Light, Descending

by Octavia Randolph

  In the initial scramble for witnesses Whistler had suggested scores, from Prince Teck, the Queen’s art collecting son-in-law, through a sheaf of prominent painters, sculptors, and art dealers. One after the next demurred the honour or were disqualified by Whistler’s legal team. A few reluctant candidates had finally consented, only to send eleventh hour apologies that they had been most regretfully called away on pressing business. Leighton, Poynter, Tissot––even Whistler’s old friend Joseph Boehm had forsaken him in the very breech. At least Frederick Leighton’s excuse was allowable––he was at that hour down the Thames at Windsor, receiving honours from the Queen––but each refusal stung. By the eve of the trial only two artists had answered Whistler’s call. The painter Albert Moore had agreed whole-heartedly “to take up the cudgels” on his behalf, but Rose himself had need to importune the Irish portraitist William Gorman Wills to speak for the plaintiff, as a special favour to his old friend Rose.

  Most tryingly, Anderson Rose had not been able to conjure Ruskin to his own trial. Ruskin had initially been full of fight, even naming the prospect of defending himself in court “mere nuts and nectar,” and this volte-face was unexpected. Ruskin had reportedly suffered some kind of collapse in the late Winter, but Rose had been made aware that he was resuming activity. After Ruskin’s defence had three times sought and been granted postponements due to their client’s ill health, Rose at last threatened subpoena to summon the man. Still Ruskin did not appear.

  But for all Rose’s misgivings he knew that over at the defendant’s table things were little better. Yes, his not being able to examine Ruskin directly spared Holker the risk of the Slade Professor embarrassing his own cause. But Ruskin’s own supporters had also failed to show themselves en masse. Despite Edward Burne-Jones’ initial bluster––Rose had gotten wind that he had written to Ruskin that he could summon hundreds of ardent defenders––admiration for Whistler was such that not one other painter would stand for Ruskin save that symbol of the bourgeoisie, William Powell Frith, and Frith only under the legal duress of subpoena. It would be, it seemed, a trial that everyone wanted to hear, and no one wanted to testify at.

  Frith’s paintings were immense and crowded canvasses teaming with wholesome and recognizable specimens of the British middle class at public venues such as race courses or train stations being jostled by society toffs, prostitutes, gaming men, cut-purses, swindlers and wastrels of every stripe. A hundred little stories implicit in every incident, plainly offered up to any careless eye. Viewers recognised themselves, their betters, their inferiors. It was of course wildly popular work, held in disdain by both Whistler and Ruskin, and laughed at by collectors of discernment such as Rose.

  Whistler was called, and stood with easy grace. All eyes were naturally upon him, and one could hear the silk-upon-silk shifting of the ladies in the gallery as they followed his movements. He was a striking figure, and strikingly virile as well; Rose had wondered if his client’s very manliness hadn’t proved disquieting to Ruskin.

  Whistler advanced to the witness box as if it were an opera stall. His black boots were polished to a high lustre. The long cut of his charcoal-coloured coat flattered waist and shoulders, and his monocle was secured by a narrow ribbon of black satin lost in the silken folds of his chequered cravat. His silver-headed walking stick swung in his hand. Rose knew Whistler had just relinquished ownership of his new Chelsea house for non-payment of debts; the bailiffs had come and seized it but last week.

  After a preliminary examination by Parry establishing Whistler’s personal history, Parisian art training, and mention of many of the paintings he had sold, Whistler was passed to counsel for the defendant, Sir John Holker. Four of the painter’s works, all part of the Grosvenor Gallery show, were in an ante-chamber to the court room. Only one had been for sale at the gallery, and as Ruskin had specifically mentioned the asking price of 200 guineas, the painting which had so exercised the critic was brought in and placed before the court.

  Despite a life of privilege, Sir John had made his name convincing juries he was at heart and soul a common hearty Englishman, plain-spoken, without airs or fancies. He was in fact a collector himself, and Rose knew he had actually purchased a painting by a friend of Whistler’s at the Grosvenor Gallery exhibition. A bear of a man, Holker managed to look almost rumpled in his gown at this early hour; the starched linen jabot about his neck was already limp. The white rolls of his horse hair wig contrasted sharply with his dark mutton-chop side hair. From his near vantage Rose could see beads of moisture forming on Holker’s upper lip.

