reach, who died a great number of years ago; but,
to give my reader a moment's amusement, I will here retail a joke of
Douglas Jerrold's which had, so far as I know, not yet got into
print. Reach is a Gaelic name, properly pronounced as a dissyllable,
Ree-ach; but naturally Londoners were wont to read it as a
monosyllable, Reech. Jerrold, being admonished to pronounce the name
accurately, rejoined—“He is Ree-ach if
you hear him, but Reech [retch, spue] if
you read him.”
were mild in comparison with what befell the
Christian Missionary persecuted by the
Druids
of Holman Hunt, and the so-called
Carpenter's Shop
of Millais:—
“But what shall we say of a work hanging
by the side of Mr. Newenham's historical picture—which we
notice less for its merits than as an example of the perversion of
talent which has recently been making so much way in our school of art,
and wasting the energies of some of our most promising aspirants? We
allude to the
Ecce Ancilla Domini
of Mr. D. G. Rossetti (225). Here a certain amount of talent is
distorted from its legitimate course by a prominent crotchet. Ignoring
all that has made the art great in the works of the greatest masters,
the school to which Mr. Rossetti belongs would begin the work anew, and
accompany the faltering steps of its earliest explorers. This is
archæology turned from its legitimate uses, and made into a
mere pedant. Setting at nought all the advanced principles of light and
shade, colour, and composition, these men, professing to look only to
Nature in its truth and simplicity, are the slavish imitators of
artistic inefficiency. Granted that in these early masters there is
occasionally to be seen all that is claimed for them of divine
expression and sentiment, accompanied by an earnestness and devotion of
purpose which preserved their productions from oblivion—are
such qualities inconsistent with all subsequent progress in historical
excellence, or do these crotchet-mongers propose that the art should
begin and end there? The world will not be led to that deduction by such
puerilities as the one before us; which, with the affectation of having
done a great thing, is weakness itself. An unintelligent imitation of
the mere technicalities of old art—golden glories, fanciful
scribblings on the frames, and other infantine
absurdities—constitutes all its claim. A certain expression
in the eyes of the ill-drawn face of the Virgin affords a gleam of
something high in intention, but it is still not the true inspiration.
The face of the Angel is insipidity itself. One arm of the Virgin is
well drawn, and there is careful though timid workmanship in the
inferior and accessorial part of the work, but this is, in many places,
where it would have been better left out. Yet with this we have
exhausted all the praise due, in our opinion, to a work evidently thrust
by the artist into the eye of the spectator more with the presumption of
a teacher than in the modesty of a hopeful and true aspiration after
excellence.”
It is a pity that the authorities of the National Gallery have not yet
seen their way to purchasing “Mr. Newenham's historical
picture” (which represented
The Princes in the Tower); the British public would then have the opportunity of realizing to
themselves its marked superiority over
Ecce Ancilla Domini
.—The
Times wrote in a tone partially resembling that of the
Athenæum
, but on the whole agreeable, recognizing the picture as
“the work of a poet.”
There is a little anecdote of this year which has never, I believe,
been recorded, but which I understand to be indisputably true. About the
time of the opening of the Academy-exhibition the Duke of Connaught had
been born, and Queen Victoria could not visit the gallery; but, noticing all
the hullaballoo in the newspapers about Millais's
Carpenter's Shop
, she required to have the picture sent to the Palace for her
inspection. Whether Her Majesty liked it or not I have no idea.
As for the other four works which I have specified, the water-colour
of
Giotto painting the Portrait of Dante
is in itself a noticeably complete invention, illustrating Dante's
relation to painting and to poetry, present and future, and his love for
Beatrice. But it was intended to be only the centre in a triptych, one wing
representing Dante, as Priore in Florence, banishing the chiefs of both
contending factions, and the other wing the exiled Dante and the Jester at
the Court of Can Grande della Scala (the incident introduced into Rossetti's
poem
Dante in Verona
). Rightly executed, this picture would have been his greatest work.
The
pencil head of Holman Hunt was done on
12 April 1853, when the Præraphaelites met together at Millais's
house to produce portraits of one another, to be presented to their absent
brother Woolner, who in July 1852 had gone to Australia; Millais doing
Stephens and myself, and Hunt doing Millais and Dante Rossetti (I now
possess the last). The design of
Mary Magdalene
was begun as a large picture towards 1860. This proceeded not very
far, and was ultimately laid aside for good, nor do I know what became of
the painted commencement.
A moderate-sized oil-sketch was completed about a
year later. The oil-picture
Found
was a source of lifelong vexation to my brother, and to the
gentlemen—some three or four in succession—who
commissioned him to finish it. This work was nearly completed, but not
quite, towards the close of Rossetti's life. An
oil-monochrome, produced in May 1879, and showing the full
composition, is extant. So far as the painting is concerned I will not here
enter into further detail, but may spare a few words to a question often
mooted—whether Rossetti did or did not take the subject of the
picture from Mr. Bell Scott's poem of
Rosabell. The facts are these.
Scott's poem relates to a country-girl, Rosabell (afterwards named
Mary Anne), who, having gone to town as a milliner's assistant, becomes the
mistress of a gentleman, Archer, and afterwards of another gentleman, Thorn,
who supplies her with every luxury. Eventually he leaves her, and she goes
from bad to worse, and dies a human wreck in a hospital. Before Thorn had
left her, and therefore while she was still in high prosperity, her old
rustic lover saw her. This scene is not introduced into the poem at all, but
it is hinted at in an interview which the lover has with Rosabell's parents.
One may surmise that the young man saw her flaunting in the Park or some
such place, and did not so much as speak to or accost her. Now what does
Rossetti's picture represent? It represents a rustic lover, a drover, who
finds his old sweetheart at a low depth of degradation, both from vice and
from penury, in the streets of London. He endeavours to lift her as she
crouches on the pavement. This is an incident wholly diverse from Scott's
incident. It may be said—If Rossetti had never read Scott's poem,
he would not have thought of any such subject for his own picture. This may
or may not be correct—I see no reason for thinking it correct;
but at all events he has not taken his subject out of
Rosabell. Mr. Scott's account of this matter, in his
Autobiographical Notes, is highly inaccurate. He thinks that Rossetti trifled with him in
June 1853 (the date of my brother's first visit to
Mr. Scott in Newcastle) by professing an
intention of thereafter painting this subject as coming from
Rosabell (which it does not); whereas (says Scott) he had already begun the
picture, and had already painted the drover's cart and calf. The truth is
that he had
not then begun the picture, and did not paint
the cart and calf until the end of 1854; but he had, I fancy,
designed the subject towards 1852, if not earlier. To sum
up—Rossetti did not borrow his subject from Scott, and did not
mislead Scott as to any details pertaining to the subject or the picture.
I was referring just now to the departure of Mr. Woolner to Australia
in July 1852, and to the meeting of his Præraphaelite Brothers,
in April 1853, to draw portraits of one another as a gift to him.
Intermediate between these dates was a sonnet addressed by Dante Rossetti to
Woolner. It has never yet been published, but deserves to find a place among
his poems, and I give it here.
TO THOMAS WOOLNER.
First Snow, 9
February
1853.
- Woolner, to-night it snows for the first
time.
- Our feet know well the path where in this
snow
- Mine leave one track: how all the ways we
know
- Are hoary in the long-unwonted rime!
- Grey as their ghosts which now in your new
clime
- Must haunt you while those singing spirits
reap
- All night the fields of hospitable
sleep—
- Whose song, past the whole sea, finds
counter-chime.
- Can the year change, and I not think of
thee,
-
10With whom so many changes of the year
- So many years were watched—our
love's degree
- Alone the same? Ah still for thee and me,
- Winter or summer, Woolner, here or there,
- One grief, one joy, one loss, one
victory.
I find in Mrs. Wood's book a statement on another point, not better
founded (so far as I am aware) than Mr. Scott's allegation. She says that
Rossetti seceded from “sacred art” because he was
repelled by the morbid character of a picture
Note: In the second paragraph, “which never came” should read
“which hardly came”.
of religious bearing by James Collinson,
St. Elizabeth of Hungary. I do not know from whom Mrs. Wood derived this information, nor have
I the least recollection of any such fact. My impression is that the
prolonged lack of any purchaser for the
Annunciation
picture had much more to do with his resolve.
A letter from Rossetti, dated 24 February 1854, and printed by Mr.
Scott, is of some interest as showing a certain cohesion between the
Præraphaelite Brothers at that comparatively late time. Millais
is here mentioned as the prime mover in a plan—which never came
to anything—to get up a sketching-club on much the same system as
that of the long-defunct Cyclographic Society. There were to be four
Præraphaelite members—Millais himself, Hunt, Stephens,
and Rossetti; also their close allies—Madox Brown, Charles
Collins, Scott, Arthur Hughes, and Munro. In addition to these came the
landscape-painters, Mark Anthony (a fine genius, not adequately valued now),
Inchbold, and Carrick; the renowned designers Leech and Richard Doyle; the
excellent animal-painter Wolf; the painter-amateur Michael Halliday; and two
ladies, the Marchioness of Waterford and the Honourable Mrs. Boyle (known as
E.V.B.). I was to be secretary. “The two
ladies”—said Rossetti, and with good
reason—“are both great in
design.”
The writings of most importance belonging to this period
are—
The Bride's Prelude
,
Dante at Verona
,
A Last Confession
,
Jenny
,
Dennis Shand
(a ballad of a rather light kind, not published),
The Burden of Nineveh
,
Stratton Water
,
Wellington's Funeral
,
The Staff and Scrip
,
Sister Helen
. Some of these however were not
finished so early as
the beginning of 1854. For instance,
Jenny
appears to have reached substantial completion about 1858, and
something further was done to the poem in 1869, soon before its publication.
Sister Helen
, which may have been written in 1851 or early in 1852, was first
printed in a Magazine—German, with an English issue supervised
by Mrs. Mary Howitt, whom Rossetti now knew well—named
The Dusseldorf
Artists' Annual
—I believe, the Part for 1854. It appeared with the initials
H.H.H. (the letters stamped upon lead pencils of exceptional hardness),
because, as once jotted down by Rossetti, “
people used to say
that my style was hard”—surely a stricture which does not come very
near the mark, and has not been confirmed by a later generation of readers.
Dr. Gordon Hake the poet has termed
Sister Helen
“the strongest emotional poem as yet in the
language.” The sonnet
Known in Vain
- (“As two whose love, first foolish,
widening scope”)
was written in January 1853, and presents the conception (to repeat
my own words used elsewhere) “of a man who in youth has
been feeble in will, indolent and scattered, but who, when too late,
wakes up to the duty and the privileges of work.”
This must be more or less autobiographical. It may be as well to say here
that my brother was, in the years of his studentship and first practice as a
painter, very much what is defined by the word
“desultory” (a word which figures in this very
sonnet); partly because he disliked routine-work and plodding application,
and partly because he was divided between literary and pictorial interests,
and often wanted to write when, to all appearance, he ought to have been
drawing. I say “to all appearance,”
because it is now only reasonable to admit that in the long run his readings
and writings in these early years proved to be of no less import in his
career than drawing-work could have been. This state of things was
irritating to our invalided and anxious father, who every now and then found
occasion to reprehend Dante sharply, and even severely; and to reprehension
my brother was at all times more than sufficiently stubborn. These rifts in
cordial family-affection were always distressing when they occurred, though
they soon healed over again. My brother, more than our father, was in the
wrong; yet not so much in the wrong as at first sight he seemed. He grieved
over the matter of our father's displeasure to his dying day.
Among letters addressed by Rossetti to Madox Brown, the latest which
bears the cipher P.R.B. on the envelope is dated before March 1853. It has
been stated that in this same year he first definitely decided to adhere to
painting as his profession, to the comparative neglect of poetry. Perhaps it
was before this, for the phrase “
I have abandoned
poetry” appears in a Family-letter dated 13 August 1852. An
article in the
Athenæum
, 15 September 1894, mentions the fact that at one time he was near to
undertaking the work of Telegraphy on the North-Western Railway, owing to
his indifferent prospects, some while after the Præraphaelite
movement began, of making a subsistence as a painter. This, which I had
never previously seen stated in print, is correct. I do not remember much in
detail about the matter, nor the exact date, which, but for the statement
about Præraphaelitism, I should have fixed in a still earlier
year. Perhaps it was in 1851, or the later part of 1850, when the want of
any customer for the “
white
daub
” was becoming irksome. If so, it is curious that the
very same picture which first represented Rossetti in the National Gallery
had gone nigh to ousting him from the profession. Of course the very
straitened money-condition of the family generally was the main
consideration. In 1851 there was our father incapacitated; our mother and
Christina fagging over an unremunerative attempt at a day-school; Maria
giving lessons in Italian etc., at two or three houses; myself with a small
salary in the Excise-office, and another smaller stipend from the
Spectator
. I can recollect that Dante Rossetti went round once to some suburban
station to see what a telegraph was like. The sight, and the moderate amount
of information given to him, afforded him no satisfaction; but, feeling the
family difficulties, he did not refuse to entertain the project. For one
reason or another, and luckily for all parties concerned—including
maybe the railway passengers—it very rapidly came to
nothing.
Another curious circumstance is that in October 1849 Rossetti and his
associates were pretty near settling in the
house, 16 Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, which he did
actually rent from Michaelmas 1862 onwards. Mr. Hunt and Mr. Stephens, along
with Rossetti, looked over the house, and were much taken with it. The idea
was that some P.R.B.'s and one or two of their closest
friends—such as Munro and Deverell—should jointly
tenant the house, and set up studios. To inscribe P.R.B. somewhere or other
on the premises seemed a
sine quâ
non
. A suggestion of mine that it might be written near the bell-pull,
and interpreted by the uninitiated as “Please Ring
Bell,” was hailed as an opportune solution of the problem. The
rent required was singularly low, £70; but we were so far
impecunious that even this was regarded as beyond our conjoint means, and
the idea of taking the house only lasted two or three days. It is moreover a
fact that the building contained not a single good studio.
This reference to the studio which Rossetti did
not
take after leaving the one which he shared with Hunt in Cleveland Street
leads me on to speaking of those which he
did take. As I
said, he was first at No. 72 Newman Street, a house where the ground-floor
was occupied as a Dancing-Academy. The Dancing-Master failed to pay his
rent; and, according to the oppressive system of those days, the goods of
his sub-tenant Rossetti were seized to make good the default. The landlord
was Mr. McQueen, a Printer in Tottenham Court Road. Dante and I carried away
a considerable number of books, and I suppose some other things as well.
This was probably not strictly legal—although, as regards the
books, they were in fact as much mine as his, for all books were in common
between us. Anyhow, the bulk of Dante's small belongings was confiscated,
and appeared to his eyes no more. He then took a studio at No. 74, next door
but one. It had a sort of slanting skylight, and few places were dismaller
when a brisk rain came down pattering upon the glass. My brother was in this
studio (still sleeping at No. 50 Charlotte Street) in October 1850, and
perhaps for some while previously. At the beginning of 1851 he took, along
with Deverell, the first floor at No. 17 Red Lion Square, a
house which happened to belong to Mr. North, the
father of our eccentric literary crony. In May he gave notice to leave this
apartment; and he accepted Madox Brown's obliging offer to accommodate him
for a while in his own large studio, which was now in the house in Newman
Street, No. 17, occupied by the sculptor Baily. Here he sat to Brown for the
head of Chaucer in the very large picture—now in the museum of
Sydney, Australia—of
Chaucer reading to the Court of Edward 3 the
Legend of Custance
. The head was painted in one night, 11 P.M. to
4 A.M., and was never afterwards touched upon. This
is recognizably like Chaucer, and is also a very fair portrait of Rossetti.
It is held by some writers that Rossetti at this time resembled Chaucer; by
others that he was like the Stratford bust of Shakespear; while Mr. Joseph
Knight (who knew him later on) considers that the nearest affinity was to
the great Italian actor Salvini—and I am more disposed to
acquiesce in this last opinion. It was, I gather, on 23 November 1852 that
Rossetti finally removed into Chambers of his own, and thus ceased to belong
to the household at Charlotte Street, or rather then at Arlington Street.
These Chambers were on the second floor of No. 14 Chatham Place, Blackfriars
Bridge, a line of street demolished now many years ago. He had a very fine
outlook on the river, and remained in this house until after the death of
his wife in February 1862. There were a spacious painting-room, a commodious
living-room, a small but well-lighted bedroom, and a little dusky
passage-room between these two, chiefly used for storing books. In these
Chambers I very frequently passed the evening with my brother, going thither
from my office at Somerset House. Not seldom, up to the date of his marriage
in 1860, I passed the night there as well.
Dante Rossetti—though there was nothing of the
Puritan in his feelings, nor in his demeanour or conversation—had
no juvenile amours,
liaisons, or
flirtations. In 1850 he fell seriously in love.
Outside the compact circle of the Præraphaelite Brotherhood
there was no man he liked better than Walter Howell Deverell, a youthful
painter, son of the Secretary of the Government Schools of
Design—artistic, clever, genial, and remarkably good-looking. One
day—early in 1850, if not late in 1849—Deverell
accompanied his mother to a bonnet-shop in Cranborne Alley (now
gone—close to Leicester Square); and among the shop-assistants he
saw a young woman who lifted down a bandbox or what not. She was a most
beautiful creature, with an air between dignity and sweetness, mixed with
something which exceeded modest self-respect, and partook of disdainful
reserve; tall, finely formed, with a lofty neck, and regular yet somewhat
uncommon features, greenish-blue unsparkling eyes, large perfect eyelids,
brilliant complexion, and a lavish heavy wealth of coppery-golden hair. It
was what many people call red hair, and abuse under that name—but
the colour, when not rank and flagrant, happens to have been always much
admired by Dante Rossetti, and I dare say by Deverell as well. All this fine
development, and this brilliancy of hue, were only too consistent with a
consumptive taint in the constitution. Her voice was clear and low, but with
a certain sibilant tendency which reduced its attractiveness. Deverell got
his mother to enquire whether he might be privileged to have sittings from
this beauty, and the petition was granted. He painted from her the head of
Viola in the picture, which he exhibited in the early spring of 1850, from
Shakespear's
Twelfth Night, the Duke with
Transcribed Footnote (page 171):
1 My brother always spelled the name
thus. Some members of the family wrote
“Siddall.”
Viola listening to the Court
Minstrels
; he also drew from her the head of Viola in the etching of
Olivia and Viola
which appeared in the final number of
The Germ
. In the oil-picture Rossetti sat for the head of the Jester. It is a
fair likeness, but rather grim.
1 I may as well add here that Hunt, not long afterwards, painted
from the same damsel the Sylvia in his picture from the
Two Gentlemen of Verona, and Millais his drowning
Ophelia
—but I fancy that both these heads, or at any rate the
first, have been a good deal altered at a more recent date. This milliner's
girl was Elizabeth Eleanor Siddal. When Deverell first saw her, she was, I
believe, not fully seventeen years of age.
1
The father of Miss Siddal was a Sheffield Cutler (Mr. Stephens says a
watchmaker, but I hardly suppose that to be correct), who had removed to the
neighbourhood of Newington Butts. His wife was alive in 1850, but not I
think himself. I never saw her; but I did see once or twice Elizabeth's
younger sister, a pleasing unmarried woman, and once her brother, who seemed
a sensible well-conducted man, perhaps a trifle hard in manner. There was
also a younger brother, said to be somewhat weak-minded. I find it stated
that Mrs. Siddal had in some way been intimately associated with Madox
Brown's second wife, a Miss Hill. This must have promoted a more than common
cordiality which (after Elizabeth Siddal had, through a different train of
circumstances, come into the artistic circle) subsisted between Mrs. Brown
and herself, and only terminated with death. A neighbouring tradesman in
Newington Butts, in Miss Siddal's infancy or early childhood, was named
Greenacre.
Transcribed Footnote (page 172):
1 This picture, a large one, belonged, some
while after Deverell's death, to Mr. Bell Scott. He sold it not very
long before his decease, and I do not know who may be its present
possessor.
Transcribed Footnote (page 172):
2My brother, when his wife died on 11 February
1862, believed her to be twenty-nine years old; but I can distinctly
recollect that her younger sister (whom they were wont to call
“the Roman,” from her aquiline nose, quite
different from the rather noticeably rounded one of Elizabeth
Eleanor) told him in my presence that the correct age was
twenty-eight.
Note: There is type damage obscuring the last letter on the page, the
“t” in “not”.
To the British public he is a murderer, more than commonly
execrable, and duly hanged. To Miss Siddal he was a good-natured neighbour,
who would on occasion help her toddling steps over a muddy or crowded
crossing. Such is the difference in “the environment.”
Miss Siddal—let me say here once for all—was a
graceful lady-like person, knowing how to behave in company. She had
received an ordinary education, and committed no faults of speech. In our
circle she was always termed “Lizzie,” and I shall
sometimes speak of her under that name.
Not long after Miss Siddal had begun to sit to Deverell, Dante Rossetti
saw her, admired her enormously, and was soon in love with
her—
how soon I cannot exactly say. She had
a face and demeanour very suitable indeed for a youthful Madonna; but I
presume the head of the Virgin in the
Annunciation
picture had been painted before he knew her—and, under any
circumstances, he would perhaps have taken this head from Christina, to keep
the work in harmony with
The Girlhood of Mary Virgin
. The first painting in which I find the head of Miss Siddal is the
rich little water-colour of 1850 (presented to Madox Brown) called
Rossovestita
(Red-clad). This is not greatly like Lizzie, but it can hardly have
been done from any one else. Soon followed a true likeness in the
water-colour,
Beatrice at a Marriage Feast denies Dante her
Salutation
, which was exhibited in the winter of 1852-53. Here the Beatrice is
Miss Siddal, and
every other Beatrice he drew for some
years following is also, I think, from her—likewise the Virgin in
a water-colour of
The Annunciation
, 1852.
Note: [Surtees dates this watercolor (S69, The
Annunciation) to 1855.]
She is here represented
bathing her feet in a rivulet, and the composition bears of course no
analogy to that of the oil-picture.
I do not know at what date a definite engagement existed between Miss
Siddal and my brother—very probably before or not long after the
close of 1851. That she was sincerely in love with him—he being
most deeply and profusely in love with her—is readily to be
presumed. Her character was somewhat singular—not quite easy to
understand, and not
at all on the surface. Often as I have been in
her company—and yet this was less often than might under the
conditions be surmised—I hardly think that I ever heard her say a
single thing indicative of her own character, or of her serious underlying
thought. All her talk was of a “chaffy”
kind—its tone sarcastic, its substance lightsome. It was like the
speech of a person who wanted to turn off the conversation, and leave
matters substantially where they stood before. Now and again she said some
pointed thing, which might cast a dry light, but ushered one no further. She
was not ill-natured in talk, still less was she scandal-mongering, or
chargeable with volatility or levity personal to herself; but she seemed to
say—“My mind and my feelings are my own, and no
outsider is expected to pry into them.” That she had plenty of
mind is a fact abundantly evidenced by her designs and water-colours, and by
her verses as well. Indeed she was a woman of uncommon capacity and varied
aptitude. In what religious denomination she had been brought up I know not.
