Landseer Part 5

X

A NAUGHTY CHILD

In stories of the English village life of half a century ago we often read of the "dame school," where children took the first steps in their education. This would be held in the cottage of the schoolmistress, who, in our imagination, was always a kindly old woman in a big cap and short petticoats. The children sat in rows on hard wooden seats, or "forms," and gabbled their lessons aloud. Each was provided with a slate on which letters and figures were laboriously inscribed. By the great fireplace sat the mistress, and the big-faced clock ticked off the slow hours. A striking contrast was this to the kindergarten of the twentieth century!

Our picture shows us a corner of a dame school where a naughty child is in a fit of temper. The rough board walls, with great projecting beams, show how little thought was given to schoolroom adornment in those days. The high bench, without back, is as uncomfortable a seat as one could imagine. It is supposed that the children of that period were strictly disciplined in good behavior, but it appears that naughtiness was no less common then than now. The refractory pupil who would not learn his lessons was condemned to sit on the dunce stool, wearing the tall pointed cap. Naturally he did not yield readily to his punishment, and there was often a struggle with the mistress before peace was restored.

The child of our picture is evidently giving the good dame a great deal of trouble. Neither threatening nor coaxing can induce him to study his lesson. The book is turned face down on the form, and in a storm of rage the boy has thrown his slate crashing to the floor. This exhibition of temper is followed by a fit of sulks. He squeezes himself into the smallest possible s.p.a.ce in the corner, huddling his feet together, toes turned in, and pressing his arms close to his side. The raising of the shoulders reminds one of the way a cat raises its back as it shrinks from its enemy. The child's mouth is twisted, pouting in a scornful curve. His eyes, bright with unshed tears, glare sullenly before him into s.p.a.ce. Here is wilfulness and obstinacy to a degree.

If the boy's face were not disfigured by anger, we should see in him a handsome little fellow. He is of a st.u.r.dy build, with plump arms and shoulders, a n.o.ble head with a profusion of flaxen curls, and a face which might be charming in another mood. If the schoolmistress could once win him she would have a pupil to be proud of. Such a head as his might produce a Daniel Webster.

The episode of the schoolroom is the story the painter wished us to read in his work. The real story of the picture is quite a different tale. The scene of the Naughty Child's temper was Landseer's own studio, and the child was angry, not because he had to learn a lesson, but because he must sit for his picture. In those days, before the invention of photography, it was indeed a tedious process to obtain a child's portrait. It is scarcely to be wondered at that an active boy like this should not relish the prospect of a long sitting.

[Ill.u.s.tration: John Andrew & Son, Sc.

A NAUGHTY CHILD _South Kensington Museum, London_]

Landseer was struck by the child's beauty and was eager to make the picture. The outburst of temper did not trouble him a bit. Seizing his sketch-book he hastily drew the little fellow exactly as he looked.

It was characteristic of his art to reproduce accurately every peculiarity of pose and motion, and he found this att.i.tude of the child far more novel and interesting than the stiff pose of a commonplace portrait. It seems hardly probable that the parents could have been pleased to have their son's ill-temper perpetuated. What they thought of the picture we can only surmise. Certain it is that later generations of mothers, leading their children through the gallery where the picture hangs, could not have failed to pause and point the moral.

Our picture emphasizes the fact that Landseer's artistic skill was not limited to the portrayal of animal life. How natural it was to think of him chiefly as a painter of dogs is ill.u.s.trated in the familiar witticism of Sydney Smith. Being asked if he was about to sit to Landseer for a portrait, he asked, "Is thy servant a dog that he should do this thing?" Had not Landseer's tastes gradually limited his work to animal subjects, he might have become well known both for his landscapes and his portraits. He was especially happy in the delineation of children, whose unconscious motions display the same free play of muscle as do the animals. We have seen in our picture of Peace how sympathetically he entered into the heart of childhood.

Two English painters who preceded Landseer are famous for their pictures of children, Sir Joshua Reynolds and Sir Thomas Lawrence. It has not been thought unsuitable to compare Landseer with these great men, in the treatment of child subjects. His works, says a critic,[19]

"without the color or subtlety of character of Reynolds or the superfineness of Lawrence, are quite equal to the first in naturalness and to the second in real refinement, and are without the mannerism or affectation of either."

