MEN I HAVE PAINTED
silence, his absorption would make him totally unaware of their presence.
To the immortal "Signor" (George Frederick Watts) he sat, in Little Holland House, no less than forty times, for a portrait that the artist eventually destroyed. This tragic experience had led to the determination, on Mr. Gladstone's part, never to sit to an artist again. From this time forward the only chance given was for the unfortunate man to steal silently into the room and work, as best he could, from what he saw—Mr. Gladstone at his writing-table bending over his papers, or seated in his armchair absorbed in his book. The last adventure we had had with a painter, who seemed glad to come under these conditions, resulted in a fancy portrait. Instead of painting what he saw, he placed Mr. G. in heroic attitude, standing on the terrace of the House of Commons, gazing over the river! With this absurd picture in my mind, we followed Mr. Hamilton into the Temple of Peace—literally with our hearts in our boots. The very first glance at the famous portrait (now in the Luxembourg) was arresting and delightful. For there was the man exactly as we knew him—exactly as day after day we saw him. He sat in the corner of the window, his customary place, the light that fell on his book reflected back on his face. Here was no fancy picture, but one of familiar everyday use—precious for all time, for us and for those that come after us, the man as he actually was—intent—unconscious.
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