Of her own, I fancy she had no religion. I should feel the more confident of
this, were it not that Dante Rossetti, undefined as his faith was, had no
sort of liking for irreligion in women. He had even a certain marked degree
of prejudice against women who would not believe.
When one wants chivalrous generosity, one goes to Algernon Swinburne
for it. This is what he once said of Miss Siddal
1:—
“It is impossible that even the reptile
rancour, the omnivorous malignity, of Iago himself, could have dreamed
of trying to cast a slur on the memory of that incomparable lady whose
maiden name was Siddal and whose married name was Rossetti. To one at
least who knew her better than most of her husband's friends the memory
of all her marvellous charms of mind and person—her
matchless
Transcribed Footnote (page 174):
1 In
The Academy
, 24 December 1892. Mr. Swinburne is here writing about Bell
Scott's
Autobiographical Notes, and about an interpretation—more or less
fanciful—which had been put upon a couple of phrases in
that book.
By Herself. 1853.
Elizabeth Eleanor Siddal (Rossetti).
Figure: Three-quarters head, facing right.
grace, loveliness, courage, endurance, wit, humour, heroism, and
sweetness—is too dear and sacred to be profaned by any
attempt at expression. The vilest of the vile could not have dreamed of
trying ‘to cast a slur on her
memory.’”
In these years, 1850 to 1854, Dante Rossetti was so constantly in the
company of Lizzie Siddal that this may even have conduced towards the
break-up of the P.R.B. as a society of comrades. He was continually painting
or drawing from her, and pretty soon his example and incitement brought her
on to designing and painting for herself. He gave her some instruction; but,
of systematic training of the ordinary kind, she appears to me to have had
scarcely any. Certain it is that she had a gift very superior, in its
quality if not in its actual outcome, to that which belongs to most female
débutantes. The tone of her
work was founded on that of Rossetti, with much less draughtsmanship, limper
forms, and cruder colour. His own was partly crude, as well as brilliant, in
the water-colours to which he chiefly confined himself in these years. On
the other hand, she had much of sweet and chastened invention, and an
ingenious romantic turn in it as well, and a graceful purity is stamped upon
everything she did. One of her first productions was, I think,
We are Seven, from Wordsworth's poem. It is mentioned in a letter dated 12 January
1853. Then came a pen-and-ink design, rather large, of
Pippa and the Women of loose Life
, from Browning's
drama, one of Miss Siddal's best drawings, and in essence a very good
one; the water-colour of the Wailing Ladies on the
Seashore from the old ballad of
Sir Patrick Spens; another from
St. Agnes' Eve, by Tennyson; another from the same great poet's
Lady Clare; and not a few more. Her
portrait was
painted by herself in 1853-4. It is an absolute likeness, and the readers of
this book may judge whether it is a laudable work of art. “
Lizzie,” said my brother, writing to Madox Brown on 25 August
1853, “
has made a perfect
wonder of her portrait, which is nearly done, and which I think we
shall send to the Winter Exhibition.” But this, I take it, was not carried out.
And again, in 1854: “
Her fecundity of
invention and facility are quite wonderful—much greater
than mine.” This may have been a lover's exaggeration, but it was
not mere nonsense. She continued designing and painting for some years, not
perhaps to any very large extent beyond 1857. Ill-health interfered, and
stopped the settled practice. She did something however even after marriage;
for a letter from Rossetti to Mr. Alexander Gilchrist, 18 June 1861, says: “
She has been working
very hard these few days, and made a beautiful water-colour
sketch.”
Of her verse—which is but scanty in quantity, so far as any
traces remain to me—I will present one specimen. Possibly it had
never yet been read by any one out of my family.
A YEAR AND A DAY.
- Slow days have passed that make a year,
- Slow hours that make a day,
- Since I could take my first dear love,
- And kiss him the old way:
- Yet the green leaves touch me on the cheek,
- Dear Christ, this month of May.
- I lie among the tall green grass
- That bends above my head,
- And covers up my wasted face,
-
10And folds me in its bed
- Tenderly and lovingly
- Like grass above the dead.
- Dim phantoms of an unknown ill
- Float through my tiring brain;
- The unformed visions of my life
- Pass by in ghostly train:
- Some pause to touch me on the cheek,
- Some scatter tears like rain.
- The river ever running down
-
20Between its grassy bed,
- The voices of a thousand birds
- That clang above my head,
- Shall bring to me a sadder dream
- When this sad dream is dead.
- A silence falls upon my heart,
- And hushes all its pain.
- I stretch my hands in the long grass,
- And fall to sleep again,
- There to lie empty of all love,
-
30Like beaten corn of grain.
The letter from which I lately quoted, 25 August 1853, contains the
first reference that I find to Miss Siddal's ill-health. It says, following
the praise of her portrait, “
she has been very ill
though lately.” The consumptive turn of her constitution became
apparent; and from this time forth the letters about her are shadowed with
sorrow which often deepens almost into despair. In a letter of March 1854 it
is stated that Dante had introduced Lizzie to the Howitts—William
and Mary Howitt, with their daughter Anna Mary (the painter, who afterwards
became Mrs. Alfred Alaric Watts), then living in Highgate Rise; and that the
Howitts were quite fond of her, and admired her productions. He had also
introduced her to Christina; but was at times a little put out with the
latter, thinking that her appreciation of Lizzie was not up to the mark. The
Howitts had got her to see Dr. Wilkinson (the distinguished
Homœpathist and writer), who pronounced that there was curvature
of the spine, and the case was an anxious one, but not at all hopeless. From
one of the Family-letters, June 1853, it will be observed that she was then
painting in the Chatham Place Chambers, while Dante was in Newcastle.
My brother was a lover of boundless enthusiasm and fondness. He made
no secret of his condition in the close circle of his nearer intimates. To
all other persons he wrapped himself in impenetrable silence, not without
some defiant tone; and he employed pet names for his fair one, of which
Guggum, Guggums, or Gug, was the most frequent, if not the most euphonious.
His Family-letters bear adequate marks of all this, but more especially his
correspondence with Mr. Madox Brown. I observe, from some of her very few
still extant letters, that Lizzie also addressed Rossetti
as “Gug.” Possibly she
invented the term, using it as a sort of short for
“Gabriel.”
I will here finish up with our lovable friend Deverell. He died on 2
February 1854, having for some months previously been a victim to Bright's
disease. His age appears to have been only twenty-six. Had he lived a few
years longer, he would not have failed to distinguish himself. Dante
Rossetti was his chief intimate, but he was a favourite with all of our
circle, and deserved to be so. He painted himself as the Duke in the
Twelfth Night
picture; Mr. Brown painted him finely as the gallant page in the
Chaucer
subject; and Mr. Holman Hunt made a very careful drawing of his
handsome head. I cannot remember that my brother ever did the like.
The relation of Mr. Ruskin to the
Præraphaelite Brotherhood has often been misunderstood or
mis-stated. It has been alleged—and this, in substance, I have
already denied—that the young artists who called themselves
Præraphaelites were prompted to their enterprise by reading some
writing of Ruskin's; also that he encouraged them from the first. This is an
error. There is nothing to show that he paid the least attention to their
works while these were on exhibition in 1849 and 1850: in 1849, praised for
the most part; in 1850, greeted with little other than extreme and envenomed
abuse.
In 1851 Rossetti did not contribute to any of the Exhibitions. Sir John
Millais sent to the Royal Academy three oil-pictures—
The Woodman's Daughter (from a poem by Coventry Patmore),
The Return of the Dove to the
Ark
, and
Mariana (from Tennyson). Mr.
Holman Hunt sent thither
Valentine rescuing
Sylvia from Proteus
. It appears that Mr. Ruskin's father (a
wealthy wine-merchant, whom I
remember well) liked
The Return of the Dove to the Ark, and was minded to purchase
it; but the picture was already sold. Mr. Patmore suggested to John Ruskin
to write something about Millais and Hunt. Ruskin complied; and on 13 May a
letter of his appeared in
The Times, and was no doubt of very high service to the Præraphaelite
cause. Neither this letter, nor the pamphlet
Præraphaelitism published in the same year, referred in any way to the pictures of
Rossetti exhibited in the two preceding years. It may be worth observing
here that Mr. Ruskin, who was at that time a very earnest Protestant
Christian, had had a vague idea, fostered by public rumour, that the
Præraphaelites were leagued in some Puseyite or Roman-catholic
propaganda. This error was now dispelled from his mind.
The first trace which I find of Ruskin in connexion with Rossetti comes
in a letter which my brother addressed to Madox Brown on 1 March 1853. He
here speaks of Mr. McCracken, the Belfast Packing-Agent who had bought the
Annunciation
picture, and who was a profound believer in “the
Graduate” (as he constantly termed Ruskin); and Rossetti refers
to “
those sketches now
exhibiting”—which were the
Giotto painting the Portrait of Dante
, the
Beatrice at a Marriage-feast denies Dante her
Salutation
, and the
Rossovestita
. He then proceeds:—
“
Ruskin has written
him some extravagant praises (though with obtuse accompaniments)
upon one of them—I cannot make out which—and
McCracken seems excited, wanting it.”
I presume the water-colour in question was most probably the Beatrice
subject. Afterwards McCracken bought from my brother the water-colour (now
in the Fine-Art Gallery of Oxford) named
Dante drawing an Angel in Memory of
Beatrice
; and the sequel was this, as noted in another letter to Brown, 14
April 1854:—
“
McCracken of course
sent my drawing to Ruskin, who the other day wrote me an incredible
letter about it, remaining mine respectfully (!!), and wanting to
call. I of course stroked him down
in my answer, and yesterday he called.
His manner was more agreeable than I had always expected. . . . He
seems in a mood to make my fortune.”
Ruskin was then thirty-five years old, while my brother was not quite
twenty-six. He called again very soon afterwards; and my brother was dining
with him
en famille on 25 April at Denmark Hill, Camberwell, when he had to be summoned
away to attend the death-bed of our father, who expired on the 26th. These
were days of great trouble to Dante Rossetti. Immediately after our father's
funeral he found it necessary to run down to Hastings for awhile, to join
Miss Siddal, who was in a very suffering state of health. They were also
days of trouble to Mr. Ruskin, for a different sort of reason, on which I
need not dwell here. He went abroad much about the same time when my brother
left for Hastings, and for three or four months they met no more, but
interchanged some letters.
Mr. Ruskin took keen delight in Rossetti's paintings and designs. He
praised freely, and abused heartily, both him and them. The abuse was
good-humoured, and was taken good-humouredly; still it was enough to nettle
many a nature more enduring than that of Rossetti. Mr. Ruskin found him
over-confident in the use of unsafe pigments, capricious in his character
and his products, and careless of his surroundings: his room was never
orderly. Dante Rossetti, like most artists of any inventive genius, was at
bottom scornful of art-critics. He was not in the least self-satisfied as to
his own performances—on the contrary, he looked upon most of them
with a good deal of disfavour, as being inadequate expressions of the
adequate idea which was within him; still he considered that an artist
generally knows what he is about much better than an outsider can instruct
him. Besides, the idea, and the method of presenting it, were his own, and,
for better for worse, his own they must remain. I consider that in these
years there was no irritation whatever between Ruskin and Rossetti. They
were heartily
friendly, and indeed heartily affectionate, and
took in good part, with mutual banter and amusement, whatever was deficient
or excessive in the performances of the painter, or in the comments of the
purchaser and critic. The only counteraction to their entire cordiality lay
in the fact that Madox Brown soon got to hate the very name of Ruskin. He
considered himself both slighted and damnified by the absolute silence which
that pre-eminent and most influential art-critic, in all his published
writings, preserved as to Brown's works, while lauding some other painters
who might be deemed fully equal to himself, and several who were most
manifestly inferior. Rossetti, who was zealous in friendship, endeavoured to
bring about a different condition of things, but did not succeed; so he had,
in some degree, to steer a middle course between his warm feelings for Brown
on one side and for Ruskin on the other. Ruskin and Rossetti saw each other
constantly, and kept up an active correspondence as well. The letters of the
former are still rather numerous, and are full of diverting
“digs” at Rossetti's designs and paintings. Rossetti's
responses are not within my cognizance, but, if they did not
“give as good as he got,” I have mis-apprehended his
character, and his settled habits of mind and act.
From an early date in their acquaintance Mr. Ruskin undertook to buy,
if he happened to like it, whatever Rossetti produced, at a range of prices
such as the latter would have asked from any other purchaser, and up to a
certain maximum of expenditure on his own part. If he did not relish a work,
Rossetti could offer it to any one else. I cannot imagine any arrangement
more convenient to my brother, who thus secured a safe market for his
performances, and could even rely upon not being teazed to do on the nail
work for which he received payment in whole or in part. In this respect
Ruskin appears to have been always friendly and accommodating, and Rossetti
not unduly troublesome. He availed himself of Ruskin's easy liberality,
without abusing it. In fact he was made comfortable in his professional
position; though it should be understood that his
prices were very moderate, and his income was small in proportion, and he
was often enough in straits to meet some current demand. He now ceased to
exhibit in any of the ordinary galleries, and to this system he ever
afterwards adhered. The arrangement with Mr. Ruskin set him free to consult
his own likings in the matter, and may have had much to do with his resolve.
Ruskin's permanent opinion of Rossetti as a painter appears in the
following words:—
“I believe Rossetti's name should be
placed first on the list of men, within my own range of knowledge, who
have raised and changed the spirit of modern art; raised in absolute
attainment, changed in direction of temper.”
And again:—
“Rossetti was the chief intellectual force
in the establishment of the modern Romantic School in
England.”
I will extract here a few passages from the letters which Mr. Ruskin
wrote to my brother. They are scrappy, but tend to show how the two very
diverse natures were getting on together; and here and there comes a touch
of that tender and exquisite amiability which has made Ruskin (if his genius
had not done it for him) a man apart. He hardly ever dated his letters; but
I shall add dates which are nearly enough right for the present purpose.
(October 1854) “
I forgot to say also
that I really do covet your drawings as much as I covet Turner's;
only it is useless self-indulgence to buy Turner's, and useful
self-indulgence to buy yours. Only I won't have them after they have
been more than nine times rubbed entirely out—remember
that.”—(24 April 1855) ”
It may be as well that
you should keep this letter, if you
can keep
anything safe in that most disreputable litter of yours.”—(June 1855) “
At the eleventh hour I
am going to put off my lesson of to-morrow [
i.e., a little friendly instruction,
pretty frequently repeated, which, at Mr. Ruskin's request, Rossetti gave
him in the use of water-colour. I
think the instruction extended not much beyond
the attendance of Ruskin at times when my brother was in the act of
painting, with question and answer as to the why and wherefore of his modes
of work];
for I find my eyes
to-day quite tired with an etching I expected to have finished, and
haven't. But, as you have that drawing to finish, you will still be
kept in town now; so I may have my lesson when this nasty etching is
done.”—(July 1855) “
Can you dine with us on
Thursday at 6? (and not be
too P.R.B., as Stanfield
is coming too!). But I've no other time for a chat.”—(November 1855) “
Please oblige me in two
matters, or you will make me ill again. Take all the pure green out
of the flesh in the
Nativity
I send, and try to get it a little less like worsted-work by
Wednesday. I want
The Passover
in such a state as it may be in, and the sketch of
Passover
.”—(November 1855) “
It's all
your own pride, not a bit of fine feeling, so don't think
it. If you wanted to oblige
me, you would keep your
room in order, and go to bed at night. All your fine speeches go for
nothing with me till you do that.”—(May 1856) “
I forgot to say to you
when I saw you that, if you think there is anything in which I can
be of any use to Miss Siddal, you have only to tell me. I mean, she
might be able, and like, as the weather comes finer, to come out
here sometimes to take a walk in the garden, and feel the quiet
fresh air, and look at a missal or two; and she shall have the run
of the house. And, if you think she would like an Albert Durer or a
photograph for her own room, merely tell me, and I will get them for
her. And I want to talk to you about her, because you seem to me to
let her wear herself out with fancies, and she really ought to be
made to draw in a dull way sometimes from dull things.”—(January 1857) “
I was put out to-day as
you must have seen, for I can't hide it when I am vexed. I don't at
all like my picture now [
possibly the oil-picture of
St. Katharine
—a mediæval painter painting a lady as this saint]
. The alteration of the
head from the stoop forward to the throw back makes the whole figure
quite stiff and stupid; besides, the off-cheek is a quarter of a
yard too thin. That
Magdalene is magnificent to my mind in every possible way; it stays by
me.” [This is the design of
The Magdalene at the Door of Simon the
Pharisee
.]
In one of these passages the reader will have observed the reference to
Miss Siddal. Soon after Ruskin had returned
Note: In the penultimate paragraph, the year
“1857” appears to be followed by both a period
and a comma.
to London from his visit to the Continent in 1854, Rossetti
brought him acquainted with Miss Siddal, and with the designs and
water-colours she was producing. Ruskin admired her much, and liked her
intensely; and he took a most hearty interest and pleasure in the refinement
and feeling displayed in her designs, although far from blind (as will have
been perceived) to their executive shortcomings. A letter from Rossetti to
Madox Brown, 13 April 1855, says that she and he had been spending a day at
the house of the Ruskin family:—
“
All the Ruskins were
most delighted with Guggum. John Ruskin said she was a noble,
glorious creature, and his father said by her look and manner she
might have been a Countess.”
Immediately afterwards Mr. Ruskin committed one of those unnumbered
acts of generosity by which he will be remembered hardly less long than by
his vivid insight into many things, and his heroic prose. He wanted to
effect one of two plans for her advantage—either to purchase all
her drawings one by one, as they should be produced, or else to settle on
her an annual £150—he taking in exchange her various
works up to that value, and retaining them, or (if preferred) selling some
of them, and handing over to her any extra proceeds. This latter plan was
carried into actual effect by 3 May. It will easily and rightly be supposed
that Rossetti used to find funds for Miss Siddal whenever required; but his
means were both small and fitful, and Ruskin's scheme was of some relief and
of great satisfaction to him. How long it continued I am not sure. There is
a letter from Mr. Ruskin, dated I fancy in or about 1857., containing the
following passage, which I need only preface by saying that he constantly
applied the fancy-name “Ida” to Miss Siddal, taking it
no doubt from Tennyson's
Princess:—
“
I shall rejoice in
Ida's success with her picture, as I shall in every opportunity of
being useful either to you or her. The only feeling I have about the
matter is of some shame at having allowed
the arrangement between us to end as it
did; and the chief pleasure I could have about it now would be her
simply accepting it as she would have accepted a glass of water when
she was thirsty, and never thinking of it any more.”
From this I infer that Miss Siddal had then discontinued delivering her
designs or paintings to Mr. Ruskin—probably because her very
frail state of health prevented her producing them with any regularity; and
that, being thus unable to fulfil her part in the scheme, she, and also my
brother as her adviser, renounced the money-benefit hence accruing to her.
Meantime, for health's sake, she had been abroad. I have already
referred to the medical opinion obtained from Dr. Wilkinson. Towards June
1855 another opinion was obtained from Dr. Acland of Oxford, to whom Ruskin
recommended her. The Doctor and others, including a lady of the Pusey
family, received her with great attentions. He opined that her lungs were
nearly right, the chief danger consisting in “mental power
long pent up, and lately overtaxed.” He advised her
to leave England before cold weather set in; and this she did towards the
latter end of September, having as companion a Mrs. Kincaid, a cousin of
ours, who knew something of French and Continental life. This lady was only
recently known to us. She had (I think) been discovered by my uncle Henry
Polydore as being a member of the Pierce family, at a time when, in
consequence of an informality in the will of my grand-aunt Harriet Pierce
(who died in 1849), it became requisite to ferret out her various next of
kin. I remember Mrs. Kincaid pretty well towards 1855—a matronly
sort of person, aged forty or upwards; her husband much better, a
sharp-looking solicitor. He took a decided fancy to Dante Rossetti, and
haunted not a little his studio and his dinner-hour—his dinner,
while he tenanted his Chambers in Chatham Place, being almost invariably
taken at some eating-house. Miss Siddal with Mrs. Kincaid went to Nice; she
was also for a while in Paris, and Dante, with his friend
Munro, saw her there in connexion with the Great
Exhibition of that year, he returning in October. For some reason or
other—I am not sure that I ever understood it well—she
lost her liking for Mrs. Kincaid. Dante of course sided with Lizzie, and we
saw the married couple no more. It may have been in the late Spring of 1856
that Miss Siddal returned to London, without any such material renovation of
health as had been hoped for. From this time onward variations occurred at
intervals; but as a whole it must be said that there was a continual decline
of vital force, and often she was distressingly ill.
I may here add that my own first sight of Mr. Ruskin was on 25
November 1854, when he was delivering a lecture at the Architectural Museum.
I afterwards saw him pretty frequently, often in company with my brother,
and I regarded him with warm liking and respect both as man and as writer
and critic. As a public speaker, Ruskin was a subject of highest admiration
to my brother, who never, I think, addressed a general audience at all. That
Rossetti wholly avoided and shrank from any such form of self-display is
certain. It is not by any means equally certain to me that, if he had chosen
to make the attempt, he would not or could not have succeeded. His address
was good, his voice excellent, his manner adapted for exciting sympathy and
warmth, his ideas were clear and well to hand, and he could converse
extremely well whenever he liked.
Some years ago a copy of a letter from my brother to Mr. McCracken, 15
May 1854, came into my hands. It shows so clearly the opinion which he
entertained upon various questions of art, about the time when he first knew
Ruskin, that I shall here introduce a few sentences of it:—
“
I believe colour to
be a quite indispensable quality in the
highest
art, and that no picture ever belonged to the highest order without
it; while many, by possessing it—as the works of
Titian—are raised certainly into the highest
class, though not to the very highest grade of that class,
in spite of the limited degree of their other great qualities.
