Street art provided something of a living for chalk artists, who perfected a method of portraiture not unlike caricature that amused and entertained many. Some of these street artists went on to employment in the studios of artists who copied old masters, for which there was a popular market. Or they painted inexpensive landscapes and portraits for the burgeoning merchant class.
Susan Blake, London Artistry, 1700–1750
As Elizabeth began to climb steep Holbourn Hill, the wind blew away the clouds and a pale wintry sun brightened the grimy old buildings—most of them very old, because they had escaped the Great Fire of 1666, which destroyed almost everything from the Tower on the east to Whitehall on the west and from the Thames to the city wall.
Started by a careless baker on Pudding Lane (or so it was said), the fire had disastrously incinerated over thirteen thousand homes, eighty-seven churches, and St. Paul’s Cathedral. The medieval city of narrow cobbled alleys winding among rat-infested wood-and-thatch tenements was destroyed. In the rebuilding, wooden structures and overhanging gables were forbidden and the use of brick or stone was mandatory. London was cleaner now, and with definite improvements in fire safety. Many streets had been widened and paved and open sewers abolished, creating more room for horses and wagons and people on foot.
But the fire had run into stiff winds and was halted before it could reach Holbourn. Here, the timbered buildings along the street were more medieval than modern, leaning forward over the cobbles so that their upper stories nearly touched. The smell of mold and damp timber, rotting rubbish, animal dung, and human sewage hung in the air, and women were well-advised to mind the hems of their skirts. Chick Lane, the next street to the north, was populated (as Elizabeth had recently read in the Penny London Post) by miscreants, street robbers, thieves, pickpockets, housebreakers, shoplifters, prostitutes, streetwalkers, and other monsters of wickedness, drinking and carousing in a most intemperate manner. It was altogether a dismal neighborhood.
The gloom of the scene so accentuated Elizabeth’s despair about Alexander’s plight that it took a drayman’s sharp cry to rouse her. She had to step swiftly aside and out of the way of a draft horse laboring to pull a brewer’s wagon up the steep hill to the summit. There, back in the day of King Henry VIII, was located the city’s toll gate, Holbourn Bar. The Bar marked the northwestern boundary of the city, where a toll of a penny or tuppence was demanded of non-freemen driving carts or coaches into the city.
But the toll gate was gone. Now, across the way from the medieval stone towers of St. Andrew’s, Elizabeth saw a cluster of people, jostling one another to get a better view of something on the pavement. Curious, she worked her way to the front of the crowd.
In front of her, on the pavement stones, was a gallery of drawings executed in colored chalks, while on hands and knees to one side of his work was the artist himself, a shabby young man with his brown hair tied neatly at the collar of his green jacket. As Elizabeth watched, he blew chalk-dust from the stern likeness of a man, softened the blush on a woman’s pretty cheek with a scrap of leather, and with a stub of charcoal added an exuberant curlicue to the caption below his work: “Portrait Commissions humbly sought. Inquire of the Artist.”
Beside the gallery was placed, hopefully, an upside-down hat. In it were several halfpence. As she watched, a man in a gray coat with a black velvet collar, a gold-headed walking stick tucked into the crook of his elbow, pitched a coin into the hat, then proffered a card to the artist. “Stop in at my office and ask for me,” he said. “I should like a portrait.”
The moment before, Elizabeth’s attention had been fixed on her desperate need of money. Now, startled, she eyed the man with the walking stick and the young artist at work on his pavement.
Portrait commissions, she thought, I could paint portraits, couldn’t I? I could sell portraits. She measured the boy’s work with a critical eye, noting that some of the lines were not firm and that the likenesses rather tended to caricature. I could make portraits at least as well as this fellow, she thought. No, I could do better. I know I could.
And as she left the artist and his admiring audience and made her way to the top of Holbourn Hill, she considered this possibility with a growing excitement.
Her father had insisted that each of his daughters ought to have a firm grounding in the fine arts, so Elizabeth and her sisters had dutifully attended music classes, embroidery classes, and even dancing classes. But duty had nothing to do with her enjoyment of the art classes taught by a series of Scottish artists. She had studied drawing, landscape painting, portraiture, and (because one of the artists was also a printmaker) etching and engraving. She had proved to be an eager pupil with a considerable degree of skill. She had spent many happy hours sketching the plants in her mother’s garden, then turning the sketches into engravings and then into prints.