  Holker paused for a moment before the easel, approached it by a step, retreated, and then appeared to screw up his eyes at the painting. The assembled throng watched him as he did so, some eyes straining in the gloom. The court’s gas globes shed but feeble light upon the proceedings on this November day.

  “Mr Whistler, would you be so good to tell us what the subject is of this painting, this––‘Nocturne in Black and Gold’?”

  Whistler did not glance at the work, but answered amiably enough. “It is my representation of fireworks at the Cremorne Gardens in Chelsea.”

  “You don’t pretend it to be a view of Cremorne?”

  “I should think the public would be very much disappointed in that expectation upon viewing.” The audience laughed and Whistler smiled back at Holker. “It is my impression of the fall of fireworks––an artistic arrangement.”

  “Oh, I see. An ‘arrangement.’ And the musical reference?”

  “It is a night piece, and the musical term “nocturne” serves well to identify those pieces of mine representing night.” Whistler’s erect carriage and general elegance of person made a strong impression upon Rose as he watched his client in the box. The amiability of his tone might go far to convince the jury that here was an honest and reasonable man, despite the popular presses’ mocking portrayal of him as a self-promoting bon vivant.

  “Certainly so,” returned Holker. “Otherwise we viewers might have no clew at all as to what is being represented.” The audience laughed again. “Although this ‘arrangement’ is indeed dark enough to have been extracted from a dustbin.”

  Parry’s “Objection, your Lordship,” was met with agreement by Lord Huddleston and the request that Holker refrain from further prejudicial comments.

  “I begin again. This ‘Nocturne’ is indeed dark, and appears to my untrained eye to be mostly black with a smear of green and a rather violent sprinkle of yellowy-gold. Is that correct?”

  Whistler maintained the same amiable tone, but with a note of practical earnestness. “It is not. The painting contains every colour in my palette, with of course darker shades predominately, as it is a night scene.”

  “And for this you ask two hundred guineas?”

  Whistler nodded. “I did. I have sold other paintings for as much.”

  “But is not two hundred guineas a stiffish price for any painting?’

  “I should imagine some in this room might agree so.” Whistler smiled at the resultant laughter.

  Holker turned to regard the painting again. “How long do you take to paint such a painting as this one?”

  “Two days. The first of actual work, the second to finish.”

  Holker's dense eyebrows rose and met in the middle of his furrowed brow. “Two days? You ask such an immense sum for two day’s labour?”

  Whistler paused for just a moment. “Indeed I do not. I ask it for the knowledge of a lifetime.”

  Applause was spontaneous from the crowd, and a smiling Whistler inclined his head to acknowledge it.

  Huddleston brought the gavel down upon the block. “Any more outbursts of this nature shall compel me to clear the court room.”

  Holker had heard enough and passed Whistler back to his own counsel.

  “You consider yourself to be a conscientious artist, who conscientiously forms his art ideas, and conscientiously works them out?” Parry’s measured tone seemed ne
arly reverential after Holker.

  “Yes.”

  “And your manner of working is rapid?”

  “It could not be otherwise in my art. My system of harmony of colour and arrangement depends upon the freest and most rapid expression of my hand to capture the vitality of the subject.”

  “Thank you. I should now like to call William Michael Rossetti.”

  This was Whistler’s third witness, and to Rose the most important. Rossetti was no artist himself, but a critic of some estimation, and younger brother to the poet and painter Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Both had been amongst the little confraternity who had once styled themselves the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, championed thirty years ago by none other than Ruskin. That failed little band of dreamers, thought Rose.

  Back in the late 40’s the Rossettis and a few other acolytes––William Holman Hunt and John Everett Millais amongst them––had clubbed together in dedication to the ideals they saw expressed in early Christian art. Ruskin had stepped in at a critical early point and defended their work, and they had flung themselves around his neck as they earlier flung themselves at the feet of his writings.