Perhaps the
only exception which I should be
inclined to
admit exists in the works of Hogarth, to
which I should never dare to assign any but the very highest place,
though their colour is certainly not a prominent feature in them. I
must add however that Hogarth's colour is seldom other than pleasing
to myself, and that for my own part I should almost call him a
colourist, though not aiming at colour. On the other hand, there are
men who, merely on account of bad colour, prevent me from thoroughly
enjoying their works, though full of other qualities. For instance,
Wilkie, or Delaroche (in nearly all his works, though the
Hémicycle is fine in
colour). From Wilkie I would at any time prefer a thoroughly good
engraving—though of course he is in no respect even
within hail of Hogarth. Colour is the physiognomy of a picture; and,
like the shape of the human forehead, it cannot be perfectly
beautiful without proving goodness and greatness. Other qualities
are its life exercised; but this is the body of its life, by which
we know and love it at first sight. . . . I have once seen a small
picture by the H. Wallis you ask about, and should venture to say
that any work of his must have some degree of value, if not a very
high one—at any rate something preferable to any
Mill by any Brandard, to any ‘vacant’ thing
whatever by John Bridges, or even to anything I could suppose likely
to fall under Redgrave's notice while ‘returning from
church.’”
Rossetti's invention was fertile, and—according to the
varying and sometimes merely fanciful themes—appropriate; his
colour high and brilliant, and, though at whiles a little over-positive, not
forced. Allowing himself very free scope in his treatment of the subjects,
he yet seldom if ever painted a figure without taking it from Nature. Miss
Siddal was his model for all the leading female personages. Of thoughtfully
considered or elaborately realized light and shade, or of diversified planes
in the composition, there is very little in any of these works. Rossetti's
sympathies did not go in such directions, and he was never an adept at these
highly important processes of the art—and at this period still
less an adept than he became later on.
To some of the above-named works a few details may here be spared.
The
Paolo and Francesca
triptych, begun as a
design in October
1849
, shows the Lovers' Kiss, and their souls in Hell, and in the
centre Dante or some other figure. He repeated these compositions more than
once. Mr. James Leathart, of Gateshead-on-Tyne, owns the best version of
them, and a very fine example it is of Rossetti's power in pathos and in
colour.
The Passover in the Holy Family
, a prime favourite with Mr. Ruskin, had also been invented as far back
as July 1849. This likewise was intended to be part of a triptych; the other
subjects were to be—
The Virgin planting a Lily and a Rose
and
The Virgin in the House of John
. The central subject remained uncompleted, though moderately advanced;
the second was (I think) never done
Note: [This is untrue.
Rossetti did complete this projected work under the title,
Mary Nazarene.
]
; the third was eventually treated as a
separate water-colour painting, one of his very
best. The
portrait of Rossetti himself, in
Indian ink executed with pen or brush, is dated 20 September 1855, and is
now the property of Mr. Charles Fairfax Murray.
I think it superior to all other renderings, and,
by Mr. Murray's obliging permission, it forms our frontispiece. The
Dante's Dream
, which was purchased by Miss Heaton of Leeds (who died at Christmas
1894), is the same subject as the large oil-picture now in the Walker
Gallery of Liverpool, but not at all the same composition.
The Tennyson designs, which were engraved on wood, and published in the
Illustrated Tennyson in
which Millais, Hunt, Mulready, and others, co-operated, have in the long run
done not a little to sustain my brother's reputation with the public. At the
time they gave him endless trouble, and small satisfaction. Not indeed that
the invention or the mere designing of these works was troublesome to him.
He took great pains with them, but, as what he wrought at was always
something which informed and glowed in his mind, he was not more tribulated
by these than by other drawings. It must be said also that himself only, and
not Tennyson, was his guide. He drew just what he chose, taking from his
author's text nothing more than a hint and an opportunity. The trouble came
in with the engraver and the publisher. With some of the doings of the
engraver—Dalziel, not Linton whom he found much more conformable
to his notion—he was grievously disappointed. He probably
exasperated Dalziel, and Dalziel certainly exasperated him. Blocks were
reworked upon, and proofs sent back with rigour. The publisher Mr. Moxon was
a still severer affliction. He called and he wrote. Rossetti was not always
up to time, though he tried his best to be so. In other instances he was up
to time, but his engraver was not up to his mark. I believe that poor Moxon
suffered much, and soon afterwards he died; but I do not lay any real blame
upon my brother, who worked strenuously and well. As to our great poet
Tennyson—who also ought to have counted for something in the
whole affair—I gather that he really liked Rossetti's designs
when he saw them, and he was not without a perceptible liking and regard for
Rossetti himself, so far as he knew him (they had first met at Mr. Patmore's
house in December 1849); but
the illustration of
St. Cecilia
puzzled him not a little, and he had to give up the problem of what it
had to do with his verses. If I may be allowed to express my opinion of so
great a man as Tennyson—whom I met on several occasions, and who
honoured me by much freedom of converse—I should say that he had
not any particular insight into matters of pictorial art as such, although
he appreciated and prized the art as one of the forms in which the mind of
man expresses beautiful ideas. I did not observe him to be at all a
“connoisseur.”
Rossetti put this affair of the wood-blocks in entertaining terms in a
letter to Mr. Bell Scott dated February 1857:—
“
I have designed five
blocks for Tennyson, some of which are still cutting and maiming. It
is a thankless task. After a fortnight's work my block goes to the
engraver, like Agag delicately, and is hewn to pieces before the
Lord Harry.
“
ADDRESS TO THE
DALZIEL BROTHERS.
- “O Woodman, spare that block,
- Oh gash not anyhow!
- It took ten days by clock,
- I'd fain protect it now.
“
Chorus—Wild
Laughter from Dalziel's Workshop.”
As I am here speaking of Tennyson, I take occasion to mention two
sketches of him which my brother made; not of superior import as works of
art, yet from all points of view highly interesting. It was on 27 September
1855 that the Brownings, being then for a while in London, invited two or
three friends to the house they were occupying, 13 Dorset Street, to meet
Tennyson, who had undertaken to read aloud his poem of
Maud, recently published. The audience was a small one, the privilege
accorded to each individual all the higher: Mr. and Mrs. Browning, Miss
Browning, my brother, and myself, and I think there was one
more—either Madox Brown, or else Hunt or Woolner. The latter had
returned to London from Australia in the autumn of 1854. Tennyson,
seated on a sofa in a characteristic attitude,
and holding the volume near his eyes (for he was decidedly short-sighted,
though one would hardly think so from his descriptive poems), read
Maud right through. My brother made two pen-and-ink sketches of him
[Original sketch]
[Replica], and gave
one of them to Browning. So far as I remember, the Poet Laureate neither saw
what Dante was doing, nor knew of it afterwards. His deep grand voice, with
slightly chaunting intonation, was a noble vehicle for the perusal of mighty
verse. On it rolled, sonorous and emotional. Rossetti, according to Mr. Hall
Caine, spoke of the incident in these terms: “I once heard
Tennyson read
Maud; and, whilst the fiery passages were delivered with a voice and
vehemence which he alone of living men can compass, the softer passages
and the songs made the tears course down his cheeks.”
I remember that on a later occasion Tennyson told me that he knew no one so
well-fitted as himself for reading Milton aloud; as he had a deep chest and
long-drawn breath, and could finish the weighty periods of many lines
together without a second inhalation. After Tennyson and
Maud came Browning and
Fra Lippo Lippi—read with as much of sprightly variation as there was in
Tennyson of sustained continuity. Truly a night of the gods, not to be
remembered without pride and pang.
The Seed of David
was an important matter in my brother's professional life. The
Cathedral at Llandaff was in 1856 undergoing a complete restoration. One of
the Architects employed was Mr. John P. Seddon, who had already become, and
always continued, a very steady friend to Rossetti, alert in promoting his
interests whenever he could. A painting was wanting for the reredos of the
renewed Cathedral; and Mr. John Seddon, seconded by his elder brother Thomas
the painter, bethought himself of Rossetti. Mr. Thomas Seddon had lately
been abroad in the East with Mr. Holman Hunt, and had painted, among other
things, an admirably faithful view of Jerusalem, which is now in the
National Gallery, consigned thither by a public subscription in which my
brother bore an active part. This subscription took place after the
melancholy death of Mr. Seddon in Cairo, to which
city he had gone in the autumn of 1856. There he died of dysentery very soon
after his arrival, and a life full of brightness, and a career full of high
promise, were suddenly cut short at the early age of thirty-five. In March
1856, prior to starting for Egypt, Mr. Thomas Seddon brought round to
Rossetti's studio a Member of Parliament connected with Llandaff, Mr. Henry
Austin Bruce (the late Lord Aberdare); and it was agreed that my brother
should undertake the painting of the reredos for a sum of £400.
The subject—named by himself
The Seed of David
, though other titles have often been applied to it—had to
take the form of a triptych. In the centre is the Infant Christ adored by a
Shepherd and a King; on one side His ancestor the shepherd David standing
forth to battle with Goliath; on the other side, the same ancestor as King
harping to the glory of Jehovah. The work was completed in 1864, and
continues to occupy its place in the Cathedral.
The water-colours of
The Blue Closet
,
The Wedding of St. George
, and
The Tune of Seven Towers
, bring us into a different relation of life and work. They may be
referred to that phase of Rossetti's painting which more especially fostered
his connexion with certain young men—now of world-wide
fame—at Oxford University, and which led to his own pictorial
experiments in Oxford. One of these young men, William Morris, took from
Rossetti, as titles for poems, the first and the third of these titles for
pictures: the poems however are not founded on the pictures in any material
degree. Both pictures and poems are pure phantasies, and independent
phantasies.
To some eyes Rossetti's chivalric-romantic inventions are mere
knell-echoes of chivalry, or mere fleeting suggestions of romance. It is
interesting to observe what was one quarter in which they were very
differently construed. There was a deeply devout Methodist, James Smetham,
who was also a painter. Painting was his profession and his enjoyment;
religion was his life. He produced many works, not of large dimension, full
of fine threads of imagination, and of refined
though not powerful art. He is at present better known by his
remarkable Letters, published in 1892. He appears to have seen something of
Rossetti in 1843, at Cary's Academy; again after 1851; and more especially
from 1863 through all the ensuing years, until his own mental and physical
breakdown, owing to overstrained religious notions, withdrew him from all
society. This, expressed in a letter of December 1865, is what he thought of
Rossetti's works of the class referred to:—
“
Your St. Georges and
Sir Galahads are almost the only modern pictures of heroes that
reach the Christian ideal, in my judgment, as to expression. Not to
be invidious in naming artists, the modern knight is a proud, vain,
truculent rascal. Yours are ‘renewed in the spirit of
their minds’—couldn't do a mean or wrong
thing—fear nothing and nobody; but would not hurt a fly
or strike an unnecessary blow. So I greatly esteem and respect
them.”
An earlier letter, September 1860, relates in detail to the
water-colour lately mentioned of
The Wedding of St. George
:—
“
One of the grandest
things, like a golden dim dream. Love ‘credulous all
gold,’ gold armour, a sense of secret enclosure in
‘palace-chambers far apart’; but quaint
chambers in quaint palaces, where angels creep in through
sliding-panel doors, and stand behind rows of flowers, drumming on
golden bells, with wings crimson and green. There was also a queer
remnant of a dragon's head which he had brought up in a
box.”
As to writing, there was not in these years anything of such
importance as to claim record here. Dante Rossetti adhered faithfully to his
resolve that he would for the present be a painter and not a poet.
The circle of Rossetti's intimacies had gradually
changed, and by the middle of 1856 a new and stimulating environment
was his. I will go back upon my steps a little,
prior to going forward again.
As friends towards the year 1847 I specified the Heimanns, Munro, Major
Calder Campbell, and Bell Scott. Then came Madox Brown, Hunt, and Millais;
and, in the train of the last two, the other
Præraphaelites—Collinson, Woolner, and Stephens, along
with Deverell and the Tuppers, or more especially John L. Tupper. There were
also—William North; James Hannay; the Seddons, with the
portrait-painter Lowes Dickinson, and the glass-painter John R. Clayton; the
Howitts and Miss Barbara Leigh Smith (Mrs. Bodichon); the Patmores, along
with the Orme family (Mrs. Orme being sister to Mrs. Patmore), and the Irish
poet William Allingham; the painters George Price Boyce and Arthur Hughes;
and the Brownings. Then came Ruskin and his connexion—including
the Working Men's College, in which my brother took a drawing-class for two
or three years, ending towards the close of 1858. Madox Brown then conducted
it for a while; yet Rossetti's link with the College was not entirely
broken, and he was still doing something there in February 1862.
Some of these were now dead: Deverell, North, and Thomas Seddon. Major
Campbell and the first Mrs. Patmore did not long survive. Others, for one
reason or another, had passed wholly or chiefly out of my brother's
ken—Millais, Collinson, and the hospitable Orme family. Hannay,
the brilliant novelist, writer, and talker, was now or soon afterwards
settled in Edinburgh, with his beautiful and admirable wife (highly valued
by Rossetti), and his young family. The Brownings were mostly in Florence,
John Seddon in Wales, Allingham in Ireland, and Scott in Newcastle. Hunt,
owing to his absences in the East and other circumstances, was not very
often seen; nor yet the Heimanns, Stephens, Tupper, Dickinson, Clayton, the
Howitts, Miss Barbara Smith, or Patmore. There remained Madox Brown and
Ruskin constantly but separately; Munro, Woolner, and Boyce, pretty
frequently. Of course there were others as well, but hardly
any who counted as more than casual and pleasant
acquaintances. Robert Brough, Charles Bagot Cayley, Whitley Stokes, and
George Augustus Sala, were among these.
The first mention which I find of Burne-Jones—the Sir Edward
Burne-Jones of our present day—is in a letter from my brother to
Brown, dated 6 June 1856. This young Oxford student—a Birmingham
man destined for the Church, but with a strong bias towards art, which found
vent at this time in romantic pen-and-ink designs of remarkable richness and
quality—had conceived a high idea of Rossetti's powers. He called
upon him, showed a design or two, and was forthwith recognized by
Rossetti—with an instinctive power, in which he had few rivals,
of seeing at a glance what is intrinsically excellent, as well as what is
predestined to remain second-rate—as a born artist of quite
exceptional faculty, and capable of doing consummate work. He urged Mr.
Jones to become a professional painter. Jones obeyed the external, and also
the internal, monitor, and the world is the richer for his decision.
Through Burne-Jones my brother soon came to know William Morris, and
soon afterwards—but this I think was only in
Oxford—Algernon Charles Swinburne. It is a natural temptation to
say something in detail about these three most highly distinguished
men—their looks in youth, their character, demeanour, and
attainments. I shall however forbear. Their personality, along with their
work, forms part of the annals of England, and indeed of Europe, in the
nineteenth century, and my hand might prove infirm to limn them as they were
and are.
Prior to his knowledge of Burne-Jones, my brother had already been
invited to take some part in art-work in Oxford. In 1855 the Oxford Museum
was in course of erection, much under the influence of Mr. Ruskin, and his
theories in architecture and decoration; and the architect, Mr. Benjamin
Woodward, in July 1855, asked Rossetti to do some of the designing-work in
connexion with it. Mr. Woodward was an Irishman, of excellent ability and
highly refined taste.
Note: In the first paragraph, "Morte" should read "Mort".
He was the very reverse of what Irishmen are
currently assumed to be, and was (without any exception, unless it be that
of Mr. Cayley, the translator of Dante, Petrarca, and Homer) the most
modest, retiring, and shyly taciturn man of noticeable talent whom it has
ever been my fortune to meet. He was of handsome and rather stately
presence, eminently gentle and courteous. His health was poor, and he died
in 1861, when he had barely attained middle age. Among other edifices, he
built a very elegant Insurance-office, in Venetian Gothic, almost opposite
my brother's Chambers in Chatham Place. It has long been demolished, and
London contains perhaps nothing equal to it in its own way. I do not think
that my brother did anything for the Oxford Museum, to which some of his
friends contributed statues—Woolner being the sculptor of Lord
Bacon, Munro of Galileo, and John Tupper of Linnæus, a work of
observably faithful naturalism. Rossetti however soon undertook some work
for another Oxford structure with which Mr. Woodward was concerned, the
Union Debating-rooms. The proposal was Rossetti's own. He had accompanied
Mr. Woodward to the building at the outset of the Long Vacation of 1857, and
he thought the bays of the Debating-room would be suitable for
wall-paintings, and suggested that they should be covered with
tempera-pictures from the Romance of King Arthur. This was not a specially
appropriate theme, but Rossetti had not at that time any very clear notion
of the purpose which the room was to serve. Malory's
Morte d'Arthur is a book to which, so far as memory serves me, he had not paid any
marked attention in earlier years. Perhaps Mr. Morris, rather than his
self-directed readings, had impressed its interest upon him, and Morris, at
the same time as Rossetti, offered to paint something in the Union Room. At
any rate my brother was now in a vigorously Arthurian mood, which lasted
some years, and never left him entirely.
Mr. (Lord) Bowen was then the President of the Union, and took an
active part in bringing the project to bear. Rossetti gave his work gratis,
lasting for several months,
beginning in that Long Vacation, and so did the
other artists who co-operated with him; but all costs, including travelling
expenses and the living of the artists (or of those who were not Oxford
residents), were borne by the Society; and I have understood
that—as the young men made themselves much at their
ease—these charges finally amounted to a heavy sum, more very
possibly than would have been demanded and paid as mere commissions for
painting.
Rossetti's work in the Union Building was done after he had contributed
something to a monthly publication,
The Oxford and Cambridge Magazine
, in which Morris was a leading writer. This serial, under the
editorship of the Rev. William Fulford, was started in January 1856, and
lasted a year. Towards the summer of 1856 Rossetti published here
The Burden of Nineveh
, and
The Staff and Scrip
; he also re-printed
The Blessed Damozel
, slightly altered from the form which it bore in
The Germ
. Most readers may agree with me in thinking that all these three poems
are among the very best that Rossetti ever produced.
The Burden of Nineveh
was begun, and probably completed, in the autumn of 1850;
The Staff and Scrip
may date in 1852. The
Nineveh
struck Ruskin most forcibly, and he wrote the following letter:—
“Dear Rossetti,—
“I am wild to know who is the author of
The Burden of Nineveh
, in No. 8 of
Oxford and Cambridge
. It is glorious. Please find out for me, and see if I can
get acquainted with him.”
The uncertainty here expressed appears, from the concluding phrase, to
be genuine, but it was hardly needful. Rossetti must of course have written
back that
he was the author; and I fancy that a very large “
Bravo!” which forms the commencement of another letter from Mr.
Ruskin may be the response to this avowal. The word is shaped out of a
series of notes of admiration.
For the painting-work at the Union Rossetti associated several young
painters with himself besides Morris—Burne-
Jones, Arthur Hughes, Valentine Prinsep (whom he
got to know about this time, visiting at the pleasant and fashionable
residence of his parents, Little Holland House), Spencer Stanhope, and J.
Hungerford Pollen. He asked Bell Scott to join, but this did not take
effect. Munro carved in stone, from a design by Rossetti, the bas-relief of
the tympanum,
King Arthur and the Round
Table
. Rossetti undertook a large subject,
Sir Launcelot before the Shrine of the
Sangrael
; and, at a later date, a second,
Sir Galahad receiving the Sangrael
. Some good work was done in the room, and some other work which,
without being exactly good, was at least interesting and noticeable; but the
whole affair ended in material failure. Not one of these artists knew
much— hardly one of them anything—about wall-painting.
They worked with reckless self-confidence, and one might almost say upon a
mere system of “happy-go-lucky.” The walls were new,
and not properly prepared—not even flattened. The tempera-process
adopted was little more than water-colour painting, and of course the
pictures flaked off—becoming a phantom, and then a wreck. After a
while things did not go entirely smooth with the Union Committee. Most of
the pictures—including the two by Rossetti—were not
brought to completion. In 1869 Mr. Thursfield renewed negociations. They
were entertained with some good-will, but came to nothing. Before this, a
local painter had been called in, and tried his hand. That also proved to be
in vain; and for many years past the painted surface of the Union walls has
been a confused hybrid between a smudge and a blank.
There is a letter from my brother to Madox Brown, which forecasts one
of the morals of this enterprise. He says that he is doing the work in a
more painstaking method than he had anticipated. “
It is very jolly work
in itself, but really one is mad to do such things.”
If I am not mistaken, it was while Rossetti was painting in the Union
room that an under-graduate, looking equally youthful and brilliant, came
forward, and was introduced to
Note: In the first paragraph, from “I do not know” to the end
of the paragraph should read “These expressions occur in
a letter to Mr. Skelton.”
the painter, or possibly introduced himself. This was Algernon
Charles Swinburne. So my brother's sojourn in Oxford had at least one good
result—that of bringing him into personal contact, and soon into
very intimate friendship, with the greatest figure in our poetical
literature since the advent of Tennyson and of Browning. Mr. Swinburne
dedicated to him his first volume,
The Queen Mother, and Rosamund; Mr. Morris the like with
The Defence of Guenevere, and other Poems. In fact Rossetti was now in the position of what the French term a
Chef d'Ecole. He had not only borne a
leading part in founding and guiding the Præraphaelite movement,
but he had formed a totally different group of believing admirers in the
very diverse centre of Oxford University. It has been stated that Rossetti
called Mr. Morris “the greatest literary identity of our
time,” and Mr. Swinburne “highest
in inexhaustible splendour of execution.” I do not
know where these expressions occur; but can believe that they intimate
exactly, or pretty nearly, what he felt on the subject.
Another incident of importance took place in Oxford. I give some
details which I find in Mr. Scott's book, and I regard them as correct. The
Union artists, or some of them, went to the Oxford Theatre one evening, and
saw, in the front box above them, a very youthful lady whose aspect
fascinated them all. My brother was the first to observe her. Her face was
at once tragic, mystic, passionate, calm, beautiful, and
gracious—a face for a sculptor, and a face for a
painter—a face solitary in England, and not at all like that of
an Englishwoman, but rather of an Ionian Greek. It was not a face for that
large class of English people who only take to the
“pretty,” and not to the beautiful or superb. Her
complexion was dark and pale, her eyes a deep penetrating grey, her massive
wealth of hair gorgeously rippled, and tending to black, yet not without
some deep-sunken glow. Soon she was traced to be Miss Burden, daughter of a
business-man in the University-city. My brother obtained the privilege of
painting from her, and several of his paintings
and designs in Oxford bear trace of her
countenance. In later years hers was the ideal face which speaks to you out
of very many of his principal works. Others among the Oxford band of
painters secured the like privilege; and soon Miss Burden became Mrs.
William Morris. If Rossetti had done nothing else in painting (and some
people seem to suppose, most erroneously, that he
did
little else) except the ideal, and also very real, transcription of this
unique type of female beauty, he might still, on that ground alone, survive
in the chronicles of the art.
In 1857 a semi-public exhibition, which came to be termed
“the Præraphaelite Exhibition,” was got up
at No. 4 Russell Place, Fitzroy Square (now embodied in Charlotte Street).