Portraits, she thought now. She bent into the wind, making her way past Staples Inn, where a coach-and-four was waiting for passengers. Yes, I could paint portraits. Portraits were not her favorite form of art but she was certainly as competent as that fellow on his hands and knees. Of course, there was the difficulty of purchasing supplies—canvas, brushes, oils, watercolors were all expensive. And the challenge of getting commissions, unless she wanted to be a street artist, for which only chalk and an empty hat were needed but which seemed to her to present unacceptable dangers for a woman. And could she earn enough? After all, there were only a few ha’pennies in that hopeful hat.
But Elizabeth was the sort of person who felt better about her difficulties when she was actually doing something about them, even if the doing only amounted to planning. By the time she reached the Stuart home in affluent Castle Lane near Bloomsbury Square, she had arrived at a tentative scheme. She would look through the few belongings she had brought with her, find what she needed, and put it—and her scheme—to Dr. Stuart when he arrived home from St. George’s Hospital, where he saw patients on Tuesday afternoons.
And she would also spend some time with the children. Blanche and William would not miss their father; he had been absent at work every day and out most evenings. They scarcely knew him. But the upheaval that followed the loss of their familiar home and the family’s possessions had been even more difficult for them than it had been for her.
It was impossible for Elizabeth to assure herself that all would be well, but it was necessary to assure them, poor things.
• • •
Dr. Alexander Stuart took off his wig and rubbed his close-shaven head, puffing out his cheeks as he sat down in the leather chair beside the fireplace. It had been a trying day at St. George’s Hospital, and the good doctor was tired. He took out a pouch of Virginia tobacco, lit his pipe with a coal from the tidy fire in the library grate, and settled back with a cup of hot China tea. The room was lit by the last pale gleam of the afternoon sun, which picked out the gilt on the bindings of the many leather-bound books on the bookcase shelves.
Dr. Stuart prided himself, as well he might, on his many medical successes. A Scot who had made a successful transition from the north to the south, he had earned a medical degree under the famous Herman Boerhaave at the University of Leiden. There, in the university’s splendid botanical garden, he had studied the new pharmaceutical plants that were coming in from Asia and the New World.
Degree in hand, he returned to London, where with a calculating Scots shrewdness he chose the right friends and cultivated the right (that is to say, influential) patrons. On the basis of these choices, he built the right practice. He had cleverly specialized in female diseases and obstetrical care—important, for this was a time when wealthy women were beginning to turn to physicians for the births of their children, rather than (or together with) midwives. Within a very short time, he’d had the honor of being admitted to the Royal College of Physicians, as well as being invited to serve the royal household as one of Queen Caroline’s physicians-in-ordinary.
But for all these vital assets, Dr. Stuart was possessed of one enormous liability: the man was up to his ragged brown eyebrows in debt. Like many of his friends, including that master of celestial mechanics, Sir Isaac Newton, Stuart had gotten swept up in the South Sea frenzy of fifteen years before. He had lost his frugal Scots head—had lost it completely and inexplicably, in some form (he thought) of socially induced insanity. He had borrowed heavily and repeatedly to invest in the stock as it rose from one hundred pounds a share to one thousand. At which point Sir Isaac was reported to have said, “I can calculate the movement of the stars, but not the madness of men.”
When the bubble burst (as of course it did), Dr. Stuart lost all he had saved and borrowed. Given his flourishing practice and his standing in the medical community, his creditors elected to be patient, understanding that if they sent him to prison, they would never see a farthing of what he owed them. Over time and by careful management, he had managed to repay a portion of the debt, and he regularly paid the interest on the rest. But if it weren’t for the fortune his wife Susannah had brought to their marriage, he would still be living in the cramped rooms he had rented from the apothecary Mitchell on Pall Mall, instead of this fine house in Bloomsbury. Susannah (the widow of a wealthy clothier) had graciously accepted him and had even paid the bulk of his debts, for which he was eternally grateful. It probably also explained his desire to offer whatever aid he could to those in distress.
