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Sixty Years' Memories of Art and Artists V . NOW some of my good friends in Paris, feeling that I had made some sacrifices for my comrade, proposed to aid me with means to pursue my studies. I had at this time two or three pictures, and they said: " Make a raffle of them, and we will see that the tickets are sold. " This was done, and I found myself in possession of a pretty little sum to meet future contingencies. I found myself alone, for Kensett had gone to London to receive a legacy left him by the sudden death of his grandmother there. He expected to return in a few days, but, owing to the law's delay, was remaining indefinitely. changed my lodgings from the Latin Quarter to the Rue Rumford in the neighborhood of the Madeleine. There I established myself at No. 11 up six flights of stairs. I had a good studio, and two or three other rooms attached for living purposes. I thought it was princely. I had made the acquaintance of an artist, who came from the department of Culvados, Normandy, an enthusiastic young man, whose glowing description of the country, and its wonderfully picturesque landscape induced me to make a trip there. The Diligence carried me to Valaise, a quaint old town full of memories of William the Conquerer, for this was his birthplace, and one could even see the little room in which he was born in the dismal ruin still standing. I sketched the old tower in connection with the town and rocky cliffs covered with purple heather. The scenery was interesting, but I soon got away to some of the smaller hamlets, where I could find water-courses and old mills, cottages and fields of buckwheat. I was alone in a strange country, but at the rustic little auberge I always found a welcome and good cheer at small cost. Never have I found more kindness than at the hands of these simple peasants. To be sure I had to drink cider with them (a thing I detested) for hospitality's sake, for they resented a refusal. I chanced to get acquainted with a young man who was all cordiality, and who invited me to his home in such a manner I could not refuse. I found his home to be a substantial old farmhouse situated among orchards of fruit trees, where plenty seemed to reign, and where farmwork was pushed vigorously. My friend, who was the oldest son, did no work in accordance with the traditions of the family, which claimed to be a noble one, and a branch of some English family of great repute. A few old portraits seemed to confirm the fact. The mother bad a sweet, pure face and some distinction. A younger brother, though professing much literary ability, was a hard-working man, and went with the laborers, working as hard as they. They all ate four hearty meals a day, washing them down with quarts of good Norman cider. I was an American, and one from so distant a country was an unusual sight for them. There was no end to the questions I had to answer. The literary son had written a history of the family and its surroundings, and had sent a copy of it to King Louis Phillippe, in the hope of getting some recognition, and an invitation to court. But at that time it had not come. In the meantime the eldest son spent his time dawdling about the country, flirting with all the pretty girls, a complete idler, with apparently no money in his pocket. He stuck to me like a burr, for the novelty of the thing I thought. He was good-natured and amusing, and never interfered with my work. What an aim-less, unprofitable life !-a life that could not have been led in this country. I met here a young Italian, a student of music. He was taking his vacation where moderate prices prevailed. Two francs a day paid all expenses, with plenty to eat, and decent beds. Think of that! He was a nephew of Madame Pasta, the great singer, and had an air of great distinction. We had pleasant chats together, and concluded to go back to Paris in company via Caen-Caen the city of cathedrals, and William the Conquerer. At Caen we took a steamer to Havre, a night's sail. We were both in rather an impecunious state, and so concluded to take seats in a freight train for Paris, the fare being about half the regular train rates. But it was a cold autumn day, and we suffered much in our exposed car, and arrived home in a forlorn and uncomfortable condition. In taking a carriage, a discussion arose, as to which of us should be dropped first, each insisting that he was nearer the station. I gave in to him, and when I left him at his lodgings we said " goodnight," and I never saw him again. I now set about doing something for the next Salon, thinking it time I should make an essay in that direction, my friend Healy advising me strongly to do so. I chose some of my Normandy studies for the purpose, the principal one being a ruined castle. I worked hard over this, and two other canvases, and sent them in, with fear and trembling, for the jury to decide upon. It happened that I had a good friend in a French lady, who had a friend in the printing office where the catalogue of the coming Salon was printed. She saw some proofsheets of the cata-logue, and knew that my offerings were accepted. She hastened to let me know my good luck the evening before the eventful opening of the Exhibition. What relief and joy this was to me after the long suspense! Hundreds of people were waiting next morning before the massive doors of the Louvre. The crowd was composed mostly of artists and their friends, all anxious for the fate of their pictures. I was almost carried off my feet and up the grand staircase by the impetuosity of the rush, but once in the immense galleries there was plenty of room. Still everyone was eager to know the truth. Of course many were doomed to disappointment. I found my pictures after a long search, but heavens! how little they looked! They were hardly recognizable. They were fairly well placed, but it took some time to reconcile me to their insignificance, surrounded as they were by the huge canvases of the Frenchmen. No,-they were not all large. There were many charming small things. One of my pictures was placed by the side of a fresh study by Troyon, the green tones of which were marvellously rich and juicy. I loved the picture at first sight, but wondered how he had dared to do it. Troyon at that time had no fame. I had seen his small work in the shops, and a large interior of a wood in a former Salon, but the critics gave no credit for his work, although it possessed all the breadth and strength which characterized his efforts in later days. The critics of that time obstinately persisted in calling Troyon's paintings " des plats d'epinards, " but to my mind his work bore the impress of nature with great simplicity of treatment, and the freshness of green that nature constantly shows. And today it seems to me that no modern master has excelled him in the directness and strength of his rendering of nature. I saw the exhibition of his works collected together at the Hotel Drouot after his death, and that confirmed me in my opinion that he was the greatest master of landscape and cattle painting which modern times has produced. Unfortunately he died in his prime with the power and experience to do still greater work. All honor to Troyon, the great painter! Corot was not known at this time, and I saw none o his work at the Exhibition, and presume he was refused admission. Decamps was one of the great men of the time. Many of his small pictures could be seen in the shops, some of them noble works of art. His manner was original, and powerful in the extreme, but did not possess the common properties apparent in nature. There were distinction and careful selection in his subjects, and they were out of the common. I had the good fortune to meet him at a little village on the borders of the Forest of Fontainbleau near Barbison (then unknown)where he then lived. He was apparently a grave, silent man, unlike a Frenchman, tall, blonde, with aquiline nose, light moustache and a slight nervous figure. I have never seen in this country a fair representation of Decamp's work, nothing to show his great power, his Rembrantesque force of light and shade. I saw at one time in the Louvre gallery a series of crayon drawings by him, describing the life of Samson. They were large sized and marvellously fine. It seemed to me that I had never seen anything to compare with them in descriptive force. They were executed for the Empress of Russia, and only shown for a short time. I became acquainted with the paintings of Diaz at this time, and at once fell in love with the rich, sparkling colors of his wood interiors. The golden sunlight sifting through the branches illuminating a group of wood nymphs, or twinkling about a pack of hounds in the uncertain recesses of deep woods. An artist friend, who knew Diaz intimately when he was young and struggling, alluding to the fact that he wore a wooden leg, assured me that Diaz often jestingly remarked that he intended to " gild his wooden leg, "-and he did later. At one of the Salons I saw what seemed to me his finest picture. It was a good-sized canvas, perhaps five feet high, with figures two feet or so. It was Diana and nymphs, and very carefully studied. The color seemed to me to be nearer that of the Venetian colorists than almost anything I remember of the modern schools. I speak of Diaz in this way merely to show how the work impressed me nearly fifty years ago, before Americans ever knew that there was a modern French school in existence. |