My brother contributed to it the water-colours of
Dante's Dream
,
Dante drawing an Angel in Memory of
Beatrice
,
Mary Nazarene
(which is I suppose the
Annunciation
water-colour previously mentioned),
Note: [“Mary
Nazarene” and “The Annunciation” are in
fact two separate works.]
and
The Blue Closet
; along with
Hesterna Rosa
, and
The Magdalene at the Door of Simon the
Pharisee
—being presumably the pen-and-ink designs—and
photographs of the Tennyson designs, taken before the engraving process.
This small display, by himself and his colleagues, excited a considerable
amount of attention, more among those critics and visitors who were well-disposed
towards the school than among those who were hostile. It served to
confirm the impression that something was still going on in the country very
different from what could be seen in the ordinary picture-shows. Other
contributors were Messrs. Millais, Hunt, Brown, Hughes, Inchbold, Collins,
Brett, William Davis, and Windus, with the late Thomas Seddon.
Miss Siddal's health continued a subject of great anxiety in these
years, and she repaired to one or another health-resort from time to
time—Dante Rossetti joining her there. In one instance they were
in Bath (I think towards the end of 1856); in a second instance, 1857-8, at
Matlock, where they made a stay of several months, getting on towards a
year. In February 1857 there was a scheme of a sort of
joint establishment, or
“College,” for various artists. Burne-Jones and Morris
entered into the project, and at least one other painter was proposed,
besides Rossetti, who was under the impression that, before the plan could
take actual effect, he and Lizzie would be married. He found however, on
speaking to her, that she was decidedly indisposed to enter into any plan
which would domicile her in the same place with the third painter here
referred to; and Rossetti himself, writing to Madox Brown, said—“
I do not think he has
lately acted as a friend towards me in her regard.” These are circumstances which I need not speak of
further, and indeed they are not clearly within my knowledge or
recollection. The project never came to anything; nor was it perchance, in
itself, a very feasible one.
Those readers who have perused Mr. Bell Scott's book with diligence
will have observed in it a letter from Mr. Holman Hunt written within a few
days after the close of my brother's life. It contains the following passage:—
“Rossetti's death is ever in my mind. . .
. I had long ago forgiven him, and forgotten the offence, which in fact,
taken altogether, worked me good rather than harm. Indeed, I had
intended in recent times to call upon him. . . . Our talk over the past
is deferred until our meeting in the Elysian Fields, when . . . we may
talk over back history as having nothing in it not atoned for and wiped
out long ago, and as having value only as experience which has done its
work in making us both wiser and better.”
I understand perfectly well what it is that Mr. Hunt terms
“the offence,” but will not dwell
upon any details; only remarking that, if my reader chooses to ask the old
question “Who was the woman?” he will not be far
wrong, though his query may chance to remain for ever unanswered. She was
not any person whose name occurs in these pages. The incident belongs to the
year 1857. It behoves me to add that Mr. Hunt was wholly blameless in this
matter; not so my brother, who was properly, though I will not say very
deeply, censurable. This transaction left no trace in his after career.
The tale of work in these years is not very extensive;
but naturally some things were going on which have been previously
mentioned—more especially the Triptych for Llandaff Cathedral.
There were—the pen-and-ink design of
Hamlet and Ophelia
; the water-colour
Mary in the House of John
;
Salutatio Beatricis
, representing Dante meeting Beatrice in Florence, and in the Garden
of Eden, painted in oil in a week on a door in Mr. Morris's residence, The
Red House, Upton, near Bexley Heath, Woolwich; a water-colour,
A Christmas Carol
, in which a lady is shown chaunting as her hair is combed out; and a
small oil-picture,
Bocca Baciata
. Some other examples can be here passed over; though I might specify
the very beautiful head, Indian ink, of Mrs. Morris, before her marriage,
entitled
Queen Guenevere
, and now in the Dublin National Gallery.
“Bocca Baciata”
is a phrase occurring in Boccaccio, meaning “kissed
mouth,” or “a mouth that has been kissed.”
This
picture, a very complete and elegant
specimen of the skill which Rossetti had by this time, the autumn of 1859,
attained in the painting-art, is a bust fancy-portrait of a woman, with a
number of marigolds. The sitter was the one whom Mr. Bell Scott describes in
the following terms:—
“The paradoxical conclusion that women and
flowers were the only objects worth painting was brought about by the
appearance of other ladies besides Miss Siddal coming within his
[Rossetti's] orbit. Among these the most important
was one who must have had some overpowering attractions for him,
although I never could see what they were. He met her in the Strand. She
was cracking nuts with her teeth, and throwing the shells about. Seeing
Rossetti staring at her, she threw some at him. Delighted with this
brilliant
naïveté, he forthwith accosted her, and
carried her off to sit to him for her portrait.”
I knew this person extremely well, and shall call her Mrs.
H——, which was the correct
initial at, or soon after, the time when my brother first met her. I cannot
recollect ever hearing anything about the nuts, but do not contest Mr.
Scott's statement on that point. I do contest the allegation that my brother
concluded that “women and flowers were the only objects
worth painting,” and several of his works, executed
later than 1859, are there to confute it. That he often did paint beautiful
women with floral adjuncts is however quite true. The gentlemen who
commissioned or purchased his pictures are chiefly responsible for this
result; as he, on the contrary, would in several instances have preferred to
carry out as paintings some of his more important designs, including
sometimes numerous figures of both sexes. If Mr. Scott
“never could see” what were the
attractions of Mrs. H——, his eyesight must have
differed from that of many other people. She was a pre-eminently fine woman,
with regular and sweet features, and a mass of the most lovely blonde hair—light-golden
or “harvest yellow.”
Bocca Baciata
, which is a most faithful portrait of her, might speak for itself.
If Mr. Scott meant not so much to deny that Mrs. H——
was “fair to see,” but rather to intimate that she had
no charm of breeding, education, or intellect, he was right enough. Another
lady of whom my brother saw a great deal in 1859, and for some little while
after, was Mrs. Crabb, known as an actress by the name of Miss Herbert. He
greatly admired her refined and stately classical face, was pleased with her
company, and got her to favour him with sittings in various instances.
In the way of verse, I think
Love's Nocturn
and
The Song of the Bower
belong to 1859—
Note: [In fact, they date to
1854 and 1860, respectively.]
two lyrics of passion,
and in the former case of fancy as well, which stand at about the summit of
Rossetti's lyrical performance.
The Song of the Bower
I regard as relating to Miss Siddal. Circumstances had kept him more
apart from her than had been the case in earlier years, and he gave voice to
his feelings in this poem. So at least I regard it.
In 1858 Rossetti and some other artists, along with a few
amateurs or outsiders (myself one of them),
promoted the formation of a body called the Hogarth Club—quite a
different body from the one which now bears the same name. One object was to
hold exhibitions of works by members. These exhibitions, being visited by
card of admission, and thus not strictly public, were convenient to such
members as did not want to run counter to a rule of the Royal Academy
whereby any works previously exhibited in public are excluded from the
Academy shows. The first meeting of the Club was in July 1858, at No. 178
Piccadilly; later on the meetings were at No. 6 Waterloo Place, and the Club
continued until April 1861. There were two or three exhibitions, to which my
brother contributed. He was not much contented with these displays, being of
opinion that some of the artists elected into the Club, and sending works of
their own, were not partakers in the pictorial aims, nor in harmony with the
style, of himself and his leading associates, such as Madox Brown and
Burne-Jones. I hardly know now why the Club was dissolved, or allowed to
drop. Perhaps its chief promoters found that it did not fully answer their
expectations, and that the endeavour to “keep things
going” cost them more trouble than it was worth.
My brother, as I said before, was in love with Miss
Siddal as far back as 1850, and soon after that year there had been a
definite engagement between them. Nevertheless we have now come up to the
year 1860, and they remained as yet unmarried. There were two principal
reasons for this delay. First and foremost came her deplorable ill-health,
which was often such as to prevent either of them from entertaining the idea
of matrimony at a time when other circumstances would have been propitious
to it. She looked delicate, and to a skilled eye probably very ill, but had
not in the least degree
lost her beauty, nor even her comeliness. Second,
his money-position, though by no means so bad or with so little outlook as
that of many another young painter, continued for some while precarious; his
receipts small, his habits, if not exactly extravagant, unthrifty to the
extent of improvidence, his purse often empty, and needing to be replenished
by some expedient or other apart from that of the regular day's work. A
pawnbroker was a frequent resource—necessarily a very scanty one,
and ultimately on the losing side. Besides all this, it may be true that,
when a moment came for making the plunge, he hesitated, temporized, and lost
it; and this would be only natural for a man immersed in pictorial and
partly in literary projects and doings, to whom every hour was precious and
bespoken, and who moreover—such was my brother's
case—was very difficult to be stirred out of his daily groove of
habit and association.
By the beginning of 1860 Rossetti's position, as regards commissions
and consequent income, had improved; though it was still far from being so
prosperous and secure as it became some years later. The
Triptych for Llandaff was going on. The arrangement with Mr. Ruskin had probably come to
an end, or was proceeding languidly and intermittently. Mr. Boyce remained
an occasional purchaser, and Colonel Gillum, who first came to my brother
with an introduction from Browning, and who is now well known as a zealous
philanthropist, the founder and director of a “Boys'
Home.” Mr. Leathart of Newcastle-on-Tyne took several specimens
of Rossetti's art; and more particularly Mr. Thomas E. Plint, of Leeds, a
stockbroker and prominent Nonconformist leader. He began purchasing towards
the end of 1856, and seemed ready to acquire, on terms more than tolerably
liberal, almost anything that the painter had to offer him. I do not
remember how he first came into this particular artistic circle. He bought
from several so-called Præraphaelite painters, and possibly
Mr.Holman Hunt, as having exceptional hold on the religious world, may have
come foremost. Rossetti, with his constant alertness for his
friends' interest, got Mr. Plint to purchase from
Madox Brown, Burne-Jones, and Morris. This professional advantage however
was not to continue long, for in the course of 1860 Mr. Plint died very
suddenly, leaving Rossetti's affairs with his estate much embroiled, what
between payments made and pictures due but not yet brought to completion.
In April 1860, and also in May, my brother was down with Lizzie at
Hastings. The reader of these Family-letters will observe one addressed to
me on 17 April, showing the very alarming condition of her health at that
time, as well as the fact that he had then in his possession an ordinary
license for marriage. A letter to Madox Brown, 22 April, is couched in still
stronger terms, saying that Lizzie “
has seemed ready to
die daily, and more than once a day.” At last however the moment arrived, and on 23 May they
were married at St. Clement's Church, Hastings. It is pleasant to observe,
from the note which Rossetti addressed to Brown on this very day, that he
had beforehand paid his bride the little attention of getting her initials,
E. E. R, stamped in cipher on the notepaper.
They went away at once on a wedding-trip by Folkestone and Boulogne to
Paris—a city which had in previous instances seemed favourable to
Lizzie's health. At Boulogne Rossetti saw again his good old friends the
Maenzas, and his bride viewed them both, but more especially Signor Maenza,
with great predilection. Her constitution rallied to some extent, and they
stayed in Paris until near the close of June, my brother continuing there to
do something in the way of his profession. His ideas on matters of art were
not considerably different from what they had been when he visited Paris
with Holman Hunt in 1849. He had shed the prejudices—a compound
between the juvenile, the half-informed, the wilful, and the
humoursome—of P.R.B'ism, and no longer scampered through the
Louvre until he found some picture of the less fully matured period of art
which hit his fancy. In 1860 he pronounced the gorgeous Paul Veronese of
The Marriage in Cana to be
“the greatest picture in the
world.” This again,
if free from clear perversity, was rash for a
pictorial student and practitioner whose “world” of
art consisted only of London, Paris, and Belgium, to the exclusion of all
those masterpieces of which one knows nothing solid until one has been
elsewhere—more especially in Italy. And later on, 1871, he had
got to think Veronese (and also Tintoret) “simply
detestable without their colour and handling”; but,
as the colour and handling
are in the
Marriage of Cana picture, he must have retained a very
vivid admiration for that.
As I have said, Rossetti did some amount of art-work in Paris. He
brought into its present form the pen-and-ink design named
How they met Themselves
, and designed, if he did not partly paint, the subject of
Dr. Johnson and the Methodistical Young
Ladies at the Mitre Tavern
. As he was not a little superstitious, and sensitive to ill omens, I
am somewhat surprised that he took up the former of these drawings. Here the
lady—studied from Lizzie, and very like her—is
represented swooning away as she encounters her own wraith—not to
speak of her lover or husband, who grasps his sword on seeing the wraith of
himself. To meet one's wraith is ominous of death, and to figure Lizzie as
meeting her wraith might well have struck her bridegroom as uncanny in a
high degree. In less than two years the weird was wofully fulfilled.
From Paris the bride and bridegroom returned to the old quarters in
London, 14 Chatham Place—enlarged later on by breaking through
the wall of an adjoining house, and adding some apartments on the same
floor. With this addition the domicile became compact, comfortable, sightly,
and fully sufficient for all present wants. They also took for a while part
of a house in Downshire Hill, Hampstead, where they were near the Madox
Browns. This was principally or wholly with a view to Lizzie's health.
Mr. Bell Scott has expressed the opinion that Rossetti
was not well adapted for married life. He terms marriage
“an even way of life the most unlikely possible to
suit his late development.” By the phrase
“his late development” Mr. Scott
means apparently that Rossetti, not having indulged in any juvenile amours
or entanglements, had in the process of years become more susceptible to
influences of that character. On this point I have already had my say, and
have made my reader aware that Rossetti was in love with his future wife as
far back as his twenty-third year, and had deferred marriage for reasons all
of them intelligible, and some cogent. I do not, however, dissent from Mr.
Scott's opinion that my brother, at the age of thirty-two, was less likely
to settle down into the ordinary habits of married life than many other men
would have been.
His poetical and artistic temperament, his devotion to the ideas and
practice of an artist and poet, his now rooted bachelor-customs of working
when he could or when he liked, of keeping any hours or no recognized hours,
of living in chambers without a regular home-dinner, of seeing any people he
chose just as they happened to come, most of them men, of eschewing the
minor observances of society in the way of visiting and dressing,
etc.—and in short his propensity for doing whatever he liked
simply because he liked it, and without any self-accommodation to what other
people might like instead—all this made it improbable that he
would prove a complaisant or well-matching husband on the ordinary lines of
complaisance. He was not what I should call “Bohemian”
—he neither drank nor gambled nor betted nor smoked nor amused
himself in any rough-and-ready manner; but certainly he did not belong to
the tribe of those decorous citizens whose highest ambition seems to be that
they should demean themselves the one like the other, and all in some
conformity to
“the upper classes.” Besides, he had
long been inured to having things his own way, and to a certain ungrudgingly
conceded leadership even among the men of genius who formed his inner
circle. He might have modified Iago's phrase, and said, “For I am
nothing if not dominant.” It is to be remembered that his wife
was perfectly accustomed to his habits, had much of tendency and feeling in
the same direction as himself, and, from her constant and severe ill-health
if from no other cause, was very little in the way of polite visiting or
elegant sight-seeing.
Two families she did very frequently visit with—the Madox
Browns and the Morrises; and I suppose in a minor degree the Burne-Joneses,
for Mr. Jones had married (Miss Georgina Macdonald) very soon after my
brother's wedding. The Macdonalds were a rather numerous family, all or most
of whom were in some degree known to my brother, and were probably not
unknown to his wife. Two of the sisters are now Mrs. Poynter, wife of the
Director of the National Gallery, and Mrs. Kipling, mother of Mr. Rudyard
Kipling. With the Brown and Morris families Mrs. Rossetti stayed every now
and then along with her husband, and at some other times without him. The
Ruskins they saw occasionally, but not so regularly as might have been
expected. For one reason or another I happen to have witnessed very little
of my brother's married life. We lived at opposite ends of the
town—he by Blackfriars Bridge, and I, with my mother and sisters,
near Regent's Park (166 Albany Street), and each of us had his separate
unavoidable occupations.
There is a pretty little letter from Mr. Ruskin, congratulating Dante
and Lizzie on their marriage. It is dated 4 September 1860, as he had been
away at a prior date. I extract the postscript:—
“
I looked over all the
book of sketches at Chatham Place yesterday [the book of sketches was a large handsome volume given
to Rossetti by Lady Dalrymple, a most obliging friend of his, sister to Mrs.
Prinsep. He inserted into its commodious leaves a great
number of pencil and other drawings, many of
which remained undisposed-of up to the date of his death. Mr. Ruskin, it is
to be inferred, had called in Chatham Place on some day when the Rossettis
were staying at their lodgings at Hampstead]
. I think Ida should
be very happy to see how much more beautifully, perfectly, and
tenderly, you draw when you are drawing
her than
when you draw anybody else. She cures you of all your worst faults
when you only look at her.”
These drawings of Lizzie, very considerable in number from first to
last, were made some before and some after marriage. There is a substantial
measure of truth in what Mr. Ruskin said as to their quality, pure and
exquisite in a high degree, as pitted against even the finest drawings which
my brother made from other sitters at any period of his pictorial career.
After allowing for the three married couples whom I have named, there
was not, I think, any person whom Rossetti saw, during his wedded life, so
constantly and so delightedly as Mr. Swinburne. This poet's first
volume—the two dramas of
The Queen Mother and
Rosamund—came out in the only completed year, 1861, of my
brother's marriage. It did not create any particular stir, but Rossetti knew
perfectly well what to think of the volume, and of its author and his
future. Mr. Swinburne's brilliant intellect, his wide knowledge of poetry
and astonishing memory in quotation, his enthusiasm for whatsoever he
recognized as great, his fascinating audacity and pungency in talk, and the
singular and ingenuous charm of his manner to any one whom he either liked
or respected, made him the most welcome of comrades to Rossetti. For what
this archimage of verse thought of Mrs. Rossetti I may refer back to a
previous section, XVII. At this time my brother came also into habits of
some intimacy with Mr. George Meredith the celebrated novelist, and with Mr.
Frederick A. Sandys the painter—of whom Rossetti had heard
something in 1857, when Mr. Sandys published a caricature of Millais's
picture
Sir Isumbras at the Ford,
containing figures of Millais himself, along with Hunt and Rossetti, but
intended chiefly as a pasquinade against Ruskin.
Another person who was often in Rossetti's
apartments was Mr. James Anderson Rose, a solicitor and art-collector, who
continued on easy and pleasant terms with my brother for several years,
though the latter eventually (whatever the cause) preferred to lose sight of
him. Yet another was Mr. Alexander Gilchrist, author of
The Life of Etty, who was at this time engaged in writing his most praiseworthy
Life of Blake
. For Gilchrist the feeling of Rossetti, who first met him in the
spring of 1861 in relation to the Blake work, was one of genuine
friendliness. He liked the writer and his writings, and had a high regard
for his insight as a critic of art. Few of the events occurring at any time
of his life seem to have affected Rossetti as a more staggering blow than
the sudden death of Gilchrist from scarlet fever,
1 at the age of only thirty-three, on 30 November 1861. While his
short and fierce illness lasted, Rossetti wrote to Mrs. Gilchrist offering
that either himself or I would keep up the invalid's current literary work;
and he made another nearly similar offer immediately after Gilchrist's
death. But soon a far crueller blow was to strike him.
Let me repeat here, from
The Life of Anne Gilchrist—herself a noble-natured woman, whom my brother knew and
appreciated from 1861 until his life closed in 1882—a trait which
does honour to a lady occasionally mentioned in my pages, the second Mrs.
Madox Brown. It should be understood that scarlet fever was then raging in
the Gilchrist household—not only Gilchrist himself, who
succumbed, but also two of his children, who recovered, being dangerously attacked:—
“In the tragedies of life there seem to be
among our fellow-beings always one or two with a dash of heroism in
their natures. Mrs. Madox Brown offered to come and help. Anne
Gilchrist, even then, remembered that Mrs. Brown possessed
children—a thought which made her decline the noble
offer.”
Transcribed Footnote (page 211):
1 Several letters from Rossetti, on this subject and
others, are in the book
Anne Gilchrist, Edited by Herbert H.
Gilchrist
. Unwin, 1887.
Married life cannot be exactly happy when one of the spouses is
perpetually and grievously ill. Affectionate and tender it may be, but not
happy; indeed the very affection bars the possibility of happiness. I hardly
think that at any time in her brief period of marriage was Lizzie Rossetti
quite so alarmingly ill as she had been just before it commenced; but health
was irrecoverably gone, and sickness, more or less serious, was her constant
portion. She was compelled—no doubt under medical
advice—to take laudanum or some opiate continually, and
stimulants alternated with opiates. On 2 May 1861 she was confined of a
stillborn female infant—Dr. Babington, the Head Physician of the
Lying-in Hospital, being called in, as well as another doctor. Immediately
before this occurrence Rossetti had written, “
She has too much
courage to be in the least downcast herself”; and she rallied from the confinement rapidly enough.
In the summer of 1861 another of Rossetti's friends had passed
away—Mrs. Wells, the sister of Mr. Boyce, and wife of the R.A.
Portrait-painter. Her age may have been under thirty. She was herself an
exhibiting painter of exceptional talent, from which my brother and many
more hoped much. He took a portrait of her as she lay in death; and
Gilchrist, so soon to follow her to the grave, wrote an obituary-notice of
her, highly and deservedly eulogistic.
A phrase in one of my brother's letters to Madox Brown, 2 December
1861, may be worth observing: he professes to be “
getting awfully fat
and torpid.” In early youth he was slim and rather attenuated. This
had now for some while ceased to be the case; and the phrase which he used,
though exaggerated, was not repugnant to fact. After this date he was
sometimes (as for instance in 1873) still fatter than then, but with marked
variations from time to time. In his closing years he might be considered
thin again.
At no period of his life was my brother more busily
employed than during his brief term of marriage, May 1860 to February 1862.
He was much engaged in painting, in a literary project, and in a general
scheme of art-work.
The death in 1860 of the then principal purchaser of his paintings, Mr.
Plint, has been previously mentioned. This, at the very outset of married
life, was a most serious misfortune and embarrassment to him—and
a sorrow as well, for he entertained a cordial liking for this liberal and
estimable man. Mr. Plint had paid him in advance no less a sum than
£714, for three pictures not yet completed, perhaps hardly begun;
and Rossetti had to execute and send in the works without so far neglecting
other employment as to wrong surviving buyers, or to deprive himself and his
wife of the means of subsistence from month to month. The details appear to
some extent in his Family-letters. Some pictures probably were completed
without any great delay, and my brother repaid also a part of the
purchase-money. In 1865 the whole of Mr. Plint's collection of art was sold
off. It included five works by Rossetti: the small oil-picture named
Burd Alane
, and the water-colours of
The Lovers
(called also
Carlisle
Tower
),
The Bower-garden
,
The Wedding of St. George
, and
Dr. Johnson with the Methodistical Young
Ladies at the Mitre Tavern
. Another small oil-picture of his had belonged to Mr.