  The Brotherhood was collapsing of its own weight but the smash up came when Millais and Ruskin’s wife fell in love. The trial for annulment due to Ruskin’s ‘incurable impotence’ was still recalled after more than twenty years. Millais had then wed Ruskin’s “wife” and produced eight children with her.

  William Michael Rossetti had worked all these years at Inland Revenue and had remained solvent by doing so (there are few jobs more prosaic than tax-collecting, and Rose had wondered how the man’s spirit had survived), yet he had never ceased his writing and reviewing of art.

  “You have written upon art matters for quite some time,” Parry began.

  “Yes, I have written about both art and literature since 1850.”

  “And you are personally acquainted with both Mr. Whistler and Mr. Ruskin?”

  “I am. I have known Mr. Whistler since 1862, and Mr. Ruskin a little longer.”

  “I should like to read to you an excerpt from a review you wrote for a journal called the Academy. ‘Another contribution by the same painter is called ‘Nocturne in Black and Gold: the Falling Rocket’…This is also extremely good…The scene is probably Cremorne Gardens, the heavy rich darkness of the clump of trees to the left, contrasted with the opaque obscurity of the sky, itself enhanced by the falling shower of fire-flakes, is felt and realised with great truth.’ Do you recognize these words?”

  “I do.”

  “And you still hold them to be true?”

  “I do.”

  “What opinion do you hold as to Mr. Whistler as an artist?”

  “Objection!” called Holker.

  Lord Huddleston looked over to Parry. “Sustained. Please to remember that Mr. Whistler’s abilities as an artist are not on trial.”

  “Let me ask rather: Are his works the works of a conscientious artist, one endeavouring to excel in his field?”

  “They are.”

  Parry turned to the defendant’s table. “Mr. Holker,” he invited.

  Holker rose and considered the ‘Nocturne’ once again. “Mr. Rossetti, we have established that this is a painting, that it is one you have commented publicly upon.” He turned slowly to Rossetti. “What I should like to inquire of you is this: Is this a work of art?”

  “Very much so, in my opinion.”

  “Because it startles?’

  “No. Because it represents a particular intention. I do not say reproduce. I say represents. It represents the effect of night, water, trees and the dying embers of fireworks.”

  “And is not two hundred guineas a stiffish price for such a ‘representation’?”

  “I don’t believe that my opinion on that should be relevant.”

  “I must insist that you offer it.” Holker appealed to Huddleston.

  The judge agreed. “As an art critic I should think that the cost of the wares you advise upon to be most relevant. Pray answer the question.”

  “I repeat, is not two hundred guineas a stiffish price for such a ‘representation’?”

  “No.”

  Rossetti’s tone was so decided as to form almost a rebuke. There was a murmur from the assembled which only died down when it was clear he would speak again. “I should say instead it is good value.” A gasp from the spectators was followed by the ripple of a titter.

  “Good value! And so you yourself would lay down 200 guineas for it?”

  “I have never enjoyed the means to indulge my love of paintings. Had I, there are very many paintings I should like to own, amongst them some of Mr. Whistler’s.”

  It was now almost one o’clock. Parry had earlier argued that it was highly desirable that the gentlemen of the jury be able to see the work in question along with the other paintings Whistler had shown at the Grosvenor. Huddleston agreed, and during the luncheon recess the jury was sent to the nearby Westminster Palace Hotel where Whistler and Rose had had the paintings sent in hopes of this eventuality. Whistler’s ‘Nocturnes’ were to Rose magnificent works of art, but he was well aware how challenging they were to those expecting a story, a moral, or the illustration of a famous scrap of poetry between frames. And of all the ‘Nocturnes’, Rose felt ‘Nocturne in Black and Gold’ to be the most challenging to the bourgeois onlooker. Viewing it in context with other, more conventional works, such as Whistler’s portraits of Thomas Carlyle or the celebrated actor Mr. Irving might help the jury see the work in question as an artistic point on a continuum rather than the outrageous insult Ruskin described.

