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I brought the old man home because I felt sorry for him. He had such a pained expression in his eyes that I wanted to talk to him and perhaps coax him to smile. He seemed world weary and his shoulders drooped a bit under the heavy black coat.
His right hand rested on a walking stick and there was a large black hat balanced precariously on his left knee. His iron-grey beard hid quite a bit of his face but, looking at him for a while, you might say that he was, hmm, a handsome old dude. He intrigued me. I had to buy him.
And, well, the old lithograph was a junk-shop bargain. It cost me all of €3. A touch of class, I thought, as I glued the cracked frame together, rubbed in a couple of coats of beeswax and then cleaned the glass until it was crystal clear.
Now my grumpy old man is the first thing you see when you come through our front door. Not exactly a welcoming face but as a picture it has a certain charm that holds most visitors for a second or two. The word they most frequently utter is “dour”.
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So can you imagine my surprise one winter morning in Glasgow when I walked into the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum and there he was – my grumpy old man – life-sized. Huge. I stood there in front of the picture speechless with amazement and admiration. I moved closer and read the caption: Thomas Carlyle, 1795 -1881, by James Abbott McNeill Whistler.
His irritable and sarcastic temperament made him totally unsuitable for the job – a very grumpy man, indeed
This large painting is exactly the same as my lithograph – black and white – except for the startling pink flesh tones of his face and hands.
Thomas Carlyle. Who was he? And what on earth made him look so disagreeable? Mr Carlyle (you would have to address him such because of his glowering expression) was born in into a large farming family in a place called Ecclefechan near Dumfries, Scotland. He had a strict Calvinist upbringing that continued to influence him throughout his life. After attending the University in Edinburgh he opted for a career in teaching.
However, his irritable and sarcastic temperament made him totally unsuitable for the job – a very grumpy man, indeed. So he lost his job and in order to provide for himself he began writing producing articles on science and literature for magazines and encyclopaedia.
In 1826 he married Jane Baillie Walsh, a physician’s daughter, who is described as “an intelligent and unusual individual”. Theirs was a quarrelsome, unsatisfactory relationship but it seems that they were genuinely fond of each other. They had no children, and Jane constantly complained about her husband’s fits of depression, his need for solitude and their lack of money.
They were great conversationalists although Mr Carlyle was prone to chronic indigestion, and his dogmatic nature tended to make him a difficult dinner host and guest
Salvation came when Thomas Carlyle underwent a spiritual crisis, and with Jane's assistance poured his thoughts and experiences into a large tome entitled Sartor Resartus, which is said to be one of the greatest autobiographies in literary history.
With its publication in 1833 came fame and fortune, and 1834 found them settled in Chelsea in London, where they became the centre of a group of writers and intellectuals.
They were great conversationalists although Mr Carlyle was prone to chronic indigestion and his dogmatic nature tended to make him a difficult dinner host and guest.
However, he dropped some very quotable quotes along the way, such as: “Talk that does not end in any kind of action is better suppressed altogether.” One quote I particularly like is “Life is a succession of lessons which must be lived to be understood.”
He produced a number of massive historical studies, including on Frederick the Great and Cromwell. His Latter-Day Pamphlets were published in 1850, a series of tirades against modern quackery, corruption and greed. A comment of his is well worth noting today, "Make yourself an honest man, and then you may be sure that there is one less scoundrel in the world."
Life was going reasonably well for the couple until Jane died in 1866 and Thomas Carlyle retreated into bitterness. It was then that Whistler, yes, the great James McNeill Whistler, painted his portrait which now hangs in the Kelvingrove Gallery in Glasgow. He looks so alive I can almost hear him saying: “I’ve got a great ambition to die of exhaustion rather than boredom.”
I look at my lithograph of Whistler’s painting of Thomas Carlyle in our hallway, and I salute his grumpy old face, realising that despite his cantankerous disposition his was, and still is, recognised as one of the greatest minds of the 19th century.