Plint—
The Queen of Hearts
(or
Regina
Cordium
), being a portrait of Lizzie Rossetti; but this, as the sale
was determined upon very soon after Lizzie's death, was, out of
consideration for the painter's feelings, withdrawn from the auction under
some arrangement. There were also paintings by Turner, Etty, Burne-Jones,
Madox Brown, Millais, Holman Hunt, Hughes, Wallis, Windus, Brett, Alfred
Hunt, William Hunt, Lewis, Holland, Oakes, Hook, Edouard Frère,
Leys, and various others. This seems a sufficiently tempting list; but for some
reason or other (possibly, but I cannot affirm
it, there was a combination of picture-dealers inimical to the new school)
the sale proved a very great failure—so far, at any rate, as
pictures of the “Præraphaelite” order were
concerned. Scarcely any even tolerable prices were realized save by
Rossetti's pictures, and for these the prices were much less than Mr. Plint
had not extravagantly given. For years afterwards, or indeed for the
remainder of his life, my brother mistrusted the chances of auction-sales,
and did his best to shut out from them any works of his own.
Among the productions of Rossetti in these two years were
—the water-colour of
Lucrezia Borgia
(preparing a poison-draught); the finished oil-sketch of the
old
Magdalene
subject; the crowded pen-and-ink design of
Cassandra
(prophesying the death of Hector);
The Annunciation
, painted in oil on a pulpit in the Church of St. Martin-on-the-Hill,
Scarborough; a water-colour
head of Mr.
Swinburne
, I suppose the most vigorous and finished record of his
youth which posterity will have to cherish; a red-chalk life-sized
head of Ruskin; the oil-picture
Fair Rosamund
; and an oil-picture named
Dantis Amor
, of symbolical character. The same design appears in a pen-and-ink
drawing. There were also the two designs for Christina Rossetti's volume
(published in 1862)
Goblin Market, and other Poems. The
Magdalene
stands very fully described in a letter which my brother in 1865
addressed to the wife of the purchaser, Mr. Clabburn of Norwich. This is
printed in the
Pall Mall Gazette
of 16 January 1891. The
Cassandra
is one of the most important among all my brother's inventions. Many
a time did he wish to set-to at painting it, but something always
interfered—chiefly the constant run of commissions for pictures
of a less exacting and less costly kind. It was certainly one of his
lifelong regrets that this subject remained only a design, and not a
picture.
The time had now come for Rossetti to appear before the public as
author of a volume—
The Early Italian Poets
. I have already spoken at some length about this very interesting
series of translations, the work almost entirely of his
eighteenth to his twenty-second year; and I will
avow my belief that there was not in the United Kingdom another man who
could have done them half as well—with half the insight into the
poetic motives and character of the originals, or half the personal power of
poetic transfusion, which he brought to the task. Self-reliant though he was
when he made the translations, and still more so when he was preparing to
publish them, and, by his innermost nature, immutably biassed in certain
directions and not in others, he was nevertheless extremely ready to consult
well-qualified friends as to this book, and to take some practical advantage
of the advice which they might offer him. In this way he showed his MS. to
Mr. Allingham, Mr. Ruskin, Mr. Patmore, Count Aurelio Saffi (then in Oxford,
once the noble Triumvir of Rome along with Mazzini and Armellini), and no
doubt to Mr. Swinburne and some others as well. To myself he committed the
MS. of the
Vita Nuova
, asking me to introduce any change of diction, etc., which I might
judge expedient.
Ruskin liked the translations, but urged that crudities (and there must
have been many in MSS. going back to that remote period of youth) should be
removed. Patmore wrote a letter of so much generous
élan, and so stringently expressed, that I
will not scruple to re-produce it here:—
“21
May 1861.
“My Dear Rossetti,
“A thousand thanks for what I see at a glance
is one of the very few really precious books in the English or
any other language. It seems to me to be the first time that a
translator has proved himself, by his translations alone, to be
a
great poet. Your book is so exquisitely to
my taste that I almost dread to read it—as one dreads
other great enjoyments which will diminish with enjoyment. How I
envy the iron muscle and the electric nerve which appears
everywhere in your poetic diction! It would be absurd to
wish you success after such intrinsic success
as the book itself is.
“Yours ever,
“Coventry
Patmore.
“I am rejoiced to hear of your wife's
health."
Mr. Ruskin's good-will to
The Early Italian Poets
was not confined to words. After another publisher had been
consulted without definite upshot, the MS. was offered to Ruskin's
publishers Messrs. Smith and Elder, and they agreed to undertake the risk,
subject (it would seem) to an advance or guarantee of £100 by
Ruskin. The book came out in 1861, and was extremely well received. I might
even say it was received with general acclaim, so far as a work of poetical
translation ever
can be welcomed and applauded in England.
By 1869 about 600 copies of it had sold; and the profits covered the
£100 of Mr. Ruskin, and a minute dole of less than £9
to Rossetti. A few copies, 64, still remained on hand. It has been stated
that Mr. Ruskin subsidized Rossetti in bringing out not only
The Early Italian Poets
, but also the volume of original
Poems
, 1870. But this is quite erroneous.
My brother had intended to produce some etchings to illustrate the
volume. He made a graceful
design of two lovers kissing,
1 which was engraved, and formed the foundation of his water-colour
entitled
The Rose-garden
. Even as late as 18 June 1861 he thought of doing the etchings, and
giving them in gratis if the publishers would not compensate him. At last
this project was abandoned, and the book appeared without any designs.
At some time—it may have been before
1861—Rossetti showed a number of his original poems to Ruskin,
with a direct view to the publication of some of them in the
Cornhill Magazine, issued by Messrs. Smith and Elder, and then edited by Thackeray
(the latter must have been known to my brother by sight, but I question
whether they ever interchanged a word). Ruskin admired the poems to a large
extent, but raised objections to one and another, and no magazine-publishing
ensued. Rossetti however was still bent
Transcribed Footnote (page 216):
1 To my surprise, I lately saw, in an American
journal, this design, modernized in costume, adopted to bedeck the
advertisement of some tradesman for his
“washing-powder”—a queer phase of
metempsychosis.
upon bringing the poems out; and the volume
of
The Early Italian Poets
contained an intimation that
Dante at Verona, and other Poems
, would shortly be printed. This also, as will soon be seen, came to
nothing.
It was, I believe, in 1860 that an enterprise which has proved to be
of no less than national importance was set on foot. I mean the foundation
of the Decorative Firm which, known at first as “Morris,
Marshall, Falkner, and Co.,” is now named “Morris and
Company.” One may note it as rather curious that this Firm
consisted of the same number of men, seven, as the Præraphaelite
Brotherhood. The Brotherhood introduced into painting something that might
well be called a revolution, and the Firm introduced into decoration
something still more revolutionary for widespread and as yet permanent
effect. Rossetti was prominent in both adventures.
The seven members of the Firm—I will name them in what
appears to me to be the approximate order of their importance in bringing
this scheme into working-order—were William Morris, Madox Brown,
Burne-Jones, Rossetti, Philip Webb, Peter Paul Marshall, and Charles
Falkner. Mr. Webb is an architect of much originality of view, and practical
attainment and skill. He built, among other things, the Red House at Upton
tenanted by Mr. Morris. He has also marked ability in designing for stained
glass and other forms of decoration, especially in the way of animal life.
Mr. Marshall was the first originator of the idea of such a Firm. He is an
engineer (now for many years settled in Norwich), son-in-law to Mr. John
Miller, the merchant and picture-collector in Liverpool, and is besides a
capable painter who might, under differing circumstances, have passed out of
the amateur into the professional stage of work. I believe Rossetti was the
first person to whom he broached his idea; he eagerly caught at it, and
imparted it to others. Mr. Falkner, an Oxford Mathematician and close friend
of Mr. Morris, took no part in the practical work of the Firm, but gave it
his willing support; and I suppose that he, like each of the others, put a
modicum of money into it. What this
modicum was—in my brother's or in any
case—I do not know. As to Rossetti, at any rate, I presume it to
have been decidedly small. Mr. Morris was on a different footing in this
respect. He ventured something very substantial, and, but for him, it may be
safely said that the Firm would not have been constituted at all. They set
up in the secluded but decorous quarters of Queen Square, Bloomsbury; or I
think, first of all, in Red Lion Square.
They were all young men—the senior, Madox Brown, being aged
thirty-nine in 1860; and there was a deal of jollity among them. Indeed
there was always jollity where Rossetti was present—not to speak
of Morris and Brown, who were the heartiest of the hearty, or of any of the
other members; for nothing is more contrary to fact, or more absurd to the
reminiscence of those who knew him in the old days, than the current notion
that Rossetti was a vague and gloomy phantasist, combined of mysticism and
self-opinion, who was always sunk in despondency, or fizzing with
affectation, or airing some intangible ideal. I must apologize to his loved
memory for even alluding to such a trumpery misconception. Winged was the
jest and loud and contagious the laugh from his full lips. Had there been no
one else to keep his colleagues in heart and humour, his own resources would
have sufficed. To some of these highly distinguished colleagues it would be
unjust to say that Rossetti was
primus inter
pares
; but certainly he was
nulli
secundus
. Nature had endowed him in ample measure with one of her most
precious secrets—that of dominance, leadership, and comradeship,
each in its proper place. No more downright and no more unpretentious man
existed within the four seas. How long his vigorous temperament continued to
scintillate into high spirits we shall see as we proceed. There were flashes
of it till the last.
The more one reflects upon it, the more surprising it seems that three
youths, almost boys, started, in great lightness of heart and disregard of
externals, if also with a most resolute purpose at the core, so serious a
movement as that of
Præraphaelitism; and that, with some
assistance from the same quarter, other youths—I mean more
especially Morris and Jones—founded, in very much the same temper
of mind, so vast a recasting and reform of decorative art as is identified
with the name and the fortunes of “Morris, Marshall, Falkner, and
Co.” Clearly, without reality of genius, of insight, and of
labour, neither of these enterprises would have made the least headway. A
puff of wind, a treacherous sand-bank, a sunken reef, or a rock-bound
coast—and more than enough of all these were at
hand—would have made short work of the whole craft.
Light or boisterous chaff among themselves, and something very like
dictatorial irony towards customers, were the methods by which this singular
commercial firm was conducted, and was turned, after a longish period of
uncertain probation, into a flourishing success. There was no compromise.
Mr. Morris, as the managing partner, laid down the law, and all his clients
had to bend or break. Frequent meetings—of the least
business-like aspect of business, and yet thoroughly efficient, as the event
proved—were held; and the only designation for the undertaking
which passed current with the partners or their intimates was
“the Shop.” From the first the Firm turned out
whatever any one wanted in the way of decorative
material—architectural adjuncts, furniture, tapestries,
embroideries, stained glass, wall-papers, and what not. The goods were
first-rate, the art and the workmanship excellent, the prices high. No
concession was made to individual tastes or want of taste, no question of
abatement was entertained. You could have the things such as the Firm chose
that they should be, or you could do without them.
A detailed history of the Firm of Morris, Marshall, Falkner, and Co.,
or Morris and Company, would by this time be an interesting thing; but it is
not my affair to write one, nor indeed have I any means of doing so, even if
the inclination served. I must limit myself to a few particulars regarding
my brother's work in this connexion. As I have before implied, he was not
the leading spirit in the Firm.
Mr. Morris came much the foremost, not only by
being constantly on the spot, to work, direct, and transact, but also by his
abnormal and varied aptitude at all kinds of practical processes. Mr. Madox
Brown had always taken a more than common interest in decorative art as
applied to household-requirements; and his activity, as well as that of Mr.
Burne-Jones, in designing for stained glass and other such matters, far
exceeded any that Rossetti was called upon to display. Mr. Webb must
likewise have done a solid amount of work. Towards the beginning of 1865 an
acquaintance of my brother, Mr. Warrington Taylor, was brought into the
business as a manager and accountant. He did excellent service in keeping
things straight and safe; but this only lasted a few years, as he died young
of consumption. He had very good perceptions in various matters of art,
especially music.
My brother was entitled to a certain proportional share in the profits
of the partnership, and besides he was paid at a regulated rate for such
designs as he produced. With few exceptions, these were for stained glass.
For St. Martin's, Scarborough, he designed two lights—
Adam and Eve in Paradise
. There were also seven glass-cartoons of
The Parable of the Vineyard [
The Planting of the Vine] [
The Letting of the Vineyard to the Husbandmen] [
The Sending of a Servant to Receive the Fruit, and
the Stoning and Killing of the Servant
] [
The Arrival of the Lord's Son] [
The Feast of the Vintage] [
The Slaying of the Lord's Son] [
Judgment and Condemnation by the Lord of the
Vineyard
] (very able compositions, with plenty of dramatic
character); six of
St. George and the
Dragon
[
The Skulls Brought to the King] [
The Princess Sabra Drawing the Lot] [
The Princess Sabra Taken to the Dragon] [
St. George and the Dragon] [
The Return of the Princess] [
The Wedding of St. George]; and
The Last Judgment
, nine subjects within a circle. At a later date, 1869, he drew
The Sermon on the Plain
, for a window in Christ Church, Albany Street, in memory of our Aunt
Margaret Polidori. These are the only designs for the Morris firm (besides
the pulpit-painting, previously specified, of
The Annunciation
) which appear to be known to me. There may perhaps be others
[
Joseph and Mary at the house of St.
Elisabeth
] in a set of glass-cartoons now in the
possession of Mr. Theodore Watts.
Rossetti's married life lasted from 23 May 1860 to 11
February 1862. The essence of his wife's illness was, I
apprehend, phthisis, with the accompaniment of a
great deal of acute and wearing neuralgia. It was for the neuralgia that she
had been medically authorized or directed to take frequent doses of
laudanum. The phthisis had not as yet brought on any noticeable degree of
emaciation; but it was running its course, and he would have been a sanguine
person who, at the beginning of 1862, could anticipate for her more than
some five or six years of life at the utmost. Though she was often kept
within-doors by illness, her habits were not those of a recluse, and she
frequently accompanied her husband to dinner at some public dining-room or
other. She had very little of a housewifely turn. She often sat to
him—and did this, only a few days before her last, for the figure
of the Princess Sabra in the water-colour which is called either
St. George and the Princess Sabra
, or
St. George and the Dragon.
She is shown holding the knight's helmet, filled with water to lave the
bloodstains of his recent conflict. This was the latest occasion on which
Lizzie sat for any head.
Note: Surtees titles this picture (S-151)
“The Story of St. George and the Dragon.”
On 10 February 1862 Rossetti and his wife, with Mr. Swinburne, dined at
the Sablonière Hotel in Leicester Square. She was not less well
than usual, and joined in the talk with animation. She returned with her
husband to their home in Chatham Place. He went out again, and was back
late. I will quote here the few words which I jotted down on the following
day, as a memento for my own use. It is of the scantiest, but must serve for
our present purpose:—
“February 11. Death of poor Lizzie,
Gabriel's wife. Coming home last night past 11 from the Working Men's
College, he found her almost gone from the effects of laudanum; and,
spite of the efforts of four doctors, she died towards 7 ½
this morning. [One of the doctors was Mr. John Marshall, at
that time a Surgeon, finally M.D. He became Professor of Anatomy to the
Royal Academy, and President of the Royal College of Surgeons. He was
intimate with Madox Brown, and hence with Rossetti, who very frequently
consulted him on his own account in after years.] I was
called from Somerset House about 12 ½ [by Mrs.
Birrell, the housekeeper of the Chambers 14 Chatham Place, who had
been there during the entire duration of my
brother's stay]. Brown, whom Gabriel had called on before 5
in the morning, was there [his residence was then near
Highgate Rise], and told me the circumstances. Lizzie and
Gabriel had dined at a Hotel with Swinburne that afternoon. The poor
thing looks wonderfully calm now and beautiful.
- “‘Ed avea
in sè umiltà sì
verace
- Che parea che dicesse, Io sono in
pace.’
1
I could not but think of that all the time I looked at her, it
is so exactly like.”
The only further particulars I find in any book regarding Mrs.
Rossetti's death are given by Mr. Bell Scott, who must apparently have heard
them from the widower. He simply says that Rossetti, after taking her back
to Chatham Place, “advised her to go to
bed”; and “on his next and final
home-coming he had to grope about for a light, and called to her without
receiving a reply.”
Of course there was an inquest, of which I shall proceed to give the
only newspaper account which I possess. It may come from the
Daily News, but I am not sure. I do not think that any other newspaper account,
in the least degree detailed, appeared—a fact which sufficiently
shows that to the great bulk of the British public the name of Dante Gabriel
Rossetti continued practically unknown at the beginning of 1862. I was
present at the inquest, but omitted to keep any record of it. My brother
braced himself manfully to
Transcribed Footnote (page 222):
1 This couplet comes from Dante's
Vita Nuova, the poem which relates his prevision of the death of
Beatrice. In my brother's translation it is rendered thus:—
- “And with her was such very
humbleness
- That she appeared to say, I am at
peace.”
This subject had been already painted by Rossetti as a
water-colour, and it forms the theme of
his largest oil-picture,
Dante's Dream
, now in the Walker Art-gallery of Liverpool. In neither of
these works was his wife represented as Beatrice. Mrs. Hannay sat in
the first instance, and Mrs. Morris in the second.
the painful effort of giving evidence; and his
deposition was followed (though not so shown in the newspaper) by those of
Mr. Swinburne, and of Mrs. Birrell who testified to uniformly affectionate
relations between the husband and wife.
The following is the newspaper-paragraph:—
“Death of a Lady from an Overdose of Laudanum.—On Thursday Mr. Payne held an inquest at
Bridewell Hospital on the body of Eliza Eleanor Rosetti, aged
twenty-nine, wife of Dante Gabriel Rosetti, Artist, of No. 14 Chatham
Place, Blackfriars, who came to her death under very melancholy
circumstances. Mr. Rosetti stated that on Monday afternoon, between six
and seven o'clock, he and his wife went out in the carriage for the
purpose of dining with a friend at the Sablonière Hotel,
Leicester Square [the term ‘the
carriage’ seems to suggest that my brother kept a carriage of
his own, which was most assuredly not the fact]. When they
had got about halfway there his wife appeared to be very drowsy, and he
wished her to return. She objected to their doing so, and they proceeded
to the Hotel, and dined there. They returned home at eight o'clock, when
she appeared somewhat excited. He left home again at nine o'clock, his
wife being then about to go to bed. On his return at half-past eleven
o'clock he found his wife in bed, snoring loudly and utterly
unconscious. She was in the habit of taking laudanum, and he had known
her to take as much as 100 drops at a time, and he thought she had been
taking it before they went out. He found a phial on a table at the
bedside, which had contained laudanum, but it was then empty. A doctor
was sent for, and promptly attended. She had expressed no wish to die,
but quite the reverse. Indeed she contemplated going out of town in a
day or two, and had ordered a new mantle which she intended wearing on
the occasion. He believed she took the laudanum to soothe her nerves.
She could not sleep or take food unless she used it.—Mr.
Hutchinson, of Bridge Street, Blackfriars, said he had attended the
deceased in her confinement in April with a stillborn child. He saw her
on Monday night at half-past eleven o'clock, and found her in a comatose
state. He tried to rouse her, but could not, and then tried the
stomach-pump without avail. He injected several quarts of water into the
stomach, and washed it out, when the smell of laudanum was very
distinct. He and three other
medical gentlemen stayed with her all night,
and she died at twenty minutes past seven o'clock on Tuesday
morning.—The jury returned a verdict of Accidental
Death.”
Our mother and sisters and myself were constantly with Dante during
those harrowing days which intervene between a death and a funeral. His
anguish was keen, but his mind clear. He was not prostrated in that kind of
way which makes a man incapable of self-regulation. Brown was often there,
and the sister of Lizzie playfully nicknamed “the
Roman.” I recollect a moment of great agitation, when my brother,
standing by the corpse, was crying out, “Oh Lizzie,
Lizzie, come back to me!” With a woman's kindly tact
the sister felt that this was an instant when emotion should be seconded,
and not controlled; and she reminded him of some old touches of sportive and
now pathetic affection, to give the freer flow to his tears. Mr. Ruskin
called one day, and saw the rest of us, but not Dante. He spoke with his
usual tenderness of feeling, and I then for the first time became aware of
the great change which had taken place in his views on religion. On the
second or third day after death Lizzie looked still lovelier than before,
and Dante almost refused to believe that she was really dead—it
might be a mere trance consequent upon the laudanum. He insisted that Mr.
Marshall should be called in to decide—with what result I need
not say.
The day of the funeral came. On this also I have a very brief note:—
“February 17. The funeral. Grave 5779,
Highgate [the same grave in which my father lay
buried—my mother is now there too, and, even since I wrote
this very sentence, my dear sister Christina]. Gabriel put
the book of his MS. poems into the coffin.”
I remember this incident. There were some friends assembled in one of
the rooms in Chatham Place; the coffin, not yet close-shut, was in another.
My brother, unwitnessed, deposited the MS. in the coffin. He then joined his friends,
and informed Madox Brown of what he had done,
saying— “I have often been writing at those
poems when Lizzie was ill and suffering, and I might have been attending
to her, and now they shall go.” Brown disapproved of
such a sacrifice to a mere impulse of grief or of self-reproach, and he
appealed to me to remonstrate. I replied—“Well,
the feeling does him honour, and let him do as he
likes.” The sacrifice was no doubt a grave one. Rossetti
thus not only renounced any early or definite hopes of poetic fame, which
had always been a ruling passion with him, but he also abandoned a project
already distinctly formulated and notified; for, as we have seen, a
forthcoming volume of his original poems was advertised in
The Early Italian Poets
.
Mr. Caine relates this matter somewhat differently. I do not know from
whom he obtained his details; where they may be considered incompatible with
my reminiscence, I abide by my own. He says:—
“The poems he had written, so far as they
were poems of love, were chiefly inspired by and addressed to her. At
her request he had copied them into a little book presented to him for
the purpose; and on the day of the funeral he walked into the room where
the body lay, and, unmindful of the presence of friends, he spoke to his
dead wife as though she heard, saying, as he held the book, that the
words it contained were written to her and for her, and she must take
them with her, for they could not remain when she had gone. Then he put
the volume into the coffin between her cheek and beautiful hair, and it
was that day buried with her in Highgate Cemetery.”
Probably very few letters from Rossetti are extant written immediately
after and relating to his wife's death. With his closest friends he was in
personal communication, and to others he would be by no means expansive on
such a topic. There is, however, one letter in print, addressed to Mrs.
Gilchrist, and I think it as well to reproduce it here. In the opening
paragraph he refers to the fact that he had so recently had to condole with
Mrs. Gilchrist on her husband's death, and now she was condoling with
himself on his wife's.
“45 Upper Albany Street,
1 2
March 1862.
