The British establishment is a fortress. It is notoriously difficult for outsiders to penetrate, especially in the 19th century. You had to go to the right school (Eton or Harrow). You had to go to the right university (Oxford or Cambridge). You had to have the right accent.
Lawrence Alma-Tadema had none of these things.
He was a Frisian village boy. He was a college dropout. He spoke English with a thick, guttural accent that he never lost.
And yet, by the end of his life, he had climbed higher than almost any Englishman of his generation. The story of Sir Alma Tadema is the ultimate immigrant success story.
The First Kingdom: Belgium
His first conquest was Belgium.
As a student in Antwerp, he won the patronage of the King of the Belgians early on. In 1862, he was named a Knight of the Order of Leopold. It was his first taste of royal approval. For a man whose father had died leaving the family in precarious circumstances, this was validation.
But Belgium was too small for him.
The Second Kingdom: The Realm of Art
When he moved to London in 1870, he had to start over. The Royal Academy was a closed shop. But his talent battered down the doors.
He was elected an Associate of the Royal Academy (ARA) in 1876 and a full Royal Academician (RA) in 1879. This was the "knighthood" of the art world. It meant he was part of the elite. His paintings were hung "on the line" at the Summer Exhibition—the prime viewing spot.
He added these letters to his signature with pride. L. Alma-Tadema, RA.
The Third Kingdom: The Empire
But the ultimate honor came from the Queen herself.
In 1899, Queen Victoria’s Birthday Honours list included a surprise. The Dutch painters was to become Sir Alma Tadema.
He was knighted at Windsor Castle. The boy from Dronryp knelt before the Empress of India and rose as a Knight Bachelor of the British Empire.
It was a controversial choice. Some nativist critics grumbled. "Why are we knighting a Dutchman?" they whispered. "Aren't there enough English painters?"
But the establishment knew the truth: Sir Alma Tadema was more British than the British. He had embraced the Empire. He paid his taxes. He brought glory to London. He was the perfect citizen.
The Order of Merit
In 1905, King Edward VII went even further. He awarded Tadema the Order of Merit (OM).
This is a much rarer honor than a knighthood. It is limited to 24 living members. It is the personal gift of the Sovereign, given for "exceptionally meritorious service."
He was one of the first artists to receive it. He wore the medal proudly. In his self-portrait for the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, he didn't paint himself holding a brush. He painted himself wearing the ribbon of the Order of Merit.
The Need for Validation
Why did he care so much about these ribbons and titles?
Critics sometimes mocked him for it. They called him a social climber. But that is uncharitable.
You have to remember where he came from. He was the "boy who was supposed to die." He was the fatherless child. He was the foreigner in a strange land.
The titles were his armor. Being Sir Alma Tadema proved that he belonged. It proved that he was safe. It proved that the gray mist of his childhood could not touch him anymore. When he was buried in St. Paul's Cathedral in 1912, it was the final stamp of approval on a passport he had been stamping himself for seventy years.
