Complete Works of Ford Madox Ford, page 907
The point is that none of these painters and none of the writers who surrounded them had any contempt for money as such. They wanted it, but it was not the end and aim of their existence. And “price per thou” not having been invented in those days, they did not become agonized, thrilled, or driven mad at the thought of this deity.
Nor, indeed, did this goddess so much perturb the writers for whom Mr. Henley was the centre. His disciples desired money perhaps a little more than the Pre-Raphaelites, and revered their work perhaps a little less. On the other hand, perhaps again they really tried more to make a good job of their work. There was less of panoply, mysticism, and aloofness; they expected less of the trimming of their work and put more power into their elbows. They had, too, none of the feeling of standing apart from the common herd of life. They wanted as much as anything to be men — upon the whole, quite commonplace men, indulging in orgies of tobacco, whiskey, and the other joys of the commercial traveller. About love as they handled it there was nothing mystic; passion justified nothing. It was kiss and pay and go, and when you married you settled down. Dante in his relations with Beatrice they voted a bore, but, on the other hand, they admired the tortures that he invented for his adversaries in hell.
It was an entirely different atmosphere. There was about it nothing Italianate. Most of Henley’s gang saw no shame in indulging in occasional bouts of journalism. Many of them were content to be called journalists, and did not mind a damn as long as they turned out jolly good stuff.
I confess that had I known of their attitude of mind in those days it would have shocked and pained me. Nowadays I think they were rather fine fellows, and that it does not matter much what they did. In those days they seemed to me to be strange and rough. I came out of the hothouse atmosphere of Pre-Raphaelism where I was being trained for a genius. I regarded that training with a rather cold distaste. On the other hand, Henley and his friends seemed to me to be unreasonably boisterous and too loudly cocksure. Henley, who presented the appearance of a huge, mountainous, scaly, rough-clothed individual, with his pipe always in his hand and his drink always at his elbow, once damned my eyes up hill and down dale for half an hour because I sustained the argument that II Principe was written, not by Aretino, but by Machiavelli. Henley had suffered from some slip of the tongue and, although he must have been perfectly aware of it in the next second, he chose to stand to his guns, and, as I have said, swore at me for quite a long time. At last this seemed to grow monotonous, and I said: “God damn you, Mr. Henley. If Machiavelli did not write II Principe I will give a pound to the first beggar I meet in the street.”
I expected to die, but Henley suddenly grinned, passed his tobacco jar over to me, and said, “Of course he did,” and began again to talk of Stevenson. He talked of Stevenson with an extraordinary mixture of the deepest affection and of the utterance of innumerable grudges. It was about the time — or just after it — that his article on Robert Louis Stevenson appeared in small type at the end of the Pall Mall Magaziney and that article was setting the whole town agog. I do not know that the conversation with Henley added anything to my comprehension of the matter. But the repetition of Henley’s grudges was a much pleasanter thing in words than in small type. You had the man before you; you were much better able to appreciate from his tone of voice where he exaggerated and where he meant you to know that he exaggerated.
XI. DEATHS AND DEPARTURES
LITERARY quarrels such as separated Henley and Robert Louis Stevenson are always rather tragic, are always rather comic. They have about them a flavor of regret such as distinguishes the older French music. That they are usually bitter in the extreme is due to the fact that the writer possesses a pen and the power to express himself. He possesses also an imagination. So that, not only does his mind make mole-hills of grievance assume the aspect of mountains of villainy, but, with his pen going forty to the dozen, he sets down in wounding words the tale of his griefs. His griefs may be nothing at all — generally they are so. Sometimes they may amount to real treachery, for the artist with his stretched nerves easily loses any sense of right or wrong where his personal affairs are concerned. Not infrequently new wives will break up old friendships, the wines being too strong for the otherwise well-tried bottle. Nowadays money sometimes comes in; in the olden times it did, too, but much less often. I remember my grandfather laying down a rule of life for me. He said:
“Fordy, never refuse to help a lame dog over a stile. Never lend money; always give it. When you give money to a man that is down, tell him that it is to help him to get up, tell him that when he is up he should pass on the money you have given him to any other poor devil that is down. Beggar yourself rather than refuse assistance to any one whose genius you think shows promise of being greater than your own.”