“My dear Mrs.
Gilchrist,—
“I thank you sincerely in my turn for the
words of sorrow and sympathy which, coming from you, seem
more terribly real than any I have received. I remember
clearly the mistrustful feeling of insufficiency with which
I sat down to write to you so short a time ago, and know now
what it is both to write and to receive even the sincerest
words at such a time.
“I have now to be thankful for obligations
connected with my work which were a source of anxiety
before; for without them it seems to me that I could never
work again. But I already begin to find the inactive moments
the most unbearable, and must hope for the power, as I feel
most surely the necessity, of working steadily without
delay. Of my dear wife I do not dare to speak now, nor to
attempt any vain conjecture whether it may ever be possible
for me, or I be found worthy, to meet her again.
“I am staying at my mother's just now, and
hope that some of my family, if not all, may join with me in
seeking a new home together, as in any case I cannot any
longer bear to remain in the old one. I have thoughts of
coming if possible to Chelsea,
2 and have already, in the impossibility I find of
remaining inactive, been seeking for fresh quarters in that
and other directions. Your photograph [of
Alexander Gilchrist] I still have, and hope to
send you some result from it, if I find such possible
[he was thinking of drawing some likeness of
Gilchrist, founded partly on the photograph, but in this he
did not succeed]. Whenever it may be necessary to
be thinking about the
Life of Blake
I hope you will let me know, as my brother is
equally anxious with myself, and perhaps at the present
moment better able, to be of any service in his power.
“While writing this, I have just read your
letter again, and again feel forcibly the bond of misery
which exists between us, and the unhappy right we have of
saying to each other what we both know to be fruitless. Pray
believe that I am not the less grateful to you, at least for
the heartfelt warmth with which it is said.”
Transcribed Footnote (page 226):
1 This was the residence of my mother and sisters
and myself. Later on it was called 166 Albany Street.
Transcribed Footnote (page 226):
2 The joint home of Mr. and Mrs. Gilchrist had been
in Chelsea, close to Carlyle's house. Mrs. Gilchrist was now just about
removing into the country, Shottermill near Haslemere.
The letter just cited has shown two points: that
Rossetti, after his bereavement, did not feel equal to continuing to reside
at Chatham Place—I hardly believe that he slept there even a
single night after his wife's funeral—and that he thought, upon
settling in some new house, of obtaining the companionship of some or all of
the members of his family. These were our mother, our two sisters, myself,
and our rather aged aunt, Margaret Polidori, now considerably invalided, and
living a very secluded life in my house 166 Albany Street. My brother also
particularly wanted to have Mr. Swinburne in the same house with himself,
thinking, not unreasonably, that, in his own depressed state of mind, he
needed some inspiriting association such as he could scarcely obtain from
mere family-life, and that he could procure this better from Mr. Swinburne
than from any other available person. The Chambers in Chatham Place were,
after Rossetti's departure, tenanted by Mr. Boyce, who remained there until
1868, shortly preceding the final demolition of the building.
The various members of the family did in fact entertain the proposal
raised by Dante; the only serious difficulty arising in relation to our
sister Maria, who went out giving lessons in Italian etc., and for whom any
such locality as Chelsea—then more suburban than it is
now—would have been a very remote centre for such purposes. This
obstacle was, however, set aside; and, my brother having pretty soon fixed
upon No. 16 Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, termed Tudor House, as his future home, we
were all prepared to join there with him and with Mr. Swinburne. But this
arrangement did not take effect. Before the time came for actually removing
to Cheyne Walk my brother reached the conclusion—a sound
one—that that would not be the most apposite of homes for his
female relatives, who therefore remained in Albany Street; glad to
house with and look after Dante, if that had been
his ultimate wish, and glad also, when the wish was relinquished, to abide
where they were.
At first Dante stayed with us in the Albany Street house, and he was
also at times with Madox Brown. It is stated by Mr. William Sharp that the
earliest thing which he painted after his wife's death was done at Brown's
residence—“a small but richly toned
water-colour, known simply as
Girl at a Lattice
” pourtrayed from a person he saw in this position. I
think, however, that a
crayon head of our
mother
, which bears the date February 1862, may have preceded even
the
Girl at a Lattice
. It remains in my possession, and used constantly to hang in my
brother's little breakfast-room in Cheyne Walk. Next, pending a definite
settlement as to a house, he took Chambers, by himself, on the first floor
of No. 59 Lincoln's Inn Fields. The first distracting shock of his calamity
being past, he found himself capable of working and acting like other men,
and the Chambers proved to be quite suitable for his requirements; so much
so indeed that, when he had to leave them and take up his engagement in
Cheyne Walk, he almost regretted that he had assumed so serious, and for him
so novel, a responsibility, with all the upset (to which he was always
highly disinclined) of removal and re-settling. The die was cast, however,
and nothing remained but to meet its chances as they came.
For the Cheyne Walk house a new plan had meanwhile been determined.
Rossetti was to be the tenant, paying a rent (assuredly a very moderate one)
of £100 a year, besides—if I remember
right—a premium of £225 upon entering. As his
sub-tenants for defined portions of the building there were to be three
persons—Mr. Swinburne, Mr. George Meredith, and myself. Of course
each of us three was to pay something to Dante; though the latter did not
wish me, and in fact did not allow me, to continue any such payment after
affairs had got into their regular course. We were all to dine together, if
present together in the house. Mr. Swinburne was generally present, Mr.
Meredith much less
constantly. I came on three fixed days of the
week, but not on any others unless some particular occasion arose.
Swinburne, and I think Meredith, had their respective separate
sitting-rooms, in which they received their personal visitors. I had, and
required, a bedroom only. Dante Rossetti was by this time familiar with Mr.
Meredith, whom he had seen increasingly for some three years past, and whose
talents and work he seriously, though not uncritically, admired; familiar,
yet by no means so much so as with Mr. Swinburne.
Tudor House got not slightly altered in external appearance—not
perhaps in structural essentials—soon after my
brother's death. When he entered it, neither Cheyne Walk nor any part of
London had a Thames Embankment; in front of the house there were all the
boating bustle and longshore litter of the old days: there was also no
Cadogan Bridge, and across the river no Battersea Park. Cremorne Gardens, at
a moderate distance to the West, were still open as a place of
demi-reputable entertainment—dancing, music, fireworks, and
assignations, with all their accompaniments and sequels. The look of things
was far more picturesque than now—less of decorum and of
stateliness, more of noise and movement. The house itself was a fine old
solid edifice, without anything peculiar or showy in external aspect. Inside
it was old-fashioned, many-roomed, homelike, and comfortable, with any
number of wall-cupboards, and needing nothing beyond good furniture and
proper keeping-up to be a highly enjoyable residence. Furniture was supplied
by my brother—even from the first, but more especially as years
went on—with profuse abundance and distinguished gusto for
whatsoever was good and appropriate. Before going into the house he had
found out in Buckingham Street, Strand (through Mr. Allingham), a retired
old gentleman named Minister, who had a deal of antiquated and capital
furniture, and from him he bought largely with a free hand. As to the
keeping-up of the house, Rossetti did not take the like interest and pains;
but still, for several years after his tenancy began, there was no defined
ground of complaint.
Mr. Hall Caine has given several particulars about the residence and
its garden, and I shall take leave to borrow some of them. He has had
experience in an Architect's office, and knows what he is talking about in
matters of this sort. It will be understood that he never saw the premises
until 1880; and many of his details indicate a state of neglect and gloom
which did not exist in 1862, and still less towards 1865 and for a few years
onwards, when Rossetti had accumulated large quantities of handsome and
out-of-the-way furniture, blue china, and other articles of curiosity and
virtù. A great store of such
things remained in the house in July 1882, when, consequent upon his death,
they came to the hammer. But even these were but a moderate proportion of
what he had introduced and used from time to time. Much had been already
sold, much given away or otherwise dispersed. Mr. Caine says, and I
interpolate a remark here and there:—
“It was called Tudor House when he became
its tenant, from the tradition that Elizabeth Tudor had lived in it
[the statement which I always heard as current was that the
house had been used as a nursery for the children of Henry VIII.; but
this, if true at all, can only apply to some previous house on the same
site, for the existing structure must belong to the Georgian time, or at
earliest to that of Queen Anne]: and it is understood to be
the same that Thackeray describes in
Esmond as the home of the old Countess of Chelsey. A large garden,
which recently has been cut off for building purposes, lay at the back,
. . . dotted over with lime-trees, and enclosed by a high wall
[the garden, about four-fifths of an acre in extent, was
partly, but not wholly, cut off towards 1881: it contained a very
prolific mulberry-tree, called Queen Elizabeth's
mulberry-tree]. . . . Old oak then became for a time his
passion; and, in hunting it up, he rummaged the brokers' shops round
London for miles, buying for trifles what would eventually (when the
fashion he started grew to be general) have fetched large sums. . . .
No. 16 . . . seems to be the oldest house in the Walk; and the
exceptional proportions of its gate-piers, and the weight and mass of
its gate and railings, suggest that probably at some period it stood
alone, and commanded as grounds a large part
of the space now occupied by the adjoining residences. . . . Rossetti's
house had to me the appearance of a plain Queen Anne's erection, much
mutilated by the introduction of unsightly bay-windows [I
cannot but think this rather hard on the bay-windows—to me,
and to my brother also, always a pleasant feature of a house to live
in]; the brickwork seemed to be falling into decay; . . . the
angles of the steps, and the untrodden flags of the courtyard, to be
here and there overgrown with moss and weeds. . . . The hall had a
puzzling look of equal nobility and shabbiness. . . . Three doors led
out of the hall, one on each side and one in front, and two corridors
opened into it; but there was no sign of staircase, nor had it any light
except such as was borrowed from the fan-light that looked into the
porch [the door to the right led into the small dining-room;
that to the left, into the sitting-room first used by Mr. Swinburne, and
ultimately by Mr. Caine himself; the one in front, into the studio,
which, for an ordinary tenant, would have been the
dining-room]. . . . The changes which the building must have
undergone since the period of its erection had so filled it with crooks
and corners as to bewilder the most ingenious observer to account for
its peculiarities. . . . The studio was a large room, probably measuring
thirty feet by twenty, and structurally as puzzling as the other parts
of the house. A series of columns and arches on one side suggested that
the room had almost certainly been at some period the site of an
important staircase with a wide well; and on the other side a broad
mullioned window, reaching to the ceiling, seemed certainly to bear
record of the occupant's own contribution to the peculiarities of the
edifice [this window had been enlarged, but not constructed,
at Rossetti's instance some while after he entered the
house]. . . . [Also] a window at the
side, which was heavily darkened by the thick foliage of the trees that
grew in the garden beyond. . . . [Rossetti's bedroom, which
was on the first floor] was entered from another and smaller
room which he said that he used as a breakfast-room [many a
breakfast have I eaten in it, but almost invariably without the company
of my brother, who rose much later than I did]. The outer
room was made fairly bright and cheerful by a glittering
[coloured porcelain] chandelier (the property
once, he told me, of David Garrick), and, from the rustle of trees
against the window-pane, one perceived that it overlooked the garden;
but the inner room was dark with heavy hangings, around the walls as
well as
the bed, and thick velvet curtains before the
windows. . . . An enormous black-oak chimney-piece of curious design
[it was Rossetti's own design, and constructed out of
decorated slabs, etc., picked up here and there by himself],
having an ivory crucifix on the largest of its ledges, covered a part of
one side, and reached to the ceiling. . . . When I reached the room that
I was to occupy during the night [it is on a landing between
the ground-floor and first-floor], I found it, like
Rossetti's bedroom, heavy with hangings, and black with antique
picture-panels, with a ceiling (unlike that of the other rooms in the
house) out of all reach or sight; and so dark from various causes that
the candle seemed only to glimmer in it. . . . I strolled through the
large garden at the back of the house. . . . A beautiful avenue of
lime-trees opened into a grass-plot of nearly an acre in extent
[it is the grass-plot which, allowing for a small strip
retained, was afterwards built over; the avenue continues to be attached
to the house]. The trees were just as Nature made them, and
so was the grass, which in places was lying long, dry, and withered,
under the sun—weeds creeping up in damp places, and the
gravel of the pathway scattered upon the verges.”
A few words should still be added to Mr. Caine's expressive description
of the house. On the basement there were spacious kitchen-rooms, and an
oddly complicated range of vaults, which perhaps had at one time led
directly off to the river-side. The two ground-floor sitting-rooms looked
out to the front and the river; the studio had a second door opening on the
hinder part of the corridor, and conducting, down a few steps, into the
garden-avenue. Though not apparent to Mr. Caine from the front hall, there
were two staircases, to the right and to the left of the entrance-door of
the studio. I may here take occasion to give an emphatic denial to a
statement which Mr. Val Prinsep (writing in
The Art-Journal about the picture-collection of his father-in-law Mr. Leyland) made
with regard to the studio or painting-room—that it
“was a sanctum unvisited by the
housemaid.” It was constantly visited, and adequately
attended to, by the housemaid; and a housemaid who might have neglected it
in a serious degree would not have remained long on the
premises. Mr. Caine makes no mention of the chief
feature of the house—the unusually long and sightly drawing-room
on the first floor, running the whole length of the large frontage, and
presenting from its three spacious bay-windows a most enjoyable view of the
river, and of the big old trees which yield umbrage to Cheyne Walk. On the
second floor were a large number of rooms used as bed-chambers, hardly less
than a dozen, and some of them very pleasant and commodious. There may also,
but my recollection is not clear as to this, have been two or three lofts
under the roof. On the roof was a great deal of lead; and, at one time
during my brother's occupancy, some thieves attempted to make free with it.
Mr. Herbert Gilchrist produced a very good drawing of the studio before the
sale had finished in 1882; Mr. G. T. Robinson favoured me with a
water-colour of the drawing-room; and three rooms were pourtrayed by Mr.
Henry Treffry Dunn (of whom more anon), and photographs were taken from his
designs.
It was on 24 October 1862 that Rossetti first took possession of Tudor
House. His three sub-tenants were there on the same day, or immediately
afterwards. On 3 November he wrote to Madox Brown, “
I have reclaimed my
studio from the general wilderness, and got to work.”
Some writers have supposed that Rossetti was constantly mournful and
dejected after his wife's death. If it were so, I would be the first to
confirm the statement, and to put forward reasons partially if not wholly
justifying him for such a tribute to sentiment, and such a revolt against
the irreversible will of Fate. But the fact was not so, and, as a faithful
biographer, I shall not pretend that it was. He had too much energy of mind
and character, too many interests in the world of thought and art, too many
ideas of his own, too earnest a desire to turn these into realized work, to
be perpetually dwelling upon the grievousness of the past, or moping over
what once had been, and could never be again. He found himself capable of
living in the ties and associations of the present, applied himself
vigorously to his professional
occupations, and developed much
eagerness—of which there had been few symptoms in earlier
days—in the collection of works of decoration or curiosity. To
live in the company of such men as Meredith and Swinburne, and of many other
friends older and newer, was not the basis for a life of morbid gloom and
piteous unavailing retrospect. Certainly many tender and some dreadful
memories haunted him; but it would be useless to fancy or to suggest that he
was at this time, or for some years to come, a personation of settled
melancholy. As we proceed, we shall see what new gusts assailed him, and in
what mood he encountered them. Christina has put into print a few apt words
1 upon the general subject. She says:—
“Family or friendly parties used to
assemble at Tudor House, there to meet with an unfailing affectionate
welcome. Gloom and eccentricity, such as have been alleged, were at any
rate not the sole characteristics of Dante Gabriel Rossetti. When he
chose he became the sunshine of his circle, and he frequently chose so
to be. His ready wit and fun amused us; his good-nature and kindness of
heart endeared him to us.”
Though my proper date for the present is only that when Rossetti
started upon his tenancy of Tudor House, I will finish here what has to be
said of Mr. Meredith and Mr. Swinburne as inmates of the same dwelling. Mr.
Meredith and Rossetti entertained a solid mutual regard, and got on together
amicably, yet without that thorough cordiality of give-and take which oils
the hinges of daily intercourse. It would have been difficult for two men of
the literary order of mind to be more decisively unlike. The reader of their
works—not to speak of the student of Rossetti's
paintings—will not fail to perceive this. Rossetti was not at all
a mere recluse, incapable of taking very good care of himself in the current
transactions of life; he had, on the contrary, a large
Transcribed Footnote (page 234):
1 The article, a very brief one, is named
The House of Dante Gabriel
Rossetti
, with a woodcut of the house. It appeared in some magazine,
but I forget which. The date was some little while after my
brother's death.
Note: In the middle of the page, “the earlier days of 1864”
should read “August 1863”.
share of shrewdness and of business aptitude, and a quick eye
for ”the main chance“ in all contingencies where he
chose to exercise it. He understood character, and (though often too
indulgent to its shadier side) he knew how to deal with it, and had indeed a
rather marked distaste for that inexpert class of persons who waver on the
edge of life without ever throwing themselves boldly into it, and gripping
at the facts. But Mr. Meredith was (or I should rather say, is) incomparably
more a man of the world and man of society, scrutinizing all sorts of
things, and using them as his material in the commerce of life and in the
field of intellect. Even in the mere matter of household-routine, he found
that Rossetti's arrangements, though ample for comfort of a more or less
off-hand kind, were not conformable to his standard. Thus it pretty soon
became apparent that Mr. Meredith's sub-tenancy was not likely to stand much
wear and tear, or to outlast the temporary convenience which had prompted
it. I could not now define precisely how long it
continued—perhaps up to the earlier days of 1864. It then ceased,
without, I think, any disposition on either side that it should be renewed.
Friendly intercourse between the two men continued for some few years, and
gradually wore out without any cause or feeling of dissension. In Mr. Joseph
Knight's pleasant
Life of Dante Gabriel Rossetti I find some observations made by “a friend,
himself a poet,” which I unhesitatingly (let me hope
not rashly) attribute to our pre-eminent novelist. I quote them here less as
throwing light on the character of Rossetti—highly deserving
though they are of attention in that regard—than as pointing to
the sort of relation which subsisted between the two during their joint
sojourn in Cheyne Walk:—
“I liked him much, though I was often
irritated by his prejudices, and his strong language against this or
that person or subject. He was
borné too, somewhat, in his interests, both on
canvas and in verse, and would not care for certain forms of literature
and life which he admitted were worth caring for. However, his talk was
always full of interest and of rare knowledge; and he himself, his
pictures, and his house, altogether, had I
think an immense influence for good on us all, and on English art and
work—being not insular yet not un-English, and bringing into
our world new and delightful subjects, and a personal character very
striking and unusual and loveable.”
Mr. Swinburne remained in Tudor House for some considerable while
after Mr. Meredith had left. He composed there the stupendous drama of
Atalanta in Calydon, and wrote or finished
Chastelard, and much of the
Poems and Ballads (first series), and of
William Blake, a Critical Essay. I hardly remember whether he was still in the house when the
Poems and Ballads were published, 1866, and (amid the leers and the yells of British
respectability) immediately withdrawn. If not then resident in the house, he
was continually looking in there, and (I need not say) was received with all
the welcome of long-standing friendship, and of admiration for astonishing
genius and attainment. Ultimately it suited both himself and Rossetti that
his quarters should be fixed elsewhere. One element in the case was that the
painter's professional income continued to augment from year to year, and he
no longer found any advantage in getting friends to share the expense of the
house.
In the summer of 1862 both Ruskin and Burne-Jones were abroad in
Italy. Ruskin was out of health and out of spirits owing to vexations with
his studies in Political Economy. In July he wrote to my brother from Milan:—
“
I do trust that
henceforward I may be more with you, as I am able now better to feel
your great powers of mind, and am myself more in need of the
kindness with which they are joined. I've been thinking of asking if
I could rent a room in your Chelsea house.”
I cannot say what answer my brother returned to this friendly, and in
some respects attractive, proposal. Clearly the house was sufficiently full
as it was; and, so far as I recollect, no more was heard of Mr. Ruskin as a
possible inmate.
Mr. Jones wrote to Rossetti from Venice:—
“
The other day I saw a letter of
Titian's. The handwriting was, absolutely, exactly like yours, as
like as a forged letter of yours could be; the whole writing a
little bit bigger, I think, but the shapes of the letters as exact as could be.”
1
In a letter written by my brother soon before he left Lincoln's Inn
Fields for Cheyne Walk, 21 August, I find the first mention of a painter
with whom he soon became very familiar, Mr. Whistler. For several years
ensuing they were on terms which, partaking of real friendliness, were more
especially of great good-fellowship. This must have continued till 1872,
when there was a wide gap in Rossetti's London associations. After that date
the two saw little—and at last nothing—of one
another. Through Mr. Whistler, Rossetti after a while came to know the
distinguished painter from Dijon, Alphonse Legros, who later on held the
office of Slade-Professor in the London University for some years. This also
was an intimate connexion, but terminated earlier than that with Whistler
himself. Another letter belonging to 1862 shows that my brother was then
about to engage a professional assistant, Mr. W. J. Knewstub, who housed
with him for a year or two, preparing duplicates of pictures, and aiding him
in various ways. Mr. Knewstub's chief tendency at this time—not
of direct service to Rossetti—was as a sketcher of comic or
humorous subjects, for which he had a ready gift; later on, as a painter
chiefly in water-colours, he developed marked colourist talent. He and
Rossetti were always on pleasant terms together.
A painter who seeks the help of an assistant must be supposed to be in
good employ. Such was already the case with Rossetti, as soon as he began to
settle down after his
Transcribed Footnote (page 237):
1 If Sir E. Burne-Jones formed a correct opinion
as to this letter from Titian, the handwriting of it must have
differed entirely from that of another letter by the great painter
which I saw in the Venetian Exhibition in London in 1895. In this
last-named letter the writing is singularly precise and sharp,
presenting no sort of resemblance to Rossetti's.
wife's death. He produced a good deal, and
whatever he produced, if not previously bespoken, was soon sold. It is true
he still was not always in command of ready money when this was in
requisition, and he continued at times to have recourse to a convenient
pawnbroker, or an accommodating relative or intimate. But he was prospering,
and he prospered more and more, and might soon be regarded as one of those
(not too numerous) painters who make a steady and very sufficient income.
What he received he liked to spend. Money never clung to his fingers, nor
rested in his pocket, and he never either accumulated or invested. A letter
of his, dated in June 1867, shows that even then he had no banking account,
which seems surprising enough. How soon afterwards he began one I am not
sure, but it was well before 1872. Had the will been there, the power of
adding money to money would easily have come. It should in justice be added
that, if he was indulgent to himself, he was also liberal and even generous
to others.