  One escort from each side was permitted to join the jury on their viewing, and Rose sent his best young clerk, who reported back that the gentlemen had generally followed Lord Huddleston’s instructions to look without commenting. “A bit of whispering, a few snickers,” was what he said.

  After court resumed Moore and Wills, Whistler’s other witnesses, were examined, each attesting to their belief that Whistler was a fine, perhaps great, artist. “He has painted the air,” Albert Moore told the court, “and that is a thing few artists have ever attempted, and very few achieved.”

  Serjeant Parry pronounced the case complete for the plaintiff, and it was left to the judge Lord Huddleston to remind the jury that the question to be settled was whether Ruskin’s opinion of Whistler’s work came within the compass of privileged communication. Was the review simply calculated to hold Mr Whistler up to ridicule, or was the writer expressing his honest and fair criticism?

  It was the defendant’s case now. Holker rose again from his table and lumbered before the judge, turning slowly before him, taking in the sweep of jurymen, spectators, gallery ladies, and finally the plaintiff’s table. His eye rested a moment upon Parry without actually making eye-contact. He looked back to the jury and spread his large hands outward.

  “With all respect to my learned friend Mr. Serjeant Parry, we hold the premise of this case to be a very minor matter, utterly unworthy of the court’s attention. But I will recur to the point that the question to be put to the jury is whether or not the most respected art critic alive has the right to inform, instruct and if necessary warn the public from any works of art which that critic considers lacking a standard of finish and completeness that most reasonable men would deem obligatory in any painting pretending to be art, great or otherwise.

  “Mr. Ruskin’s language is strong, yes, for in matters of art-excellence he is an exacting master. He has in fact devoted his life to the discovery of the beautiful. He has written many highly regarded books and articles, and as we all know, has been these several years holder of the Slade Professorship of Art at the University of Oxford in just recognition of his erudition. He is an esteemed, nay revered formulator of taste, an honoured educator both within and without walls, and a pungent commentator on those aspects of art and art-commerce upon which he has turned his penetrating gaze.”

  Holker slo
wed and allowed his eye to rest on each of the twelve men in turn. “I ask you gentlemen, if Mr. Ruskin was not simply performing his duty as he saw it in speaking his honest opinion; and to consider that if these comments were in fact his honest opinion, whether withholding them would have made him neglectful of his duty to the public he has always attempted to serve and instruct.”

  A murmur of acknowledgment, if not of appreciation, rose from the crowd. But Holker was only beginning to warm.

  “With this in mind, I ask you gentlemen to join me in an imaginary outing to the Grosvenor Gallery; time––last year. We shall perhaps begin our visit in the Gallery’s dining room, where we partake of an artistic chop, served to us upon a plate of rare and ancient pattern. The wine glass we lift to our lips is of Venetian make.” Holker mimed the act, and the crowd laughed appreciatively.

  “We then proceed to the various gallery-rooms, hoping to see the new productions of Mr. Whistler, which we have heard made much of. We hear they are ‘arrangements’ and ‘nocturnes’, and therefore very likely are to be found some ‘symphonies’ and ‘fugues’. But we cannot grow closer to them to satisfy our curiosity, for our view is foreclosed by very many artistic ladies in mediaeval millinery in raptures over the works before them. Can you hear them? ‘How very pretty!’ exclaims one, and adds, ‘and it is a ‘Nocturne’!” ‘How very remarkable,’ says the next. ‘And do you know what a nocturne is?’ ‘I do not,’ sighs the first fair lovely, ‘but it is such a pretty idea! Perhaps one day we shall be invited to one of Mr. Whistler’s famous Sunday breakfasts, and ask him!’ They go on to dispute the identity of the noxious insect with which the artist signs his work––‘It is a glimmering moth,’ cries one; ‘No, a butterfly!’ answers another. And so forth and so forth, until the ladies have exhausted their adoring chatter and moved on. Finally we are able to approach. We understand that the picture is supposed to be of Cremorne Gardens––which we heartily hope the ladies themselves have never visited. We look upon the painting. We have heard from Mr. Rossetti that this blackened smear is art. We do not see it.