Henry stopped a young man shouldering a canvas depicting the Rape of the Sabine Women and asked where they could find the director, and the young man pointed to a room at the end of the hall. “He’s in the classroom,” said the student, who was very pale and looked like he would do well to spend some time painting en plein air.
“He’s teaching a class?” asked William.
“I don’t know about that,” said the young man laconically, “but that’s where he is.”
The two men walked to the end of the hall and opened the door of the classroom. There were perhaps ten students seated at easels set up around the figure of a young African male who was standing in a javelin-throwing position and did not have on a stitch of clothing.
“Oh my,” said Henry. “Perhaps we should come back later.”
Legros motioned impatiently for them to enter. A tall, bearded man with a sour expression, he was standing behind one of the students’ easels. He indicated with a gesture that they sit in the chairs in the corner, while he peered through a monocle at the canvas before him. The student had applied large blocks of color from which he apparently intended to delineate the figure.
“What is this?” Legros barked loudly, glaring down at the work before him. “Where is the sketch preliminaire, Monsieur?”
The student explained that he had decided to begin by laying the paint down directly on the canvas.
“And you did this for what reason?” demanded Legros in an outraged tone.
“A preliminary drawing can be inhibiting,” explained the student.
“Inheebiting?” Legros repeated this word with scorn, making sure to mispronounce it. “You think that to make the painting correctement is inheebiting? Perhaps you think that the paint and the canvas are inheebiting also? Perhaps you should make your pictures on the buildings using the soot?” He cast a glance around the room, as though expecting the other students to laugh, but they only looked down at their brushes in embarrassment.
“I don’t think that’s a comparable idea,” protested the student.
“Not comparable! But it is comparable, Monsieur! You want to miss the fundamentales and make yourself the maître? You want to do as you please?”
“But many established artists use this method now,” protested the student feebly.
Legros rolled his eyes with scorn. “Established they may be, but they are wrong! If you desire to learn to paint under my auspice, then you will do as I say! Start again, Monsieur!” At this, he took the canvas off the easel, flung it to the ground, then turned and calmly crossed the room to greet his visitors.
“Pleased to see you, Messieurs James,” said Legros, making a short bow before seating himself with a flourish. “How can I be of assistance?” He did not appear in the least perturbed that they had been privy to his tirade.
William found himself unable to respond. The scene had upset him, recalling instances in his early career as an aspiring painter that he did not like to remember.
“We are here to gather some information about a former student.” Henry took the lead, seeing his brother’s unwillingness to respond. He too, however, was distracted, finding it difficult to keep his eyes off the model in the center of the room, who, given where they were seated, presented himself squarely in their line of vision.
“I am afraid that I must respect my students’ right to privacy,” said Legros with pompous formality.
William could not help wondering how such respect conformed with having just berated a student in front of the entire class. His also noted that Legros’s French accent had become distinctly less pronounced now that he was no longer acting in his pedagogical capacity. “We are here on special assignment from Scotland Yard,” William declared coldly. He produced a letter from Abberline giving them official authority to ask questions.
It was only a few sentences, but it took Legros several minutes to peruse. Finally he handed the letter back. “I am at your disposition,” he said, bowing his head.
“Might we retire to your office?” requested Henry, whose discomfort was increasing, as the model appeared to be eyeing him directly.
Legros gave a nod and led them through a side door to a wood-paneled office. Over the desk was a large painting by Poussin, the neoclassical master who epitomized the school ideal of appropriate subject matter, craft, and decorum.
“It’s about a student who was enrolled here two or three years ago,” explained William without further preliminary. “His name was Walter Sickert. I wonder if you could tell us your impressions, if you remember him.”
“Sickert,” said Legros sneeringly. “Of course I remember. An insufferable young man. No respect for tradition or convention. No patience or discipline. An egoist of the first order.”
“You threw him out?” asked William.
“I would have done,” said Legros, obviously irritated that he had not had the chance. “He saved me the trouble by leaving. Whistler took him up.”
“Whistler saw something in him?”
“Whistler sees things in unlikely places,” said Legros dismissively. “But then he is eccentrique and blind to degeneracy.
“Degeneracy?”
“Any falling away from the truth is degenerate. It is not the first time Whistler takes our leavings. I warned him, but he says, never mind, he can manage this Sickert.”
“Manage him?”
“Keep him from making trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Sickert is ambitious.”
“And that is bad?”
“It is bad for the tradition and the profession. Such types destroy anything they think is established and correct. Their aim is to kill the art of the past. They are dangerous because they inspire others to do the same.”
William saw what he was dealing with here. Legros perceived any deviation from tradition to be a form of degeneracy. His ideas about art were so rigid and prescribed that he was close to mad himself.
It was disheartening to realize that the head of a prestigious school was a lunatic, and yet William was not altogether surprised. It took an exacting sort of personality to head up an institution, and if the institution was devoted to the dissemination of rules and precepts, then the person leading it was likely to veer toward the extreme in his support of them. If Legros were mad, his madness was organically connected with his role as the director of the Slade School of Fine Art.
Perhaps, thought William, allowing his perspective to widen in characteristic fashion, all deliberate choice of vocation was a lure to madness, at least to the extent that such devotion to craft was also a kind of crippling. It placed the self into a mold that was not natural to it. The results could be glorious or disastrous, based on factors too numerous and complicated to fathom. There was no telling, really, what the consequences might be.
Chapter 29
When the brothers left the Slade, Henry announced that they should take a hansom cab to Chelsea and make two visits that would be helpful in their investigation. Oscar Wilde and John Sargent, both acquainted with Walter Sickert, lived on Tite Street, practically across from each other, which meant they could interrogate both in the space of a few hours. Henry was pleased to be able to propose it. As boys, it was always William who took the lead, and he was obliged to follow along or remain behind. But here, he knew the terrain and could have the ideas.