I have lumped together here no less than seven years,
when my brother's powers—though somewhat less developed than they
afterwards became in the direction of abstract style—were truly
at their best. The dates extend from the beginning of his widowerhood to the
time when, from various causes, a rather serious decline in his health set
in. I shall name the several works (and there were of course many others)
under the headings of Oil-pictures, Water-colours, and Designs, each class
in order of date, and shall append a few details, such as my plan admits of.
Nothing that my brother produced was, to my mind, more thoroughly
satisfactory than the
Joan of Arc
—the oil-picture which was sold to Mr. Anderson Rose, and
by him re-sold not many years afterwards. It is somewhat singular that this
head was painted from a German (not a French) woman—named, if I
remember right, Mrs. Beyer. She had one of the most classically correct and
strongest profiles that one could see anywhere. Something of the same kind
might be said of the English original of
Helen of Troy
—a face less heroically but not less exactly moulded.
Beata Beatrix
—a reminiscence of the painter's lost wife, pourtrayed
with perfect fidelity out of the inner chambers of his soul—is
now in the National Gallery, the gift of Lady Mount-Temple. It was less well
repeated on commission more than once, but always reluctantly. Though I have
called this a “reminiscence” of his wife, it is I
believe a fact that some preparation for the picture had been made during
her lifetime, perhaps as far back as 1856.
Aurelia
, a small half-figure of a lady at her toilet, is one of the most
finished specimens of Rossetti's execution.
The Beloved
is
by many persons accounted his very best work. I
would not call it the best in the sense of being better than any other; but,
in balanced brilliancy of colour, sweetness and variety of facial type, and
first salient and not the less permanent impression of manifest and
triumphant beauty, it certainly yields to none.
Monna Vanna
(belonging to the same purchaser, Mr. George Rae) has also and
deservedly been a great general favourite.
The Boat of Love
, now in the Birmingham Art-Gallery, was a preparation for a
full-coloured picture, never executed, owing partly to fast-and-loose
proceedings on the part of an intending purchaser in these same years.
The Blue Bower
, a female half-figure done with more than wonted rapidity, is
perhaps the most forcible piece of colour and handling that Rossetti ever
produced (or may share that praise with
La Bella Mano
), as the
Ramoscello
is in all respects one of the most delicate. The
Portrait of Mrs. Morris
, in a gown of sumptuous blue, rivals
The Blue Bower
for vigour, and far exceeds it in tone of feeling.
Lilith
and
Sibylla Palmifera
are both works of thought as well as matured skill, and stand
recorded in the painter's sonnets as
Body's Beauty
and
Soul's Beauty
.
La Pia
was only begun in 1868. It was then set aside for several years, and
not completed until 1881.
Among the water-colours I may specify as exceptionally successful
the
Paolo and Francesca
; the
Heart of the Night
, which is the same design as in the Tennyson woodcut; and the
Tristram and Yseult
.
The Return of Tibullus to Delia
is also one of Rossetti's best considered and most energetic
designs.
Washing Hands
—a lady, with her lover no longer favoured—is
noticeable as being one of the very few subjects which he treated in the
costume of the eighteenth century. The
Dr. Johnson
group seems to be the only other such coloured work that is known to
me. Equally out of his ordinary line is
Socrates taught to dance by Aspasia
. I recall very well a sketch made of this subject, and a very
sprightly one it was, but I doubt whether I ever saw the water-colour.
The design of
Michael Scott's Wooing
was frequently in
Rossetti's head, and every now and then tried by his hand in
different compositions.
Aspecta Medusa
(Perseus allowing Andromeda to contemplate, reflected in a tank, the
severed head of Medusa) was also designed more than once. But the courage of
the proposing purchaser failed him—he thought the subject too
“horrid”—and this again swelled the
overlong list of paintings which my brother did
not do.
In Section XX., speaking of Mrs. William Morris, I have referred to the
equally frequent and erroneous assertion that this lady constituted
Rossetti's one sole type of facial beauty. This allegation is not only
absurdly incorrect, but it amounts to a depreciation of his art. It implies
that he was far more monotonous than he really was, and also that he had
little or no discrimination as to the type which would be the most suitable
according to diversity of subject and treatment. I have elsewhere
1 said something on that ill-understood or ill-reported matter; and
I will now, without re-producing my previous words, enter rather more at
large upon the same topic. This furnishes, besides the direct object, an
opportunity of saying something collectively about various persons who ought
not to pass unmentioned. I shall confine myself chiefly, yet not rigidly, to
oil-pictures.
Rossetti began painting in 1848; and it is of course impossible that in
the early years of his practice he should ever have painted from Mrs.
Morris, whom he did not see until late in 1857. We have noticed before that
his sister Christina sat for Mary in
The Girlhood of Mary Virgin
, and in
Ecce Ancilla Domini
; his wife for Beatrice in a number of instances, and for Princess
Sabra—and for very many other figures as well; Mrs. Hannay for
Beatrice in the water-colour of
Dante's Dream
; Mrs. Beyer for
Joan of Arc
; Mrs. H. for
Bocca Baciata
. The latter also sat for the woman in
Found
,
Aurelia
,
The Blue Bower
, and
The Loving Cup
, and in the first instance for
Lilith
; but another head—that of Miss Alexa Wilding, soon to be
mentioned—was, after an interval of
Transcribed Footnote (page 241):
1 In the
Art-Journal for June 1884—Article,
Notes on Rossetti and his
Works
.
years, substituted in
Lilith
, and, to my thinking, very disadvantageously so.
I proceed to other sitters not as yet mentioned. For
The Magdalene at the Door of Simon the
Pharisee
, and for
Helen of Troy
, an Englishwoman sat, remarkable for beauty, but not for depth of
expression. Her head appears also in the water-colour, just mentioned,
of
Dante's Dream
. In
The Beloved
the chief head is from a young woman who was in much request at that
time among various artists. She had a Scotch name, I think Mackenzie. This
is one of the very few instances in which my brother painted an important
head from a professional model, and, as an exceptional case, the experiment
was conspicuously successful. The dark woman to the spectator's right is a
pure-blooded gipsy, named Keomi, who became known to my brother through Mr.
Sandys. To the left is a pretty face, of an
espiègle rather than an exalted order—Ellen
Smith, whom Rossetti pourtrayed several times, beginning not long after he
first knew Mr. Boyce. With
Sibylla Palmifera
we come to Miss Alexa Wilding, a damsel of respectable parentage
whom he saw casually in the street, in April 1865, and whom he at once
determined to paint from, were it at all possible—which it proved
to be. Having thus found a head of fine and rather peculiar mould, eminently
strong in contour and also capable of much varying expression, which he
regarded as almost a
sine quâ non,
Rossetti resolved to secure Miss Wilding to his own canvases, and with this
object he paid her a regular annual salary, which went on for a long time.
He was more than commonly indisposed, and many artists are to some extent
the same, to share his discovery with any others, even of his intimates. Her
face re-appears in
Regina Cordium
(of which I have seen an unsuccessful woodcut—the same
title was bestowed upon two or three other pictures from different sitters),
in
Monna Vanna
,
Rosa Triplex
, the oil-painting of
Dante's Dream
(the lady at the foot of the bed),
Veronica Veronese
,
The Blessed Damozel
,
La Ghirlandata
,
The Roman Widow
,
La Bella Mano
, and
The Sea-spell
. The last six of
these works were executed at a date beyond the
latest, 1868, which is properly covered by my present section; but, for our
immediate purpose, that cannot be helped. It will be observed that Rossetti
did not see Miss Wilding until several years after he had known Mrs. Morris;
and this large number of paintings from the former—not to speak
of a number of minor productions with or without colour—is of
itself enough to show that he was far from confining his pictorial study to
the wife of the poet of
The Earthly Paradise.
Venus Verticordia
was painted from yet another person —a remarkably
handsome cook whom he met in the street;
Monna Pomona
from a Scotch girl, Jessie—a damsel of no rigid virtue
who had a most energetic as well as beautiful profile, not without some
analogy to that of the great Napoleon.
Il Ramoscello
is a portrait of a daughter of one of his best purchasers and
friends, Mr. William Graham, M.P. for Glasgow. Mrs. Stillman—a
celebrated beauty, and the most cordial, accomplished, and amiable of
ladies, herself a very elegant painter, daughter of Mr. Spartali,
Consul-General for Greece—appears in the figure at the bed's head
in the oil-painting of
Dante's Dream
, and in the
Vision of Fiammetta
. I seem to see also, in
The Roman Widow
, almost as much of her head as of Miss Wilding's. Mrs. Stillman had
a rather younger sister, Christine (who became the Countess Edmond de
Cahen). She also was a beauty, but in a way less sympathetic to Rossetti,
who did not, I think, ever draw from her. The sisters became known to him
through Brown, who superintended the artistic studies of the elder Miss
Spartali. Mrs. Sumner, a daughter-in-law of a late Archbishop of Canterbury,
was the original of the oil-painting (left unfinished) of
Domizia Scaligera
, and of some other heads produced towards 1876. The ideal women of
Rossetti were, as a rule, always tall and stately persons, and with Mrs.
Sumner this was especially the case. The pleasant simple picture called
Fleurs de Marie
was done from the niece of the gardener at Kelmscott
Manor-house—a dwelling to be mentioned in the sequel.
I have here specified no fewer than seventeen female sitters from whom
important heads were painted, some of them known before Mrs. Morris, and
some afterwards. One of them, Miss Wilding, seems to have sat at least as
often as Mrs. Morris for coloured, and barely less often for uncoloured,
works. To read this account of the facts, and to persist afterwards in
saying that Rossetti had only one model and one ideal, would be a case of
wilful uncandour. In affirming this, I do not wish at all to derogate from
the widespread belief that, in the extraordinarily
impressive— the profound and abstract—type of
beauty of Mrs. Morris, he found an ideal more entirely responsive than any
other to his aspiration in art. It seemed a face created to fire his
imagination, and to quicken his powers—a face of arcane and
inexhaustible meaning. To realize its features was difficult; to transcend
its suggestion, impossible. There was one fortunate circumstance—if
you could but represent its
appearance, you stood
thereby already high in the region of the typical or symbolic. For
idealizing there was but one process—to realize. I will not
conceal my opinion that my brother succeeded where few painters would have
done other than fail; he did some genuine justice to this astonishing
countenance.
As we have seen, Miss Burden—before she became Mrs.
Morris—obliged Rossetti by sitting for several heads while he was
working in Oxford in and about 1857. In her earlier married days she sat
also for the Madonna in the
Llandaff Triptych, and for one or two heads of
Beatrice. At the beginning of 1862 Rossetti was bereft for ever of another
exquisite type of beauty—the pure loveliness and self-withdrawn
suavity of his wife's face, as little matchable, in its very different way,
as that of Mrs. Morris. Still an interval of years ensued; and (so far as I
trace) it was only in 1868 that Mrs. Morris re-commenced to favour him with
sittings. To this year appertain the
oil portrait of her, and
La Pia
, and the crayon heads named
Aurea Catena
and
Reverie
. Numerous other examples followed. Some of the crayon heads or
half-figures are unsurpassed amid Rossetti's work,
both as consummate likenesses, and as
achievements in art; but I will only name the oil-pictures—
Pandora
,
Mariana
(with the Page singing),
Dante's Dream
(the head of Beatrice),
Proserpine
,
Water-willow
(which is practically a portrait),
Venus Astarte
,
Mnemosyne
(which was originally intended for Hero, with her signal-lamp for
Leander),
La Donna della Finestra
,
The Daydream
, and
The Salutation of Beatrice
(left rather less than completed at my brother's death).
It is apparent that Rossetti—although, as previously
demonstrated, he did not by any means confine himself to the head of Mrs.
Morris as his type—found this countenance available for subjects
of very diverse kinds. And so indeed it is. For a Pia, Pandora, Mariana,
Proserpine, Venus Astarte, or Mnemosyne, there was hardly such another head
to be found in England. For a Madonna, a Beatrice, a Daydream, or a Donna
della Finestra (from the
Vita Nuova—the same personage as “The Lady of
Pity,” so designated in some other works by Rossetti), a
different head might have been equally appropriate in essence, and, to some
eyes and from some points of view, even more appropriate: but, as
apprehended and treated by Rossetti, both the mould of face and the
expression educed from it seem to be “
in choral consonancy” with the personages, and to leave nothing at which a
reasonable mind can cavil. The works are there to tell their own tale. Any
one who dissents from my view will abide undisturbed in his own. Of course I
am not here speaking of any executive merit or demerit in the pictures, but
only of the selection and application of the type.
As to male sitters—professional hired
models—Rossetti considered that those of Italian nationality
were, as a rule, preferable to all others. He used an expression to
Christina which I have often heard her quote with a laugh:
“An Italian comes to your studio, and he looks to you
very like a Guy Fawkes; but, when you set about drawing him, you find
that he is much more like the Antinous.”
These considerations about sitters for my brother's works have led me
a long way beyond our present limit of date,
and indeed on to the very end of his life. I must
now recur to matters proper to the years 1862-68.
For Dante Rossetti to figure as the correspondent of any newspaper was
a rare thing. An occasion did however arise on 15 October 1865, when he
wrote to the
Athenæum
to correct a misapprehension into which that paper had fallen, as to
his being practically a water-colour painter who only at times worked in
oils.
Note: The letter actually appeared in the
Athenæum, 28 October 1865, p. 581; under
Fine Art
Gossip
. See Fredeman,
Correspondence, 65.152 .
He considered it to be “
of great professional
importance to him” that the point should be rightly understood; and
explained that, having originally appeared as an oil-painter, and never
having abandoned that medium although he had sometimes worked in
water-colour, he had “
now, for a good many
years past,” reverted to oil for “
all his chief
works.”
Another matter of technical practice is brought out in an interesting
way in a paper which my brother's intimate friend Mr. Frederick J. Shields,
the distinguished painter, contributed to
The Century-Guild Hobby-Horse (No. 18). Mr. Shields may have been known to Rossetti before 1864,
but I cannot fix the precise year. My brother always valued much the works
of this artist, and held him in the highest esteem as a devout-natured man
of the strictest principle and the warmest feeling; the bond between the two
friends being singularly close in the last four or five years of my
brother's life, when Shields became his frequent and unflagging visitor,
sparing no effort to keep him in heart and hope. Mr. Shields, it seems, had
towards 1864 lit upon a certain French “compressed
charcoal,” which he approved, and showed to Rossetti. The latter
at once adopted this material alone for all his larger studies, which were
altogether very numerous, and as high in quality as anything he produced,
and many of them done in varying tints. When the Franco-German war broke out
in 1870—“
this truly atrocious
and insufferable war,” as Rossetti called it in writing to
Shields—that chalk became unprocurable, and it has never again
been in the market. Fortunately Rossetti had previously laid-in a large
stock of it, which he continued using, and even at his death it was not
nearly exhausted. Mr. Shields describes with some
minuteness the method adopted by Rossetti in the execution of his
crayon-drawings—crayon-
pictures several of
them might deservedly be called; and he remarks that these works can easily
be marred if taken out of their protecting glass. Mr. Shields's particulars
are well worthy of the attention of artists; and, were my Memoir more
closely concerned with details of technique, they should here be summarized.
In these years, lasting up to 1868, the circle of the purchasers of
Rossetti's works got pretty nearly completed. Ruskin was no longer among
them, nor yet Boyce; Anderson Rose ceased for the time to be in a position
to continue; McCracken and Plint, both of them for a while mainstays of my
brother's fortunes, were dead. I have heretofore had occasion to mention Mr.
Leathart of Newcastle (afterwards of Gateshead), Mr. Rae of Birkenhead, and
Mr. Graham of Glasgow and London. These three were kind and pleasant
friends, as well as steady liberal purchasers. They all proved to be
discerning judges of works of art, and my brother could safely commit to
their hands anything that he produced—satisfied that, if he
himself had ground to be fairly content with it, their sympathy would rival
or even exceed his own. The same may be said of Mr. Frederick R. Leyland, a
wealthy ship-owner of Liverpool, and of Mr. L. R. Valpy, a London solicitor,
both of whom seem to have begun commissioning towards the middle of 1867.
Mr. Graham came later—about the close of 1868. There were also
Mr. Mitchell of Bradford, who bought the
Venus Verticordia
; Mr. Craven of Manchester, who bought the
Tibullus and Delia
, and a large number of other works; Lord Mount-Temple, owner of
the
Beata Beatrix
; Colonel Gillum, for water-colours and drawings; Mr. Trist, a
wine-merchant at Brighton; Mr. Gambart, the great picture-dealer, who, after
surmounting some tiffs over the affairs of the Plint estate, took several of
Rossetti's works; and some others as well, whom I do not stay to
particularize. In course of time the principal collections of Rossetti's art
came to be those of Leyland, Graham, and Rae. The former
two have now been dispersed. With the exception
of Mr. Rae and Mr. Leathart, I am not certain that there is now any single
person owning a large number of the paintings. In the way of studies and
sketches Mr. Charles Fairfax Murray, of London and Florence, is well
provided.
My brother had not been long settled in Cheyne Walk before he began to
find that his studio was below the range of his requirements. As a room it
was commodious and ample, but it was not properly a studio. He cast about
for various expedients, consulting his friend the architect Mr. Philip Webb.
At one time an iron studio in the large garden was thought of; at another, a
more solid structure in the same space; at another, the resumption of a
biggish set of cab-stables which formed part of the property, and their
conversion into a studio. Finally all these more speculative projects were
given up, and my brother was contented to carry out a fair amount of
alteration in the lighting etc. of his existing studio-apartment. This was
in 1871. It served his turn reasonably well, though never quite
satisfactory; and, in spite of occasional schemes of a total change of
residence, he went on upon his plan up to the close of his life.
Rossetti's art-assistant, Mr. Knewstub, left him after a while, to try
his own independent fortunes as a painter; and Mr. Henry Treffry Dunn (who
became known to my brother through Mr. Charles Augustus Howell, to be
hereafter named) was engaged in his stead. Mr. Dunn had
1 a good deal of artistic experience and aptitude, and proved to be
of no small service to Rossetti, both in matters of art, and also, as he was
a steady-going man of business, in the general management of the house. He
ceased to be an inmate in 1881, but remained in communication with my
brother.
The money-affairs of Rossetti, having once become prosperous,
Transcribed Footnote (page 248):
1 I speak of Mr. Dunn in the past tense, but not
as implying that he is no longer alive. I believe him to be alive;
but regret to say that, from the year 1884 or thereabouts, I have
not seen and have seldom heard of him.
continued to be so increasingly for many years;
and indeed, notwithstanding some interruptions from ill-health or the
fluctuations of the picture-market, they never declined seriously up to the
last. He earned what may be called a large income. From notes made at the
time I find that in 1865 he realized about £2,050; in 1866,
upwards of £1,080; in 1867, little or not at all less than
£3,000. At this last date he still owed about £1,000
in one quarter or another. In one of the Family-letters, 29 April 1876, it
will be seen that he had made £3,725 in the preceding
twelvemonth, and that he regarded this as about his then average. I surmise,
however, that it was seldom if ever reached again. For a non-exhibiting
painter, selling his works in a somewhat close circle of friends, and
(though he was not at all a recluse until a late date in his life) mixing
little in general society, this was really a surprising success. It could
not have been attained if he had been other than an exceedingly discerning
man in the conduct of his professional affairs. Eulogist and detractor alike
confess that there was no better hand at a bargain. I incline to think that,
on the principle of “diamond cut diamond,” this was
one of the reasons why Rossetti was in such special favour with Mr. Leyland,
of whom Mr. Prinsep testifies “it was the one real
friendship of his life.” No keener man of business
existed than Leyland; and he may have relished—and partly
disrelished—finding in Rossetti a foeman or a friend worthy of
his steel. My brother understood how far he could go—so far he
went; and, having fixed the terms, he knew how to stick by them, unregardful
of dubiety or demur. He was abundantly popular, as well as most warmly
admired, not only by Mr. Leyland, but generally within his own circle. His
naturalness, heartiness, and good-humour were a standing passport to
cordiality; and to these endowments, combined with
nous, something was probably conceded which would
have been denied to the mere trafficker in paint. A business-man who is a
picture-buyer—and for the last half-century almost all our
picture-buyers have been business-men—has his weak side, and, so
far as his relation to art goes, he feels it a
privilege to be made free of the art-precincts, and promoted into the
intimacy of a great or a distinguished painter. He is apt to find the world
of art much more entertaining than the world of commerce; and, while pluming
himself upon having converse with persons whose names are in all men's
mouths, he can still feel that, in a certain sense, he himself
“rules the roast,” as all these fine performances
would collapse without a purchaser to sustain them. No one knew this better
than Rossetti. His net was spread in the sight, but not too obviously in the
sight, of several birds. Of the least tinge of servility he was by his very
nature—but this I need hardly say—incapable.
Of literary product in these times there was but little. The poems lay
buried in Highgate Cemetery, and for some years no more were written, and no
thoughts of poetic publicity entertained. So far as I observe, the first
fresh verses which he wrote were for his design,
Aspecta Medusa
—eight lines—in 1865. In January 1868 he wrote
a sonnet for his picture of
Venus Verticordia
, followed by a Latin distych for his
Portrait of Mrs. Morris
, and in December by his sonnets named
Willow-wood
(and he then declared that he ought never to have been a painter,
but rather a poet), and by the sonnet
Newborn Death
. In prose, as far back as 1862-63, he had done a good deal of work
upon the Blake book which Alexander Gilchrist had left not quite completed.
The amount of what he wrote for insertion in the text of the
Life
has sometimes been overrated. Its sum-total appears in his
Collected Works
. Besides this, he edited, with a great deal of pains as well as of
insight, the poetical compositions of Blake. I will extract, from the volume
Anne Gilchrist, two of Rossetti's utterances, both quite characteristic:—
“I am working closely this morning at the concluding
chapter, in hope of sending it off to-night, or, if not,
certainly to-morrow. I was delayed by the necessity I found of
going to the Print-room [of the
British Museum] to study
Blake's coloured works there, as all I could think of was to
dwell on some of these. Facts, and descriptions of facts, are in
my line; but to talk
about a thing merely is
what I could never well manage.
“I really found it impossible to know what to
say more of the poems, individually; but am sincerely of the
opinion I express in the text as to the uselessness of doing so.
The truth is that, as regards such a poem as
My Spectre, I do not understand it a bit better than anybody else;
only I know, better than some may know, that it has claims as
poetry apart from the question of understanding it, and is
therefore worth printing.”
It has often been stated that my brother, at Cheyne Walk,
kept from time to time a large number of animals. This is entirely true.
Being fond of “beasts,” and having a large garden,
with plenty of space for accommodating them either in the open or in corners
partitioned off, he freely indulged his taste. He had no particular liking
for an animal on the mere ground of its being
“pretty”—his taste being far more for what
is quaint, odd, or semi-grotesque. Dante's specimens of fauna however were
often very sightly, as also often funny and out-of-the-way. I will name
some, as they happen to come; others have passed from memory into the limbo
of oblivion.