This is a good rule of life. I wish I could have lived up to it. The Pre - Raphaelites, as I have tried to make plain, quarrelled outrageously, as you might put it, about their boots or their washing. But these quarrels as a rule were easily made up; they hardly ever quarrelled about money, and they ‘ never, at their blackest moments, blackened the fame of each other as artists. One considerable convulsion did threaten to break up Pre-Raphaelite society. This was caused by the dissolution of the firm of Morris, Marshall, Faulkner & Company. Originally in this firm there were seven members, all either practising or aspiring artists. The best known were William Morris, Rossetti, Burne-Jones, and Madox Brown. The “Firm” was founded originally by these men as a sort of co-operative venture. Each of the artists supplied designs, which originally were paid for in furniture, glass, or fabrics. Each of the seven partners found a certain proportion of the capital — about £100 apiece, I think. As time went on they added more capital in varying proportions, Morris supplying by far the greater part. Gradually the “Firm” became an important undertaking. It supplied much furniture to the general public; it supplied a great number of stained-glass windows to innumerable churches and cathedrals. It may be said to have revolutionized at once the aspect of our homes and the appearance of most of cur places of worship. But, while the original partnership existed, the finances of the “Firm” were always in a shaky condition. It paid its artists very little, or next to nothing. I happen to possess my grandfather’s book of accounts with the “Firm.” It shows that he supplied them with something more than three hundred designs, of which perhaps a hundred and fifty were cartoons for stained glass and the others for tables, chairs, sofas, water-bottles, wine-glasses, bell-pulls, and who knows what. For these he was credited with sums that at first were quite insignificant — £1 10s for a stained-glass cartoon, ten shillings for a table, half a crown for a drinking-glass. And these sums were paid in kind. Later the sums paid became somewhat larger, but were still quite inadequate, if they were to be considered as ordinary transactions of the open market. I think that the largest sum that Madox Brown received for any cartoon was £5. The other artists received exactly similar prices, whether they were Rossetti, Mr. Philip Webb, or Mr. Peter Paul Marshall.
As the years went by the “Firm,” though it extended its operations enormously, showed no signs of becoming financially prosperous. William Morris supplied more and more capital until, although for those days and for that set he was a very wealthy man, his financial position was rapidly becoming precarious. The position was thus extremely complicated. Morris had supplied a great quantity of money; the other artists, and more particularly Madox Brown and Rossetti, had supplied a really immense amount of work, partly for the love of the thing and partly because they thought that they would ultimately receive adequate payment. A certain amount of irritation was caused by the fact that Morris, as the head of the “Firm,” ordered gradually more and more work from Burne-Jones and his particular friends, and less and less from Madox Brown and Rossetti. This was perfectly reasonable, for Burne-Jones was a popular artist for whose designs there was much demand, while Madox Brown and Rossetti, in the nature of things, were comparatively little in request. It was natural and legitimate, but it could not fail to be wounding to the neglected artists.
The day came when Morris perceived that the only way to save himself from ruin was to get rid of the other partners of the “Firm,” to take possession of it altogether, and to put it in a sound and normal financial position. There was here the makings of a very pretty financial row. I have only stated this case — which has already been stated several times — in order to make it clear how nicely balanced the position was. There was no doubt that the “Firm” could be made a great financial success. Indeed, it afterward became so, and so I believe it remains. Madox Brown, and to a less degree Rossetti, considered that they had devoted the labors of many years to contributing to this success. They knew that the reconstituted and successful “Firm” would commission no work of theirs, and all their labors had been very inadequately paid for. Morris, on the other hand, had to consider that he had supplied by far the greater amount of the capital which for so many years had kept the “Firm” going, and, if at that date it was at the point of success, this was due to the popular quality of the designs which he and Burne-Jones supplied. The legal agreements which constituted the “Firm” were of the haziest kind. Nowadays I take it there would be the makings of a splendid and instructive lawsuit. But Morris & Company passed into the hands of William Morris; Rossetti, Madox Brown, and the rest were displaced, and there was practically no outcry at all. This was very largely due to the self-sacrificing labors of Mr. Watts Dunton — surely the best of friends recorded in histories or memoirs. How he did it I cannot begin to imagine; but he must have spent many sleepless nights and have passed many long days in talking to these formidable and hot-blooded partners. Of course he had to aid him the fact that each of these artists cared more for their work than for money, and more for the decencies of life and good-fellowship than for the state of their pass-books.
A certain amount of coldness subsisted for some time between all the parties, and indeed I have no doubt that they all said the most outrageous things against each other. Some of them, indeed, I have heard, but in the end that gracious and charming person, Lady Burne-Jones, succeeded in bringing all the parties together again. William Morris sent Madox Brown copies of all the books he had written during the estrangement, Madox Brown sent William Morris a tortoiseshell box containing a dozen very brilliant bandana pocket-handkerchiefs, and joined the Kelmscott House Socialist League. Indeed, one of the prettiest things I can remember was having seen Madox Brown sitting in the central aisle of the little shed attached to Morris’s house at Hammersmith. Both of them were white-headed then; my grandfather’s hair was parted in the middle and fell, long and extremely thick, over each of his ears. It may interest those whose hair concerns them to know that every morning of his life he washed his head in cold water and with common yellow soap, coming down to breakfast with his head still dripping. I don’t know if that were the reason; but at any rate he had a most magnificent crop of hair. So these two picturesque persons recemented their ancient friendship under the shadow of a social revolution that I am sure my grandfather did not in the least understand, and that William Morris probably understood still less. I suppose that Madox Brown really expected the social revolution to make an end of all “damned Academicians.” Morris, on the other hand, probably expected that the whole world would go dressed in curtain serge, supplied in sage-green and neutral tints by a “Firm” of Morris & Company that should constitute the whole state. Afterward we all went in to tea in Kelmscott House itself — Morris, my grandfather, and several disciples. The room was large and, as I remember it, white. A huge carpet ran up one of its walls so as to form a sort of dais; beneath this sat Mrs. Morris, the most beautiful woman of her day. At the head of the table sat Morris, at his right hand my grandfather, who resembled an animated king of hearts. The rest of the long table was crowded in a mediæval sort of way by young disciples with low collars and red ties, or by maidens in the inevitable curtain serge, and mostly with a necklace of bright amber. The amount of chattering that went on was considerable. Morris, I suppose, was tired with his lecturing and answering of questions, for at a given period he drew from his pocket an enormous bandana handkerchief in scarlet and green. This he proceeded to spread over his face, and leaning back in his chair he seemed to compose himself to sleep after the manner of elderly gentlemen taking their naps. One of the young maidens began asking my grandfather some rather inane questions — what did Mr. Brown think of the weather, or what was Mr. Brown’s favorite picture at the Academy? For all the disciples of Mr. Morris were not equally advanced in thought.