[Footnote 19: Cosmo Monkhouse.]

XI

THE SLEEPING BLOODHOUND

If a universal dog-lover like Landseer could be said to have a preference for any particular kind, it was certainly for the bloodhound. This n.o.ble animal is of very ancient origin, known apparently to the Romans, and introduced early in English history into Great Britain. Apparently many gentlemen of Landseer's acquaintance were possessors of fine specimens. One of these we have already seen in the picture of Suspense, where the dog's senses are all in intense concentration. Here, by contrast, the Sleeping Bloodhound is seen in complete relaxation.

We might almost fancy the picture a sequel to Suspense, and carry on our story to another chapter, in which, the knight's wounds being stanched, the door is opened and the dog admitted to his master's presence. Quiet having fallen on the household, the hound retires to a corner for a well-deserved nap. He lies on a fur rug spread in front of an ottoman, beside which stands his master's helmet. His forelegs are stretched out straight before him, his body curled around, his head pushed forward in a position which from a dog's point of view represents solid comfort.

Though asleep he is still on guard; the painter has conveyed the impression of the dog's latent power, even in repose. Like Rab, in Dr.

John Brown's famous story, he is "a sort of compressed Hercules of a dog." As he lies at his ease, we note the characteristics of his kind,--the loose skin, the long soft ears, the long thick tail. Of his most striking quality there is no visible evidence, namely, his exquisite sense of smell. It is this which has made him so valuable to man, both as a companion of his sports and a protector of life and property.

In former times when the resources of government were limited, bloodhounds often served in the useful capacity of a detective force.

In the border country between England and Scotland, before the union of the kingdoms, these dogs were kept to maintain safety, and to track criminals. In Cuba they were put on the pursuit of outlaws and fugitives from justice. This explains why the dog has sometimes been called a sleuthhound; that is, a dog set upon a _sleuth_, or trail.

In our own Southern States bloodhounds were once used to recover runaway slaves, as we may read in "Uncle Tom's Cabin." There have been times, too, when the dog's unique gift of scent has enabled him to find lost children and exhausted travellers, and thus be a benefactor to humanity.

Whatever the task set him, whether for good or ign.o.ble ends, the bloodhound has always fulfilled it with unflagging perseverance and devotion. He is a dog to command both fear and admiration, and we count ourselves fortunate if we win his good opinion.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Fr. Hanfstaengl, photo. John Andrew & Son, Sc.

THE SLEEPING BLOODHOUND _National Gallery, London_]

The original of the portrait was Countess, the bloodhound of Mr. Jacob Bell, of whom we have also heard as the owner of the bay mare Betty.

The dog had long been waiting for a portrait sitting, but the busy painter seemed to have no time for the work. Finally occurred a strange accident which was the immediate cause of the picture. Poor Countess fell one night from a parapet at Mr. Bell's residence, in some unknown way losing her balance, or missing her footing. The distance was between twenty and thirty feet, and the dog was killed.

Mr. Bell immediately took the animal to Landseer's studio, and there in an incredibly short time was produced this portrait.

The story explains why the painter chose the unusual theme of a sleeping dog. Ordinarily he delighted in showing the expressiveness of a dog's eye. This being here impossible on account of the model's condition, we have instead a picture which we would not exchange even for Suspense or Dignity and Impudence. If we have here less of those higher qualities which are brought out in the dog's human relationships, we see the better the purely animal side of his nature.

The union of power with repose is a rare combination in art, and one we a.s.sociate with Greek sculpture. The picture of the Sleeping Bloodhound has what we call plastic qualities. We have a sense of the ma.s.sive solidity of the dog's body, as if he were modelled in clay.

In this respect the picture should be compared with the Newfoundland dog called the Distinguished Member of the Humane Society, and with the lion of the Nelson monument.

The helmet beside the dog is one of those picturesque accessories which Landseer enjoyed putting into his works. Like the gauntlets in the picture of Suspense, it suggests the knightly deeds of chivalry with which the bloodhound seems appropriately a.s.sociated. The reflection of light from the polished surface of the metal makes an effective touch in the picture.