There were a Pomeranian puppy named Punch, a grand
Irish deerhound named Wolf, a barn-owl named Jessie, another owl named
Bobby (described by Christina as “a little owl with a
very large face and a beak of a sort of egg-shell
green”), rabbits, dormice, hedgehogs, two successive
wombats, a Canadian marmot or woodchuck, an ordinary marmot,
armadilloes, kangaroos, wallabies, a deer, a white mouse with her brood,
a racoon, squirrels, a mole, peacocks, wood-owls, Virginian owls,
Chinese horned owls, a jackdaw, laughing jackasses (Australian
kingfishers), undulated grass-parrakeets,
a talking grey parrot, a raven, chameleons,
green lizards, and Japanese salamanders.
1
Persons who are familiar with the management of pets will easily
believe that several of these animals came to a bad end. Punch the puppy
would get lost; one or other bird would get drowned; the dormice would fight
and kill one another, or would eat up their own tails, and gradually perish;
Wolf the deerhound could get no adequate exercise, and was given away; the
parrakeets were neglected at some time that Rossetti was absent from home,
and on his return they were found dead. Other animals, owing to their
burrowing or reclusive habits, disappeared. An armadillo was not to be
found; and the tale went—I believe it to be not far from true—that,
having followed his ordinary practice of burrowing, he
turned up from under the hearthstone of a neighbour's kitchen, to the
serious dismay of the cook, who opined that, if he was not the devil, there
was no accounting for what he could possibly be. The racoon, as winter set
in, made up his mind to hibernate. He ensconced himself in a drawer of a
large heavy cabinet which stood in the passage outside the studio-door. The
drawer was shut upon him, without his presence in it transpiring, and after
a while he was supposed to be finally lost to the house. When spring ensued,
many mysterious rumbling or tramping or whimpering noises were heard in the
passage, or in the studio as coming from the passage. My brother mentioned
them to me more than once, and was ready to regard them as one more symptom,
by no means the first or only one, that the house was haunted. At last, and
I think by mere casualty, the drawer was opened, and the racoon emerged,
rather thinner than at his entry. What the other stories of ghosts about the
old mansion
Transcribed Footnote (page 252):
Some years ago two or three amusing and authentic articles on
Rossetti's “beasts” appeared in some
journal—I forget its name. I have the articles somewhere,
but have not succeeded in laying hands upon them, to be consulted
for my present purpose. I think it manifest that the author of them
must be my brother's art-assistant, Mr. Henry Treffry Dunn.
amounted to I have mainly forgotten, but am aware
that a servant, a sufficiently strong-minded young woman, saw a spectre by a
bed-room door in November 1870. The ghost, according to Miss Caine,
“was a woman, and appeared sometimes at the top of the
second flight of stairs. She retreated to the room overlooking the
Embankment.” My brother never beheld any such
miscellaneous ghosts, nor did the idea of them disturb him in any sort of
way, although in this and other instances he was not at all hostile to the
notion that they might possibly be there. I will not here start the question
whether a belief in ghosts is in itself evidence of unreason; but I will say
that, after making allowance for belief in their possibility, my brother's
attitude of mind on the subject was not unreasonable, as he thought that,
assuming their existence, they are just as much a part of the scheme of
Nature and the Universe as any other part, and therefore not to be regarded
with mere panic. A disembodied spirit is the same,
mutatis mutandis, as an embodied one.
The beasts upon which Dante's affections were prodigalized were the
first wombat and his successor the woodchuck. The second wombat, having died
immediately, counts for little. No more engagingly lumpish quadruped than
the first wombat could be found, and none more obese and comfortable than
the woodchuck. They were both tame, especially the woodchuck; and Dante
would sit with either in his arms by the half-hour together, dandling them
paunch upward, scratching gently at their cheeks or noses, or making the
woodchuck's head and hind-paws meet. With the wombat no such operation was
possible. Each of them was his housemate for some time, and each expired
without premonition. I do not assume that my brother wept over them, but
certainly “his heart was sair.” For the wombat (not
having yet seen it) he wrote from Penkill Castle the following quatrain:—
- “Oh how the family affections
combat
- Within this heart, and each hour flings a
bomb at
- My burning soul! Neither from owl nor from
bat
- Can peace be gained until I clasp my
wombat.”
Note: Toward the middle of the page, “perhaps in 1863” should read
“in 1864”.
The matutinal screeching of one or more of Rossetti's peacocks proved
so afflictive to his neighbours that Lord Cadogan, the Ground-landlord,
afterwards introduced into all Cheyne Walk leases, as has been stated on
good authority, a clause to the effect that the tenants were not to keep any
peacocks. Here, extracted from my Diary for December 1871, is a curious
anecdote about the peacock, which may perhaps deserve a moment's attention:—
“The deer that Gabriel used to have, now
dead, one day saw the peacock making a great display of his train. . . .
The deer followed him about; and, though not displaying any peculiarly
marked ill-will, systematically trampled out all his train feathers, one
after the other. Shortly after this, Gabriel gave the peacock
away.”
There was one of Rossetti's animals—a zebu, or small Brahmin
bull—as to which some burlesque particulars have got into print.
Mr. Knight relates the story, giving as his authority Mr. Whistler, who is
just the man (and so Mr. Knight puts it) for a few humorous embellishments.
Mr. Prinsep also relates it to nearly the same effect, and he gives Rossetti
himself as his authority. The zebu was seen by my brother and myself,
perhaps in 1863, in a beast-show held in Cremorne Gardens. He was a
beautiful animal, not larger than a pony of small size. My brother wanted to
buy him for some £20, and I co-operated. All that I remember
about the subsequent circumstances is the following. The zebu was brought to
Tudor House, and charged at a fine pace through the passage into the garden.
There he was tethered to a tree by Rossetti's man-servant. My brother, after
a day or two, was engaged in inspecting him, when the zebu, more or less
irritated by confinement, went in a hostile mood towards the painter, who
naturally dodged round the tree-trunk. As this experience showed that the
zebu was not a convenient tenant for the garden, Rossetti re-sold him, and
he departed in peace. I question whether the animal “tore
up by the roots the tree to which it was attached,”
though it did display a large amount of physical strength; or that it
“chased its tormentor round the
garden,” in any sense rightly belonging to these
words. I was not however present on the occasion, and cannot aver that I
even saw the zebu after he had once entered the premises.
I have just been referring to the superstitious or semi-superstitious
traits in my brother's character, which were very clearly marked.
“Thirteen at table” was a contingency which did not
escape his notice. In a letter of his to Madox Brown, dated in 1864, he
authorizes his friend to bring, with others, his younger daughter to a
dinner, if Brown does not mind the result of thirteen at
table—and he was about the last person to mind it. A later dinner
was planned for fourteen, which number was reduced to thirteen by a
defection at the last moment, and Rossetti hurried away his servant to catch
a fourteenth somewhere or other. Mr. Bell Scott says that
“he began to call up the spirit of his wife by
table-turning,” and relates an incident of the kind
happening in 1866; and he adds that “long before that
year” my brother had “gone into
spiritualism.” I cannot say with accuracy how soon
such attempts began. I myself witnessed some in 1865, '66, '68, and '70. I
will not enter into details, but will only say that now and again
demonstrations occurred (especially some in which a Mr. Bergheim was
concerned) which astonished me not a little, and for which I was and am
unable to account; at other times there were mere confusion and
cross-purposes. Although Rossetti was, as I have already said, not plunged
into monotonous gloom by the death of his wife, the idea of her was in these
years very constantly present to him. Poignant memories and painful
associations were his portion; and he was prone to think that some secret
might yet be wrested from the grave.
With the family of his deceased wife my brother did not keep up any
close personal relations, yet he did not entirely lose knowledge of them. I
observe that in August 1867 he was sending £10 to her brother
Harry; and evidence of like kind goes on as late as 1878.
His general habits were social enough. He became a
member of the Garrick Club before 1865;
afterwards of the Arundel Club; and, upon its foundation early in 1866, of
the Burlington Fine Arts Club. This last membership he (and also I)
relinquished at the end of 1867, owing to the expulsion—which was
contrary to his sense of fair play, and also to his individual
liking—of a fellow-member, a painter of much distinction. I do
not give the name, or other particulars. The other memberships died out in
course of time—with no special reason except a change in habits
and interests on his part. At the Arundel Club he used to meet Mr. Knight,
Mr. Rose, and others with whom he was on very easy terms. Here also he met
Mr. W. S. Gilbert, who has become the inexhaustible purveyor of laughter to
two continents. He did not take to Mr. Gilbert personally; but, when the
Bad Ballads began appearing in
Fun in 1867, Rossetti was enormously tickled with their eccentricities
of humour and gymnastics of the ludicrous, and I have heard him recite many
of these examples of “excellent
fooling” in all sorts of companies. He was never tired of
them, and loud and contagious guffaws attested that neither were his
auditors tired. I mention this small matter, not so much for its own sake as
because it illustrates my brother's alacrity at doing profuse justice to the
talents even of a writer for whom he neither professed nor felt the least
predilection. Besides his general sociality in these
years—evidenced by liking to see his friends about him, whether
to dinner or otherwise, and by going out to dine not unfrequently, which was
perhaps principally towards 1869—my brother was really a
good-natured and even an accommodating host to some of his familiars, when
it served their convenience. Thus Mr. Sandys became an established inmate of
the house for about a year and a quarter, terminating in the summer of 1867;
and another painter, Mr. George Chapman, who was in serious ill-health and
otherwise “out of luck,” was there for a shorter
period, some three or four months. He died before attaining middle age;
viewed by my brother with considerable regard for his facility of invention
and grace in
portraiture, though his loose and haphazard methods of work
were often the subject of some amicable remonstrance. Other friends of this
period were Mr. and Mrs. Spartali and their beautiful daughters; some other
members of the Greek community in London, especially the Dilberoglues, and
various branches of the Ionides family; Mr. Dodgson (the “Lewis
Carroll” of
Alice in Wonderland), who, being a good amateur photographer, took some few excellent
likenesses of Rossetti; and Mr. Charles Fairfax Murray, who, when a mere
youth, became known to my brother as an artistic aspirant, and who developed
into a painter of good standing, and a vendor and collector of works of art.
There was another young man who, at one time or other, played a
considerable part in Rossetti's life, and of whom it may behove me here to
say something definite. His name was Charles Augustus Howell. He survived my
brother, but has been dead now some few years. It was in or about 1856 that
I casually met a man of some twenty-five years of age, of gentlemanly
address, who had once been in the army. I will designate him by his
initials, J. F. H. (the name is not Howell). Through me, and through his own
rather pushing ways, he became known to various members of my circle,
including my brother; who, being kind-heartedly anxious to help him out of
circumstances of great money-embarrassment, promoted his interests to the
best of his power. J. F. H. made acquaintance with Mr. Howell, an
Anglo-Portuguese young gentleman about seventeen years older than he then
was. After a while, but not until some mischief had been done in attempts to
serve him, J. F. H. was found by Howell to be a very disgraceful character.
Howell gave us notice of this, and J. F. H. was abandoned to his
fate—which proved to be an equally dismal and well-deserved one.
This disclosure may have been towards the end of 1857. Mr. Howell knew
something (we did not) of the Italian patriot Felice Orsini, who figures in
most memories as more assassin
than patriot, but in fact he was both; and Howell
was in some way (but I am sure without any conscious connivance) mixed up
with the procuring or the dispatching of the infernal machine or machines
which in January 1858 Orsini exploded against Napoleon III. Before the
explosion took place Howell had quitted England, and returned to his family
in Portugal. In 1864 he was back in London; and he sought out my brother and
myself, who had always liked him, and felt much indebted to him for
unmasking J. F. H., and so preventing us from continuing to countenance the
latter in any way.
London can have contained in 1864 few more agreeable young men than
Charles Augustus Howell. He united the attractions of youthfulness and of
àplomb. His face was handsome
though rather
outré; not a little like that of
King Philip IV. in the magnificent full-length by Velasquez in the National
Gallery, but superior in manliness, the expression of talent, and hair
which, being dark chestnut in tint, was free from the vapid effeminacy which
marks the flaxen locks of Philip. Howell had seen a good deal of the world,
had many accomplishments and a ready insight in fine art, and was a capital
and most entertaining talker. He had not any artistic faculty of his own;
but was nevertheless an excellent facsimilist (and as such acknowledged by
Ruskin) of water-colours and the like. Throughout Rossetti's circle he at
once became a prime favourite. He thus formed the acquaintance of Mr.
Ruskin, who engaged him as his secretary, and who, I believe, cherished him
extremely for some while, and placed the most implicit confidence in him. I
am neither required nor qualified to enter into an account of the relations
between Mr. Ruskin and Mr. Howell. I know that they came to a close towards
the end of 1870; and my impression is that a highly distinguished friend of
Rossetti, one who liked Howell enormously at first, and disliked him
intensely afterwards, had something to do with this result. This change of
feeling put Rossetti into a position of embarrassment, between the friend
who wanted him to cut Howell, and Howell himself,
who as yet continued to be much to his
taste. Mr. Collingwood, in his book on Ruskin
1 makes some statements disadvantageous to Howell, impugning his
honesty. As I know nothing about the details, I will leave them as they
stand, and will also for the present leave Howell, who will more than once
re-appear as we proceed.
Mr. Bell Scott and his wife, leaving Newcastle-on-Tyne, settled in
London in 1864, and from this date forward Rossetti saw his old friend
frequently, and continued to value him highly. He had visited Scott in
Newcastle at the end of 1862, and then sat (to Mr. Downey) for that
photograph which is the best known of all his portraits—a
standing figure, three-quarters length, in an Inverness cape (or Tyneside
wrapper, as the garment was then frequently called). In the autumn of 1863
he revisited with me a few Belgian cities; and in 1864 he was in Paris for a
short while—I think, the very last of his small foreign trips.
Towards the same time when Scott settled in London, another old friend,
Thomas Woolner, dropped out of Rossetti's circle—a matter which I
always deeply regretted. I cannot say that my brother was to blame, although
a person much more tolerant or much meeker than he might have deserved
commendation for adopting a different course. He once gave me a very
explicit account of the facts, to the following effect. He was among
friends, talking of Woolner with his accustomed cordiality, when one of
them—the same whom, in referring to Howell, I designated as
“highly distinguished”—said to him,
“I am rather surprised to hear you speaking of Woolner
in such terms, for he, to my knowledge, speaks of
you
in very different terms.” This staggered Rossetti,
who, pursuing the point, became convinced that Woolner, not on one occasion
only but as the general tone of his speech when the subject arose, talked of
him in a way quite inconsistent with genuine regard, or even with
considerate allowance. That my brother had his faults is amply true, and it
is quite possible that what
Transcribed Footnote (page 259):
1 Vol. ii., pp. 59-61, 115.
Woolner commented upon with asperity were real
faults, and not vamped-up imputations; but to Woolner himself Rossetti had
given no cause of complaint at any date, recent or remote. My brother
hereupon ceased to see Woolner; he got to regard him with antipathy, and
sometimes to speak of him with bitterness. The sculptor indeed was well
known for his biting tongue, and there were perhaps few of his acquaintances
who, present or absent, were not at some time subjected to its sharpness.
Some while afterwards—in 1868—my brother dropped in
to see me one evening, quickly followed by Woolner (for I never myself was
at variance with him, although in the course of later years we drifted
apart). I viewed the encounter with some alarm; but it passed off without
anything unpleasant, each of the two now sundered friends treating the other
with ease which faintly simulated good-will. I was then in hopes that they
might become reconciled; but no steps were taken by either with such an
object, and I imagine they never met again. Woolner did indeed call at my
brother's house in the summer of 1870; but the latter on that day was
“not at home” to any one, and he did not hear of the
visit until his once intimate comrade had quitted his threshold.
From Mr. Ruskin also there was a most unfortunate severance. The two
men liked one another—at one time I am sure they even loved one
another—but ominous discrepancies began to appear not very long
after Rossetti had settled in Cheyne Walk, and gradually these became
irremediable, or at any rate they remained unremedied. There is a certain
fatal divergence between an autocratic Mentor who tells a painter what he
ought and ought not to do, and the painter himself, who, having an ardent
invention, and a decided opinion as to the range and the limitations of his
own powers of work, is expected to conform to the critic's notions instead.
It is notorious moreover—and therefore I need not scruple to say
it—that Mr. Ruskin's opinions as to what is right or wrong, to be
or not to be recommended, in artistic execution, have differed very much at
different times;
and that, with characteristic but embarrassing
candour, he has unsaid in one year several things which he had said in
previous years. This may have suited himself, but cannot be supposed to have
suited the living subjects of his comments.
I have by me four letters from Mr. Ruskin to my brother, proper to the
summer of 1865; the fourth alone is dated— 18 July 1865. They
must all have been consequent upon his seeing, in the painter's studio, the
picture of
Venus Verticordia
, with its foreground of roses and honeysuckles. They are somewhat
long, and I only extract a few sentences (not always consecutive in the
letters themselves) to show how matters stood:—
“(1)
It is very good and
pretty of you to answer so. You are, it seems, under the (for the
present)
fatal mistake of thinking that you will
ever learn to paint well by painting badly—
i.e., coarsely. But come back to me when you have found
out your mistake, or (if you are right in your method) when you can
do better. I am very glad, at all events, to understand
you better than I did, in the grace and sweetness of your
letters.—(2)
I purposely used the
word ‘wonderfully’ painted about those
flowers. They were wonderful to me, in their realism;
awful—I can use no other word—in their
coarseness. Come and see me
now, if you
like.— (3)
Please come now the
first fine evening—tea at seven.—(4)
I am very grateful to
you for this letter, and for the feelings it expresses towards me.
You meant them—the first and second—just as
rightly as this pretty third; and yet they conclusively showed me
that we could not at present—nor for some time
yet—be companions any more, though true friends, I hope,
as ever. I do not choose any more to talk to you until you can
recognize my superiorities as
I can yours. You
simply do not see certain characters in me. A day may come when you
will be able; then—without apology, without restraint,
merely as
being different from what you are
now— come back to me, and we will be as we used to
be.”
Two things are clear from these extracts: 1, That the tone of
Rossetti's letters was such as Ruskin did not, and probably could not,
complain of; 2, That Ruskin, after encouraging Rossetti to call upon him at
once, stringently forbade him
to do so. I will in no wise discuss whether
Ruskin was right or wrong in all this; but of one thing we may be tolerably
certain—that Rossetti did
not call upon him. I
assume that he did not in any way reply to the last letter.
The only sequel that I know of to this correspondence of 1865 is that
on 4 December 1866 I dined with Mr. Ruskin and his family, by invitation,
and a very pleasant evening did I spend in the house. Ruskin expressed to me
a wish to resume seeing my brother, and I suggested whether he would call in
Cheyne Walk, and, if he did so, would be cautious in avoiding any topic of
possible irritation. On the following day Ruskin did, in the friendliest
spirit, make the visit. I was not present, but learned that “all
went off most cordially—Ruskin expressing great admiration of the
Beatrice in a Death-trance” (
Beata Beatrix
), on which my brother was then engaged. I am afraid however that
this call was not followed up in any sort of way. Rossetti, very likely, did
not return the visit—partly from general indisposition to any
such regulated performance, and partly apprehending that some new cause of
difficulty or dissension might arise. He had better have risked the chance,
and gone without delay. I think that the very last occasion when the old
friends met was in September 1868. Ruskin then called on Rossetti, and
raised some question whether the latter would not join him in efforts for
social ameliorations on a systematic scale; but this was not the painter's
line, and he did not take any practical steps about it. After this, there
was, to the best of my belief, no further personal meeting. In August 1869
Mr. Ruskin was elected Slade Professor of Fine Art in Oxford University; and
his time was at first shared between London and Oxford, and ultimately he
settled in the latter city. Anyhow a sad ending had come to a friendship
which had once been so affectionate, and which, in the annals of art, might
some day almost count as historical. At least, their parting was not in
anger. Moreover, up to 1870 or thereabouts, my brother continued to hear a
good deal about Mr. Ruskin, as Mr. Howell remained as yet his secretary:
and there is a letter from Ruskin to Rossetti, as
late as August 1870, perfectly amicable, and including a reference to the
Poems
then published.
In these years Rossetti developed a kind of passion for collecting
curious objects of art—chairs and tables, cabinets, hangings,
looking-glasses (he had a special fancy for convex mirrors), pictures in a
very minor way, and most particularly Japanese prints and oddities, and blue
china, whether Japanese or Chinese. With the European he never concerned
himself. He built up elaborate fireplaces in his house, with old carved oak,
antiquated Dutch tiles, and the like. He also raised in his garden a large
tent or marquee, in which we often dined in the summer, beginning with 1868.
A friendly rivalry subsisted between Mr. Whistler and him, especially as to
China and Japan. There must of course have been in London some fine
collections of "blue china" before Rossetti's time. Mr. Huth's collection
was one; but my brother's zeal and persistence were such as to send up
prices in the market. The well-known Art-dealers, Messrs Marks, acted for
him in many cases. One of his earliest purchases was that of the whole
collection of blue china formed by the retiring Italian Ambassador, the
Marquis d'Azeglio. Its cost to my brother was I think £200. In
March 1867 he bought of Messrs. Marks two hawthorn-pots (Rossetti invented
this name) which, with their covers, cost him £120. He paid in
the form of a picture, not of money down. In fact, what between free
expenditure and good taste in choice, he formed a very fine display of blue
china, which made his big sunlit drawing-room a sight to see. As to
"the Japanese mania," which has by this time
half-revolutionized European art of all kinds, I hardly know what Londoner
preceded Mr. Whistler and my brother. They made bids against each other in
Paris as well as in London, and were possibly a little nettled to learn in
Paris that there was another painter—the renowned
Tissot— who outstripped them both in acquisition. Rossetti gave a
deal of time as well as energy to the collecting of china etc. I have seen
him come home late, rather fagged from his
eager pursuit, with a cargo of blue either
actually in hand or ordered to arrive; and, as he dropped into an
easy-chair, he called out “Pots, pots!” with a
thrilling accent. It spoke at once of achievement and of despondency. Such
may have been the tone of Alexander of Macedon when he deplored that there
were no more worlds to conquer.
In the way of pictures his most notable purchase was a moderate-sized
Botticelli, obtained at Colnaghi's sale in March 1867 for the small sum of
£20 (towards 1880 he resold it to a friend for
£315)—a half-length figure, highly characteristic of
its painter, of a young woman in whitish drapery, in a close architectural
background. Botticelli was little or not at all in demand at that now remote
date. If my brother had not something to do with the vogue which soon
afterwards began to attach to that fascinating ma