Suddenly Morris tore the handkerchief from before his face and roared out:
“Don’t be such an intolerable fool, Polly!” Nobody seemed to mind this very much — nor, indeed, was the reproved disciple seriously abashed, for almost immediately afterward she asked:
“Mr. Brown, do you think that Sir Frederick Leighton is a greater painter than Mr. Frank Dicksee?”
Morris, however, had retired once more behind his handkerchief, and I presume he had given up in despair the attempt to hint to his disciple that Mr. Brown did not like Royal Academicians. I do not remember how my grandfather got out of this invidious comparison, but I do remember that when, shortly afterward, the young lady said to him:
“You paint a little too, don’t you, Mr. Brown?” He answered:
“Only with my left hand.”
This somewhat mystified the young lady, but it was perfectly true, for shortly before then Madox Brown had had a stroke of paralysis which rendered his right hand almost entirely useless. He was then engaged in painting with his left the enormous picture of “Wycliffe on His Trial,” which was to have been presented by subscribing admirers to the National Gallery.
This was the last time that Madox Brown and Morris met. And they certainly parted with every cordiality. Madox Brown had indeed quite enjoyed himself. I had been rather afraid that he would have been offended by Morris’s retirement behind the pocket-handkerchief. But when we were on the road home Madox Brown said:
“Well, that was just like old Topsy. In the Red Lion Square days he was always taking naps while we jawed. That was how Arthur Hughes was able to tie Topsy’s hair into knots. And the way he talked to that gal — why, my dear chap — it was just the way he called the Bishop of Lincoln a bloody bishop! No? Morris isn’t changed much.” It was a few days after this, in the evening, that Madox Brown, painting at his huge picture, pointed to the top of the frame that already surrounded the canvas. Upon the top was inscribed “Ford Madox Brown,” and on the bottom, “Wycliffe on His Trial Before John of Gaunt. Presented to the National Gallery by a Committee of Admirers of the Artist.” In this way the “X” of Madox Brown came exactly over the centre of the picture. It was Madox Brown’s practice to begin a painting by putting in the eyes of the central figure. This, he considered, gave him the requisite strength of tone that would be applied to the whole canvas. And indeed I believe that, once he had painted in those eyes, he never in any picture altered them, however much he might alter the picture itself. He used them as it were to work up to. Having painted in these eyes, he would begin at the top left-hand corner of the canvas, and would go on painting downward in a nearly straight line until the picture was finished. He would, of course, have made a great number of studies before commencing the picture itself. Usually there was an exceedingly minute and conscientious pencil-drawing, then a large charcoal cartoon, and after that, for the sake of the color scheme, a version in water-color, in pastels, and generally one in oil. In the case of the Manchester frescoes, almost every one was preceded by a small version painted in oils upon a panel, and this was the case with the large Wycliffe.
On this, the last evening of his life, Madox Brown pointed with his brush to the “X” of his name. Below it, on the left-hand side, the picture was completely filled in; on the right it was completely blank — a waste of slightly yellow canvas that gleamed in the dusky studio. He said:
“You see I have got to that ‘X.’ I am glad of it, for half the picture is done and it feels as if I were going home.”
Those, I think, were his last words. He laid his brushes upon his painting cabinet, scraped his palette of all mixed paints, laid his palette upon his brushes and his spectacles upon his palette. He took off the biretta that he always wore when he was painting — he must have worn such a biretta for upward of half a century — ever since he had been a French student. And so, having arrived at his end-of-the-day routine, which he had followed for innumerable years, he went upstairs to bed. He probably read a little of the Mystères de Paris, and died in his sleep, the picture with its inscriptions remaining downstairs, a little ironic, a little pathetic, and unfinished.
I haven’t the least idea of where Madox Brown’s fame as an artist to-day may stand. It is impossible to form an estimate. I am certain that he is far better known in France and Belgium than in the United Kingdom. The other day an American art-critic, who did not know who I was, but was anxious to impress me with the fact that British art was altogether worthless, said vehemently — I had been trying to put in a word for Constable, Gainsborough, and Turner — said vehemently:
