All our apprehension about Victorian sentimentality was banished with our first glance at The Pool of Bethesda. We did not, at that moment, have sufficient knowledge to understand the historical references in the grouping and configuration of the painting; however, the discipline of its spare design, the precise rendering of the contorted human forms, the sensitive textural treatment of stone, water and wood conveyed through an almost monochrome palette of colours, produced an effect of disquieting, still foreboding. The originality and power of the image communicated themselves without the need for explanation. This was not a conventional illustration of the Bible story. It is not the day of the miracle. Christ is not there to comfort the agonised and exhausted sufferers. They are forced to fight each other for the one moment of hope that the angel brings. Yet despite all this powerfully conveyed struggle, the whole image exuded a sense of unearthly, despairing silence (fig. 18).
The idea that the person who had generated this vision in his imagination and conveyed it, so exquisitely, to the canvas was forgotten by all but a handful of art experts seemed incomprehensible. The possibility that this process of inspiration and creation might have taken place within the walls of the place we now prosaically called ‘home’ seemed even more implausible. None the less, as Brian and I stood there taking in that extraordinary image, we made a pact to dedicate all our energy to the task of searching out every findable fact about the life of Robert Bateman, so that he could be rescued from obscurity and given the recognition his gifts deserved.
That undertaking was kicked into life the very next day with the arrival of the first article from Apollo magazine, dated August 1966. It was entitled ‘A Forgotten Pre-Raphaelite: Robert Bateman’s Pool of Bethesda’ and was illustrated with a general view and two detailed enlargements of the picture, which was being published for the first time. The author, Basil Taylor, described the painting as a most knowledgeable and sensitive evocation of a historical style and went on to add:
Fig. 18. Robert Bateman, The Pool of Bethesda, 1877, oil on canvas, 50.8 × 73.6 cm, Yale Center for British Art, New Haven, Connecticut.
it also has intrinsic qualities of drawing, colour, design, and visual observation that make it abundantly worth preserving. If only a few of Bateman’s other pictures matched it he should be taken seriously into account, and another reason for bringing this work forward now is the hope of eliciting more information about a most obscure figure.
It was clear that Taylor knew almost nothing about Bateman’s actual life. The only piece of biography he recorded was Bateman’s entry into the Royal Academy schools in April 1865 at the age of 23 and his address at 21 Wigmore Street, London. He listed four other paintings that were exhibited at the Royal Academy – As it fell upon a day, 1878; The Raising of Samuel, 1879; Roses, 1889 and Love in the Cloister, 1889 – but made no comment on them, suggesting that he had not seen any of them even in reproduction. He noted that 1889 ‘seems to be the last year in which he showed work’.
He drew attention to the posture and faces of the suffering figures that ‘bring a withdrawn emotionalism’ to the picture ‘which contributes to its disturbing individuality’. Interestingly, he suggested this power and originality might derive from Bateman’s own experience: ‘If, as seems likely, Bateman died prematurely or abandoned painting early, the choice of this not so common subject and the spirit in which it is treated may have had personal origin.’ So in 1966 not even the date of his death was known. Taylor underlined the fact that the painting is atypical of its period and compared it with the work of Albert Moore and Whistler for its ‘subtle tonality and clear pattern’. He concluded by again underlining the obscurity of Bateman even in his own lifetime:
there is, however, strong indication that Bateman was missed by the critics. If the present picture was the one shown in 1876 at the RA, then it hung at Burlington House in what is still Gallery 1. But at that moment it was painters such as Leighton, Fildes, Waterhouse, Leader, Marcus Stone and John Gilbert who took the eye.
The article marked an important milestone for us. It was the first time we had ever seen any assessment of Robert Bateman as an artist, so it was exciting to see his ability and individuality endorsed in print. Secondly, it underlined what we already knew to our cost – that, despite his gifts, he had remained an almost completely obscure figure until 1966, and was overlooked even in his own lifetime. Most importantly, it had provided written confirmation of all that Yale had said, and launched us on a new phase of our research. Now we knew who we were searching for: a significant Pre-Raphaelite artist, with a recorded body of work at the Royal Academy and other galleries. Basil Taylor mentioned in passing that Bateman had fourteen pictures displayed at the Grosvenor Gallery and ten elsewhere. These were presumably all lost, since he gave no further detail of them. However, it provided a starting point for an intense programme of focused enquiry which was potentially far more fruitful than our previous blind meanderings.
