It is doubtful that Sickert had worked out all these objections to Legros’ method during the first weeks of his studentship. In the autumn of 1881 he is more likely to have registered only a vague feeling of dissatisfaction.
He made no friendships amongst his fellow pupils,144 and the focus of his artistic interest rested outside the school. Whistler remained ‘the god of his idolatry’, and much time was spent at the shrine.145 Whistler was not averse to worship, particularly from so adept a votary. Sickert’s flattery was informed, unflagging, and intelligent. On one visit he pleased Whistler by remarking that what the ignorant public could not abide in his portraits was the uneasy sense that ‘these devil-maycare people were laughing at them’.146 Even better than this, Walter’s admiration was exclusive. He declined, for instance, to share Maggie Cobden’s enthusiasm for a Samuel Palmer exhibition because, as she remarked, for him ‘there is one God, and his name is Jimmy’.147
Whistler knew how to reward such loyalty. It was probably his influence that lay behind the inclusion of one of Walter’s Scottish paintings in a group show at the Fine Art Society that winter. The view of Loch Eriboll was Sickert’s first exhibited picture,148 and it was perhaps in the hope of repaying this favour that, at the beginning of December, Walter took Maggie and Annie Cobden to visit Whistler in his new studio at 13 Tite Street, across the way from the White House – which, with ghastly irony, had been bought by Whistler’s arch enemy, The Times’s art critic, Henry (Harry or ‘Arry’) Quilter. They spent ‘a very good time’ looking at his pictures, and although Annie thought that Whistler’s hospitality had sprung from ‘the goodness of his heart’, Maggie suspected that an unspoken hope that they might commission portraits lay behind the visit.149
Ellen did not accompany them. She was not well again. There had been signs of a decline in her health during the last days of the Scottish holiday, and they had become more marked since the return south. She retired to Aldeburgh on the Suffolk coast to see what sea air and rest could do for her.150 Walter, however, was kept in London. Rather unexpectedly, his theatrical career had spluttered back to life. Dr Maclear invited him back to perform once again at the KCS Christmas prize day. It was a return to the scene of past triumphs. Doubtless under the influence of Godwin’s theories on period dress, he hired an ‘authentic’ costume from a top outfitters and, splendidly attired in red tights and a black velvet doublet with yellow lined sleeves, revived the scene of ‘Clarence’s Dream’ from Richard III. Maggie Cobden was not entirely convinced. She thought his performance ‘rather too laboured’ and only ‘moderately good’. Stripped of its Irvingesque mannerisms, Walter’s voice, she considered, lacked the power to carry in a big theatre.151 Despite these doubts about his powers of projection, Walter secured ‘a small engagement’ with the Kendals at the St James’s Theatre: Johnston Forbes-Robertson had given him an introduction to Mrs Kendal, and she had been ‘v. sweet to him’. He was to appear in some minor non-speaking capacity in their production of Pinero’s The Squire, as well as understudying two of the leading players. And there was a hope that he would ‘get on’ at this new theatre.152 The play was scheduled to open at the end of the year.
Ellen returned from Aldeburgh before Christmas. The back drawing room at York Place was set aside for her exclusive use. The prime topic of conversation amongst the sisters was where Walter and Nellie should live after they were married. If the question was slightly premature, it was still fun to consider. Campden Hill was the early favourite. It was agreed that each sister – as a wedding gift – would pay for the furnishing and decoration of a different room.153 Annie – who was to be responsible for the dining room – had particularly strong views about interior decor, favouring whitewash instead of wallpaper.154 Walter joined in these deliberations. He would spend his evenings with Ellen, though his days were much taken up with ‘benefitting his soul’ – and learning his part – by sitting in on rehearsals at the theatre.155
The first night of The Squire was on 29 December 1881. Walter, despite being only a ‘super’, threw himself into proceedings with typical energy. He had devised a very elaborate make-up for his fleeting appearance as ‘a toothless old man’ in one of the crowd scenes, and was so proud of it that he challenged his own mother to recognize him.156 It is not recorded whether, during the three-month run, Walter ever had to step up to play either of the parts he was understudying. He did, however, become friendly with one of the actors he was covering for. Brandon Thomas, or ‘Mr Brandon’ as he appeared on the playbill, was a jovial 32-year-old Liverpudlian.157 He was much interested in contemporary art, and was a keen admirer of Whistler’s work. Walter greatly impressed him with his knowledge of painting and, more specifically, with his claims to an actual connection with Whistler.158 It was a connection that was strengthened in the New Year. During the early months of 1882 Sickert’s attendance at the Slade slackened. The demands of the theatre doubtless took their toll, but they were coupled with his growing sense of dissatisfaction at the Legros regime. He confided his disillusionment to Whistler, who is said to have remarked, with characteristic pith, ‘You have wasted your money, Walter: there’s no use in wasting your time too!’159 He invited him, instead, to come and work at his studio, to exchange the conventional world of the art school for the richer Renaissance concept of discipleship to a Master.
It was often suggested, particularly by those who knew him in later life, that ‘to understand Sickert it has to be remembered that he was an actor in his youth’.160 His delight in costume and taking on roles, the range and control of his voice, his sense of the dramatic moment, were certainly very theatrical in their effect, but they were elements of his character that attracted him to the stage, rather than tics he learned while touring the provinces as a ‘Utility Gentleman’. Nevertheless, his connection with the profession, however brief and undistinguished, was important to him. It did colour both his life and his art, and as the years passed he proclaimed it ever more insistently. Theatrical allusions came to litter his conversation. He delighted in recalling thespian anecdotes: the time old Tom Mead, playing the ghost in Hamlet, appeared by mistake directly behind Irving and – in ‘quite a new effect’ – called out, ‘Here. Here’ to announce his presence.161 He used stage vocabulary for non-stage matters, referring to the ‘off-prompt side’ of his pictures. And he would recite huge swathes of Shakespeare impromptu. To the end of his days, his party piece remained a one-man rendition of a scene from Hamlet as played by a motley touring troupe (based surely on the Rignolds). He enjoyed the company of actors; he kept abreast of the London stage. In his art he used the theatre as a subject. But, more than this, his time on the stage gave him a sense of showmanship – of the actor-manager’s role – which he transferred to his artistic career. And though he never played to the audience in his painting, he remained conscious that there