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Sixty Years' Memories of Art and Artists XIV . IN June, l865, after the close of the War of the Rebellion, I left for Europe with my wife, and two young ladies-the Misses Stearns. After spending a few days in Paris, seeing old friends and old places (although Louis Napoleon and Baron Haussman had made havoc with many of the old landmarks, wiping out whole masses of the picturesque quarter) we went by way of the Rhine to Switzerland. We went through the usual tourist's tracks, but settled down for a longer stay at Meyringen, the place that had attracted me so much on my first visit. Here I made some careful studies. Mrs. Champney was quite ill here, and we had to remain until October. The Misses Stearns got tired waiting for us, and left for Paris. We finally got away to Lucerne and down the lake to Altorf, and by the St. Gothard Pass to Italy. It was charming to get back to Italy again, as the autumn was coming on, and the sunny days on the shores of Como brought back health and strength to Mrs. C. Como was wonderfully lovely at that time. All the more lofty peaks of the Southern Alps, and the high summits bordering the lake were covered with snow. The sharp, jagged forms of many of them we found very beautiful, and the autumn display brighter than I could have supposed. Of course the fine villas and old crumbling town, and medioeval architecture added zest to the whole. We were loath to leave so charming a place, but it was getting too cool, and so we went to Milan, where after seeing the lions, we went on to Turin, and thence via the Mont Cenis Pass en route to Paris, for we had determined to spend the winter there. This was toward the latter part of November, 1865, and the Mont Cenis Tunnel was not yet complete. From early evening and all night long the diligence toiled up the mountain with many horses and relays of mules. Early in the morning we were in the midst of snows. The sun shone brightly, and everything glistened and sparkled like a New England winter. Then came the descent into France, a dreary region where no cultivation was possible, but we found ourselves quickly on the road to Lyons, and so back to Paris. We took a suite of rooms in the Rue de l'Oratoire du Roule, a pleasant quarter not far from the Champs Elysées, and kept house for the winter. I painted some pictures, and we saw Paris, and as much of art as possible, but about the middle of March we left for Italy via Marseilles, Nice and the Corniche Road to Genoa. Mr. Charles B. Winn of Woburn, Massachusetts, was our fellow traveler from Paris to Genoa. How we did enjoy the carriage drive of four or five days' duration along the shores of the Mediterranean, by the Riviera, and all the small but now nameless hamlets beaten by the breakers of the blue sea! At Genoa' we parted with our good friend Mr. Winn, he returning to Paris, and home, while we continued on our way to Naples and Rome. Naples was very lovely, but could not seduce us, after seeing Pompeii and the galleries, to stay away long from Rome, for Rome was the most interesting city of Italy, and perhaps of the world to one who would learn of the past, but since that time (1866) it has become the seat of government, and so modernized that I would not today subscribe to that opinion. In Rome we met our former travelling companions, the Misses Stearns, and made many delightful excursions together in the environs of the city. I also passed some pleasant days with Hamilton Wilde, sketching on the Campagna. We made our way to Florence, did the usual picture galleries and sights, saw Thomas Ball at his studio, and had a fine musical evening at his home. From Florence to Bologna, I intended to go from the latter place to Venice, but this we were not able to do. It happened that great disturbances were commencing just then, resulting a little later in the freeing of Venice from the tyranny of the Austrians. Troops were moving in all directions, and we could get no conveyances, and so were forced unwillingly to return to Florence, then north to Turin, and once more climbed the Mont Cenis, and descended again to the plains of France. Paris is a wonderful place, indeed. No place in the world I have ever seen has the same power to hold one's interest so long or so powerfully as Paris. We had been travelling many weeks through the most interesting cities of Italy, studying the great works of the masters, until we were almost surfeited with good things. The works of really great painters palled upon our taste, and we were able to pass by without compunction canvases of such men as Rubens, Guido, the Carracci and others. Perhaps I should not admit so much, but I believe most people, however endowed with taste and knowledge, would join me in saying this if they were candid and plain. Now it seemed pleasant to come back to Paris, to be surrounded by the interests of today, to see what the greatest artists of the greatest modern school were doing. The little of modern art we had seen in Italy did not make much impression. But it was a positive delight to visit the Palais de I' Industrie where the Salon of 1866 was held. Perhaps there were no works of the very highest order there, yet there were much freshness and truth as well as power in them. I never enjoyed pictures more than those of the Salon. The genius of Courbet culminated at this year, and his success was very pronounced. The nude female figure with parrot was immensely vigorous. The other canvas-the Home of the Deer-was the most interesting of all his works I have seen. The wonderful gray of the rocks, contrasted with the soft gray coats of the deer, and the surrounding forest tones made a most wonderfully impressive picture, one I could enthuse over and never tire of. It was said that his success at this Salon was so great, that it added hundreds of thousands of francs to his then slender fortune by enhancing the value of the many unsold pictures on his hands. Corot was well-represented, and Daubigny and Edouard Frère, as well as a hundred of other good painters. I do not believe there were half a dozen pictures there by Americans. Their day had not yet come. But as I said before it was with a sense of delight that I turned from the musty old galleries of Italy to find so much freshness and nature here. I enjoyed this hugely for many days, and then I found it was necessary that my wife should return at once to Boston. I went with her to Liverpool, via London, and saw her safely on board the steamer in the company of old friends, and I was back on my way to Paris again, for I had made an engagement to spend a part of the summer in Brittany for sketching purposes. During the previous winter I had met many times an old acquaintance-C. A. Way of Boston,-and had been introduced to Robert Wylie of Philadelphia. They had been in Brittany the summer before, and were so much delighted with everything, that I had promised to meet them there for a few weeks, work. The railroad landed me at Quimperlé, twelve miles from my destination. The rough, little letter-carrier's cart took me at a creeping pace the next day to Pont-aven. Here I was heartily welcomed by my friends, and the other American artists who had already gathered there. Among them were Moses Wight of Boston, Earl Shinn and Howard Roberts of Philadelphia. There were also of the party an Englishman and his wife, and now with the addition of a French artist we were a goodly and jolly crowd of artists. We all dined together at six. The fare was very good and generous. Wylie sat at the head of the table and carved the ducks and gigots, and with the unselfishness of his nature never kept back a tit-bit for himself. Yvonne, with the white formal head-gear of the town, waited on the table with a stolid inflexibility, comparable to nothing but the Sphinx. Thus we always called her Le Sphinx. "Qu'est ce que c'est que le sphinx?" she would ask. It was very amusing to see her enter bearing upon her tray the crowning effort of the cook-an " Omlette an Rhum"-enveloped in flickering darting flames, and lighting up the serious face with almost a triumphant smile. It was a picture. |
