Recollections of Dante Gabriel Rossetti and his Circle/Chapter 1
RECOLLECTIONS
Chapter I.
Several years ago, when discharging the duties of a clerk in a banking establishment (located in the extreme west of England) in a somewhat listless fashion, one or two associates and myself regularly subscribed for the Illustrated London News. One item contained in a particular issue of that journal remains indelibly engraven upon my mind. Whilst studying its contents on the morning of its arrival, during the ten minutes grace allowed us after the mid-day meal, I recollect seeing a paragraph containing a quotation from a letter which had appeared in a recent number of the Athenæum. This was to the effect that Mr. D. G. Rossetti had not given up oil for water-colour, but that he still practised both. As far as I could then see, the intimation in no way affected me. I was simply attracted by it through the keen interest I felt towards painting, and a yearning long experienced to adopt Art as a profession.
"D. G. Rossetti?" I enquired of myself—"why, I never heard of him. Who is he? and what kind of pictures does he paint?"
Thereupon I fell into a reverie over the announcement I had seen, and gradually and convincingly a strange presagement came to me that some day, not very far off, I should not only meet and know this man, but even be closely associated with him in his profession.
Months elapsed; summer began to wane, and I to make preparation for my annual fortnight's holiday. I had a great desire for a long time to see something of Holland, and by dint of economy I had managed to put sufficient together to enable me to realise it. I also determined, if the limited time of my interval allowed, to obtain a glimpse of the Rhine. I got to London, and, with the aid of a Bradshaw, made out the route to Harwich. There I took the steamboat, and after a night's voyage, which was somewhat rough and tempestuous, I landed at an early hour in the morning in the Boompjes at Rotterdam.
To get something to eat was my first consideration, and after wandering vainly about the streets for some time in search of a place of refreshment, I at last espied a coffee-tavern. Unaware that Dutch was the prevailing language of the greater part of the inhabitants of Rotterdam, I fancied there would be no difficulty in making known my wants with the few phrases of French and German that I had managed to pick up, but I was soon to be undeceived. Entering the house, I seated myself at the nearest table and rang for attendance. Presently, a slovenly, unkempt girl, broad of face, made her appearance, and in what German I could command I asked her to provide me with some breakfast. She nodded her head, stared in bewilderment, and said something in reply which was perfectly unintelligible; so, my German failing, I tried again in the few words of French I could remember. This seemed even more perplexing to her, and shaking her head once more, she went away with a grin on her expansive face. Anon, she returned with her mistress, who was even more fat and "Dutchier" looking than the maid, and both stood with their arms akimbo gazing at me with curiosity. Again I essayed to make myself understood, but only to find that in language the effort was fruitless. Suddenly a happy thought struck me. Pulling out my sketch-book, I hastily drew a plate with a chop on it, a knife and fork, a couple of eggs, and a cup and saucer. To their delight, this gave them a clear idea that it was something to eat and drink that I wanted, and in a very short time I was furnished with a substantial and well-cooked meal.1
I lingered for some days about this delightful old Rotterdam, sketching its quaint nooks and corners here and there, and then took a hasty run up the Rhine, as far as Mayence. My time, however, was getting short, and reluctantly I had to think of returning home again. On the return journey there were a good many tourists— homeward bound like myself—on the boat. One of them, James Shepherd,2 took an interest in my sketches. He entered into conversation with me, and when I expressed a strong desire to adopt Art as a means of obtaining a livelihood, he encouraged me in the idea, and assured me, that if I ever went to London with that intention he would give me all the assistance he could. I noted the address which he gave me, and promised to make use of it as soon as circumstances allowed.
A year afterwards I finally resolved to take my chance as an artist, and to follow Art altogether. Accordingly, I gave up my situation in the bank, and soon made my way once more to London, when I entered myself as a student at a nursery for beginners, known as "Heatherley's."3 Here quite a new life opened to me, and here I found quite a fresh and more congenial set of companions. One of them was the late William Gorman Wills4—he had not then written his Charles I.,5 which was to place him in the first rank as a dramatist—with whom I formed a close friendship which lasted until his death.
As yet I had earned nothing, and as my funds were beginning to run low, I bethought me of my Rhine friend's promise of assistance. I resolved to call upon him and acquaint him with my position, which I did without further loss of time. He received me very cordially, and before I left gave me an introduction to Charles Augustus Howell,6 an intimate, so my friend informed me, of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, who he thought might be persuaded to do something for me in the way of employment. Upon hearing the name of Rossetti mentioned, I instantly recalled the announcement I had once seen in the Illustrated London News, and the premonition I had then received, and felt that what was then so strangely presaged was actually about to come to pass.
I lost no time in writing to Mr. Howell. In reply, he invited me over to Brixton, where he resided, to lunch with him, when my work and capabilities could be fully discussed. And taking with me a few sketches of what I considered most likely to find favour in his sight and pave my way to a meeting with Rossetti, I accordingly found myself at Brixton by the time appointed.
Mr. Howell received me with great kindness, and was so genial and so encouraging in his criticism, that I soon felt quite at my ease and most sanguine as to the future. Lunch was followed by a cigarette and a very pleasant chat, in the course of which I gathered much about Rossetti, as well as concerning John Ruskin.
As a start, my host gave me a commission to make facsimile copies of two heads of Dante that were in his study, but the owner of which was Rossetti. The history of these heads, as related by Howell, was both curious and interesting to me, since it opened up a field of literature and art of which I was hitherto almost ignorant. The first was a copy of a fresco discovered by Baron Seymour Kirkup7 in an old chapel at Florence8 (where for a couple of centuries or more it had lain hidden under repeated coats of whitewash), which had been drawn from the poet himself by his friend Giotto, who is alluded to in his Purgatorio as the coming rival of Cimabue.9 The second was a copy of an old Italian oil, or rather fresco painting, of the same period judging from the style of work, by an unknown artist.
Both paintings were most characteristic, and required very careful reproduction, but I managed this successfully enough to please Rossetti and make him wish to see me, and, an early day having been arranged, I called upon him.