It is by no accident that the helmet occupies the place it does; it is an essential part of the composition, serving precisely the same purpose which the cavalier's hat does in the picture of the King Charles Spaniels. Both compositions gain by this device the necessary height to balance their horizontal lines.

XII

THE HUNTED STAG

In his study of the deer in the Scottish Highlands, Landseer found almost inexhaustible material for his art. In fact, nothing of interest escaped him in the life of this n.o.ble animal. If we could have a complete collection of his pictures on this subject, they would set forth the entire story of the deer. The painter, as we have seen, did his hunting with a sketch-book, and brought home, instead of so many head of game, so many pictures with which to delight future generations. Many of these pictures deal with tragic subjects, as in our ill.u.s.tration of a Hunted Stag borne down a mountain torrent with the hounds upon him. The pathetic side of animal life appealed strongly to Landseer's dramatic imagination. He who could see so readily the comic aspects of a situation was equally quick in his appreciation of suffering.

It has been said by a close observer of animal life that no wild animal dies a natural death.[20] Every creature of the woods lives in the midst of perpetual dangers from some one of which, sooner or later, he comes to a violent or tragic end. The rigor of the elements sometimes overcomes him,--rain or snow, heat or cold, flood or avalanche, the falling tree or the crashing rock. It may be that some other animal which is his natural enemy finally falls upon him and destroys him. The most cruel fate of all is when he falls into the power of the sportsman, matching against the wild creature's instincts his wits, his dogs, and his rifle. In such an unequal contest man seldom fails to win.

[Footnote 20: Ernest Seton-Thompson in _Wild Animals I have known_.]

Deerstalking was long the favorite sport in England, dating from the early days of semi-barbarism, when the only serious pursuits of the rich were war and the chase. The forest laws of the old Norman kings set the punishment for killing a deer, except in the chase, as great as for taking a human life. Large tracts of land were reserved for hunting grounds in districts which might otherwise have been covered with prosperous villages. Down to our own times, a large pack of hounds was maintained by the English crown solely for the use of royal hunting parties. At length, at the beginning of the twentieth century, the new king, Edward VII., has abolished the custom.

It would seem that the deer was well fitted by nature to cope with his enemy the sportsman. His senses are so exquisitely delicate that he detects the approach of the hunter at a great distance. As soon as he takes alarm he flees from the danger, covering the ground in flying leaps with incredible speed. From time to time he pauses on some hilltop to locate anew the position of the enemy.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Fr. Hanfstaengl, photo. John Andrew & Son, Sc.

THE HUNTED STAG _National Gallery, London_]

As he begins to tire, he resorts to stratagem as a subst.i.tute for speed. Sometimes another deer comes to his aid, taking the track he has made, while he hides in some thicket or flies in a different direction. One of his tricks is to run backward over his course for a number of yards, and then leap aside to start in another way. The story of the Sandhill Stag tells how a deer used this device three times in succession, the last time returning to a thicket near his track from which he could discern his pursuer long before the trail would bring him too near. After this, grown more desperate, the stag circled round till he joined his old track, and then bounded aside to let the hunter follow the cold scent.

When all such artifices fail, the hunted deer's last resort is the water. Plunging into a lake or mountain stream, he swims up the current, taking care not to touch any brush on the bank, lest he leave a scent for the hounds. It is said that he can even hide under the water, leaving only the tip of his nose above the surface.

The stag of our picture has reached the water too late; already the hounds are upon him. The ma.s.s of struggling animals is swept along the current of a mountain stream to an inevitable doom. The hunted creature raises his n.o.ble head in his dying agony, seeking to escape his tormentors. Even yet he strikes out in a brave attempt to swim, but the end is only too plain.

The painter's art has set the tragedy very forcibly before us. Behind is a lake, around which rises a range of high hills. A single break in their outline admits a ray of sunlight into the sombre grandeur of the scene. The narrow stream which issues from the lake falls between huge boulders, in a steep descent. The struggle of the dogs with their prey churns the torrent into foam about the body of the stag.

While we admire the art which can produce such a picture, the subject, like that of War, is too painful for enjoyment. We must turn again to the Monarch of the Glen, and from the contrast of the dying with the living, we enjoy the more the splendid vitality of the animal.