Date: 15-09-2002
Owning Institution: Dulwich Picture Gallery
Publication:     Sunday Telegraph “In The Picture”  
Subject:   19th Century    

David Wilkie left his native Scotland for London in 1805, when he was nineteen years old, and went on to become one of the most successful and sought-after British painters of the nineteenth century – so much so that at the Royal Academy’s annual exhibitions at Somerset House his pictures had to be roped off, such was the crush of spectators which they regularly attracted. Wilkie has not exactly sunk into obscurity, but he is far less famous than he once was. On the eve of the first extensive survey of his work for more than 40 years, at the Dulwich Picture Gallery, this week’s painting is his Letter of Introduction.

Wilkie made his name as a painter of populous genre pictures in which groups of down-at-heel but cheerful Scottish country folk are shown playing cards, getting married, listening to music or engaging in heated political debate. The picture shown here inaugurated a group of quieter works inspired by the world of the middling to upper orders of English society. “Their stories are not bustling; their figures are but few; for these reasons they may not be so popular with the million,” pronounced the critic of The Champion. He was wrong. When The Letter of Introduction was unveiled to the general public in 1814, it turned out to be Wilkie’s most popular production yet.

The painting tells the story of an awkward first encounter. A young man has come to call on a considerably older gentleman, who receives him in the sanctuary of his study. To justify his intrusion, the young man has brought with him the “letter of introduction” of the painting’s title: a reference written by a mutual acquaintance indicating, no doubt, that the young fellow is of good character, and probably hinting too at the nature of the assistance which he requires. The older man holds the letter in his lap, fumbles with its seal and wonders apprehensively just what favour he will be asked to perform.

Wilkie was regarded by many of his contemporaries as “a second Hogarth”, an understandable comparison but also a slightly misleading one. Like his eighteenth-century predecessor, he painted universally comprehensible scenes drawn from contemporary British life. But unlike Hogarth, Wilkie was not strongly inclined to satire. His pictures are not morality plays in paint, but scenes from a novel: minute explorations of the psychological nuances implicit in a particular situation. Beneath the young man’s apparent impassivity, it is not hard to imagine him squirming with unease. The older man’s apprehensiveness seems coloured by other troubles, about the nature of which it is only possible to guess. These characters do not wear their emotions like stage make-up. Their expressions have a depth and complexity that seemed both new and intriguing to the painter’s contemporaries.

Wilkie also lavished a great deal of time and care on the still-life details of his pictures. He used them to create an accumulation of evidence, to furnish his audience with tantalising clues about what might be happening in the picture. The older man in The Letter of Introduction is dressed in his indoor clothes, slippers, dressing-gown and turban (a not uncommon piece of headgear at the time); and he is seated before a pile of letters. The implication is that the guest has called earlier than his host would have liked, interrupting him while he is still engaged in his morning correspondence. This would explain his distracted and somewhat beleaguered air, although the implications is that (like Jane Austen’s Mr Bennet) he might not much like being disturbed in his study at any time of day or night. The bust of John Locke on the wall, the oriental vase, the Japanese cabinet, the packed book-case and the furled map indicate that he is of a contemplative nature. Perhaps he has also grown anti-social with age. The detail of the military sword above his desk is intriguing. Are we meant to believe that he once served in the army? He hardly looks the type. Perhaps the suggestion is that he has lost a son in battle. When Wilkie painted the picture England had been at war with France more or less continually for the past twenty years.

There is something of the country cousin about the young man. The excessive smartness of his costume – knee-breeches might have seemed a little over-formal for a morning visit – suggests that he is not entirely at home with the conventions of metropolitan society. Yet the floppy points of his shirt collar require the attentions of an iron, and his cravat could do with being tied rather more neatly. He gives the impression both of having tried a little too hard, and not hard enough. The dog, in contrast to its master, has warmed to him at once. Lifting a conciliatory paw, it sniffs at him with evident interest, perhaps because he still smells of the country.

Wilkie may have based the picture on his own early experiences in London, although if so he has been careful not to weight his sympathies too heavily in favour of the younger man. The situation is shown as equally difficult for each of them. If the precise significance of the scene seems ultimately elusive, that may well have been intentional, on the part of the painter. He created a picture designed to intrigue its audience while resisting conclusive explanation. Like the letter in the older man’s hands, its full text remains unknown, its seal unbroken.