So it was that he had been thinking what might be done for the Blackwells. There was no helping the man. Alexander would be in Newgate (and deservedly so, in Dr. Stuart’s opinion) until his creditors were paid, which would likely be a matter of years, not months. The doctor himself knew of at least one debtor who was still imprisoned after twenty years.
But young Mrs. Blackwell, who was left with two little ones and no means of support, did not deserve her fate. That was the awful tragedy of debt, which blighted not just the debtor but his entire family. A man’s bad business decisions and extravagant spending habits could doom a woman and her children. Why, only recently, a destitute young wife and mother had leapt into the Thames with both her babes in her arms, preferring the mercies of the river to a life in the Fleet or on the streets.
And Dr. Stuart felt something of an obligation to Mrs. Blackwell. An Aberdonian Scot himself, he was a longtime friend of her father and had felt not a little consternation when he learned that she had eloped with young Blackwell, who had not yet completed his education and was in no financial position to support a family. Furthermore, while the young man’s father (an academic of some local fame) liked to boast that his son was a prodigy, it was evident that Alexander suffered from a severe lack of diligence and discipline. He had not even finished his undergraduate studies when he took himself off to Leiden.
That was damaging enough, but worse was the lack of a professional credential. When the newly-married Blackwells arrived in London, Alexander was claiming to have earned a medical degree at Leiden. This seemed improbable in the extreme. When Dr. Stuart (remembering his own time with Boerhaave) had questioned him closely, it was evident that his degree was a fabrication and insufficient basis for the practice of medicine in London.
Still, because Alexander was genuinely bright and skilled in languages, Dr. Stuart had been able to help him find work as a proof corrector for William Wilkins. He excelled in that position and was encouraged to learn as much as he could about the technical business of printing, bookmaking, and bookselling. It was evident that he had a natural aptitude and a great enthusiasm for the trade. Dr. Stuart began to think that perhaps Blackwell had found a natural calling and urged him to stay on in the business.
But the foolish young man had made another rash decision. He would set himself up as a printer. And instead of entering a partnership with a journeyman printer, he decided to simply defy the printers’ guild’s requirement for a seven years’ apprenticeship. To establish the business, he spent his wife’s substantial dowry and when that was not enough, borrowed the rest, leasing a fine building over Somerset water gate in the Strand and purchasing three expensive presses and other printing equipment. It had to be the very best of everything, for Alexander Blackwell liked to present himself as an outstanding success.
Whatever else he was, Blackwell was adept as a printer. He had produced four commendable books when the predictable happened. He was haled into court and convicted of exercising the art and trade of printing without having served the requisite term of apprenticeship. He was fined and the business closed. Within two months, a commission of bankrupt was issued against him, and his printing equipment and household furnishings were sold. To complete his ruin, his creditors had him arrested and sent to prison. Those who knew Blackwell felt that this was a case where imprisonment was justified. Some might have said it was quite clearly deserved.
Mrs. Blackwell, on the other hand, was a brave young woman who had borne her husband’s difficulties with equanimity and without complaint. Now, given his acquaintance with her family, Dr. Stuart felt—in a rather paternal way—that he ought to do something to help her. It was true that he and Susannah were providing her and the children a place to live, and many would say that this was enough. But was there something more he could do, some other way he could help?
Yes, there was, and in fact, an idea had occurred to the doctor that very afternoon. As he pulled on his pipe and thought how he might offer the suggestion to her, there was a knock on his study door and she came in, carrying a brown leather portfolio.
By the standards of the day, the doctor judged that Elizabeth Blackwell was not a pretty woman. But she had arresting dark eyes in an angular face, a fine head of thick russet hair, and a look of active intelligence that brought its own singular beauty to her face. Her dress was modest: a garnet-colored woolen bodice and skirt, simply styled and topped with a white lace kerchief pinned at the neck. She spoke with traces of a Scottish brogue, and her voice was low and firm. She was both direct and thoughtful, with none of the silly flirtatiousness of well-bred London ladies. The good doctor had found himself liking her, and now that he had thought of how he might help, he was eager to share his plan with her. But he did not begin there.