The article also demonstrated the lack of any biographical information about Robert’s life at the time it was written. We knew precious little ourselves, but it appeared to be more than Basil Taylor had known. We knew, from the Biddulph papers and local historical sources, that he had set up a studio in our house and marked it with a date stone. We also knew the date of his death in 1922. From Peter Hayden’s book we knew that he got married, comparatively late in life, to Caroline Wilbraham, the widow of Charles Philip Wilbraham, a Church of England rector who came from Rode Hall, a Georgian country house about three miles from Biddulph. We had not, so far, taken much interest in either her or the marriage. We had been searching for an artist, and Caroline Wilbraham, a middle-aged clergyman’s widow from a family of worthy Victorian churchmen, sounded decidedly conventional and dull. But now we felt we needed to know more about her, since she was one of the only solid pieces of information we had about Robert’s life. A photograph or portrait of her would be a good place to start, so we rang up Rode Hall, in the hope that they might have a picture of her.
I explained to Sir Richard Baker-Wilbraham that we were researching the people who had lived at Biddulph Old Hall, one of whom was Robert Bateman. He had married the widow of a member of Sir Richard’s family, Rev. Charles Philip Wilbraham, and her name was Caroline Octavia.
‘We just wondered if you had a portrait of her in the house?’
‘No, unfortunately not, sorry about that.’
I was ending the call and apologising for bothering him when he said, ‘Of course, I know there is one. It’s a huge thing, 7 or 8 feet high at least – you’ll need a hell of a wall! There’s a chap in London who’s been trying to sell it to me for years because of the family connection. I don’t want it – got enough portraits, particularly Victorian ones.’
For a moment I was speechless.
‘I’m sorry, Sir Richard, are you saying that there is a full-length portrait of Caroline Octavia and the owner wants to sell it?’
‘Yes, I’ve got the dealer’s number here somewhere . . .’
Devastatingly, when we contacted the dealer, Julian Hartnoll, he told us he had sold the portrait two years earlier. Nevertheless, I wanted to hear more about the picture and Caroline. He emphasised the scale of the painting, describing it as a ‘real whopper’, perhaps 8 or 9 feet high. When I asked if she was beautiful he paused, then seemed to choose his words carefully.
‘Not exactly, not conventionally. Certainly not what you would call pretty but a formidably attractive presence – strong, with a hint of sadness, composed, almost regal in bearing.’
I asked if he thought there was any possibility that the owner might sell it. He seemed very dubious but promised to contact him and ask. As I was about to say goodbye something made me ask who the portrait was by.
‘Bateman, of course. It’s by Bateman, I thought you knew that.’
The revelation that the life-size portrait of Caroline was by Bateman and that this man had owned it for fifteen long years, trying to find someone to buy it and had finally succeeded, almost broke our hearts. However, when Julian Hartnoll rang back to say that the owner was happy for us to visit him to see the picture provided we did not attempt to buy it, we shamefacedly agreed. At least we could meet Robert’s wife face to face.
‘He’s a very interesting man, an acknowledged expert on this group of artists. His name is Richard Dorment and he is an art critic for the Daily Telegraph. You’ll probably find him very helpful. He might be interested in what you have to say about your house.’
When we rang Richard Dorment, he was charming and listened with interest to our account of what we were doing at Biddulph, and our discovery of its links with Robert Bateman. He said he knew nothing of the house, or Bateman’s connection to it. He asked us to bring a copy of the tenancy agreement between Robert and John and any photographs we had of the Hall, particularly the date stone with Robert’s initials on it. We arranged to visit him the following month after he returned from America. In the meantime he suggested we go and see another of Robert’s paintings, Plucking Mandrakes, which was in the Wellcome Foundation in London.
