Page:The Strand Magazine (Volume 11).djvu/4



R. BRITON RIVIERE justly occupies the position of being our premier animal painter of to-day. He has not only singled out the noblest of animals upon which to exercise his skill, but has also turned his genius in the direction of the more insignificant though by no means less familiar.

When I made my first call at "Flaxley," Finchley Road, where Mr. Riviere resides, I was received in a very appropriate manner. I rang the bell and, like the proverbial flash of lightning, a fine fox-terrier, "Speed" by name, flew down the stairs leading into the hall and endeavoured to get at me through the glass windows. I rang the bell again, and inwardly thought that I preferred the Royal Academician's dogs on the canvas rather than on my track. The appearance of the artist himself, however, and the kindly way in which he greeted me seemed to reassure my young barking friend. Briton Riviere is of medium height—his hair is grey. He is a rapid, though very deliberate, and convincing, speaker. If you ask him a question, he just fixes his eyes on you, and tells you exactly what you want to know, without any embellishment or unnecessary words, which somebody has designated "flowery." During the time that I spent with him, I came to the conclusior that he was an exceedingly modest man—he would prefer to speak generously about other men and their work rather than "look back" upon his own. He tries to expel from your mind the conviction which one cannot possibly fail to possess, that his work is the work of a genius.

It is only reasonable to suppose that painters, like other folk, work for a living; but as one sits chatting with Briton Riviere, it soon becomes apparent that there is a huge undercurrent of irrepressible and lasting love for his art and those who have helped him—the dumb creatures. To hear him speak of the dogs, sheep, and horses which have posed as models to him, is to discover what an affectionate corner our four-footed friends have in a heart that sees something to admire in them.

"Rather a lively dog, Mr. Riviere," I said, referring to "Speed," whose paws only a moment ago were beating against the window-pane.

"Ah," he said, "he won't hurt you. He never bites anyone except myself and the members of my own family! He bit me a few months ago and one of my sons a few days after, but I have never known him bite a stranger. These are only the eccentricities of genius. He is a dog who thinks, and we are all very fond of him and accept him gladly with these few little failings."

This pleasant assurance regarding "Speed's" partiality for strangers helped to make the task which lay before me a very happy one. At the far end of the hall is the billiard-room. The walls of the apartment given up to the board of green cloth are covered with engravings of the artist's works. Briton Riviere's works have been engraved by such men as Stacpoole, Atkinson, Chant, Lewis, Murray, and Pratt, whilst "Imprisoned" was converted into black and white by Samuel Cousins. Mr. Riviere paid a magnificent compliment to his engravers, as we paused for a moment in this room.

"Do you know," he said, "I much