“Mrs. Stuart tells me that you have been to Newgate,” he said, pulling on his pipe.
“Aye, that I have.” Elizabeth’s tone was grave. “I have just returned.”
“And how is your husband?”
She managed a tight smile. “He was looking forward to a nap, and some time to read Dr. Swift’s ‘Proposal.’ As long as he has a book, a candle, and his supper, Alexander will want for little else.”
“Ah,” said Dr. Stuart, thinking that this would be an accurate, if unemotional assessment of the man—not exactly what one might expect from a wife. He cocked his head. “And you, my dear?”
Her face darkened. “Well, I have decided one thing, at least. My visit to the prison today persuades me that I cannot take the children there. They cannot endure the cold and damp. And while you and Mrs. Stuart have been wonderfully accommodating, I don’t feel that I can impose on you. I shall have to find some paying work for myself that supports us and pays something toward Alexander’s debt. That is why I—” She held out the portfolio. “Please be so good as to look at these, sir.”
Curious, Stuart laid his pipe aside and opened the portfolio. It contained a large number of pencil sketches, charcoal drawings, and water colors—portraits of people, of flowering plants, a drawing room scene, a street, boats moored along a wharf.
“Quite, quite nice,” he said, in some surprise. “These are yours?”
“Yes. I studied drawing as a girl, and have continued over the years to pursue it.” She gave him an intent look. “At the risk of presuming, I wonder if you think I might be able to earn money as a portraitist. If you do, might you be willing to introduce me as an artist to your friends?”
Stuart was somewhat surprised at the directness of her request, although he understood the necessity that compelled it. He laid the portfolio on the table beside his chair.
“I think it’s entirely possible, Elizabeth, but I have another idea to advance to you. Would you agree to hear it?”
“Of course, sir.” She folded her hands. “I will consider any kind of proposal. I don’t think I need to tell you how desperate I am.”
He picked up his pipe and puffed on it until it glowed. “As you know, I am in charge of obstetrical services at St. George’s. My work involves both attention to women in labor and to the training of midwives. It seems to me that you possess all the qualities of a good midwife: literacy, intelligence, strength, and energy.” He regarded her through the cloud of fragrant smoke. “You have given birth to children, and understand women’s pain and suffering. I am sure that you also understand that midwifery is a challenging profession. But it is a noble calling, an important service to women, and highly valued. I believe it would suit you.”
Head cocked to one side, Elizabeth was listening attentively. “Thank you for your confidence. That’s an excellent idea, and I shall be glad to consider it.” She took a breath. “I hope you will forgive me for being direct, but I must know. What is the compensation? What will I be able to earn?”
Dr. Stuart resisted the urge to smile at her bluntness when it came to money. A true Scotswoman, indeed—her native habit perhaps strengthened by the painful dealings with her husband’s creditors.
“During the six-month training period, I am afraid there is none. When that is complete, how much you earn will depend on the number of births at which you assist, your experience, and—to put it frankly—the kind of clientele you develop.” He paused to be sure she was paying attention. “Mrs. Kennon, for instance, ministers to the royal family. She has a reputation that allows her to charge up to fifty guineas for a delivery. If you are introduced into the right circles, I think you should do as well as she. Not right away, of course, but in time.” He intended to introduce her, and if she proved herself during her training period, he had the connections to ensure her success.
Elizabeth’s eyebrows had risen at the mention of fifty guineas. “Indeed it does interest me, sir, and if I were responsible for myself alone, I should undertake it at once. But given my husband’s situation, I fear that my need for funds is rather more urgent.” She gestured toward the portfolio. “Please tell me truly. Do you think I can earn at least some money as an artist?”
Surprised at his disappointment, he picked up the portfolio.
“I should think so,” he said slowly, looking again at her work. He turned over several pieces, admiring the colors in this one, the composition in that. Elizabeth Blackwell did indeed have some talent, although perhaps more in botanical illustration than in portraiture. Her renderings of roses, for instance, were outstanding. Vivid, detailed, delicately colored, and remarkably true to the life.
And as he considered her situation and mentally reviewed those of his friends who patronized the arts, an idea came to him.
A very bright idea, if he did say so himself.