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Sixty Years' Memories of Art and Artists VII . I BECAME acquainted at this time with an Irish gentleman known as The O'Gorman Mahon, who died four or five years ago at a very advanced age. He was a very tall, robust man, and one of the most rollicking fellows I ever met. He was a thorough gentleman, generous to a fault, and would have been a perfect model for one of Charles Lever's funny heroes. There was just something lacking about him to make his balance true. He came to me for lessons in painting, but he was too wild to continue long; he had too many irons in the fire. He was a lover of justice, wanted his idea of right to prevail, and fought many a windmill a la Don Quixote, but he was jolly and bubbling with spirits, irrepressible to a marked degree. His sense of right caused him to fight a number of duels-the foreign papers said twenty-two in all-and, a little time before he died (at the age of eightyseven) he sent a challenge to Parnell because the latter had introduced him to Mr. Shea, but his physicians, knowing his feebleness, prevented the meeting. He represented his county in Parliament for many years. I saw a picture of him in the Review of Reviews, a few years ago. One day, walking in the Rue Tronchet with my friend Lavergne, we met a gentleman to whom he bowed and who bowed and smiled in return. I was struck with his appearance and gentlemanly manner. Then Lavergne said, " That is Delacroix the great painter. " He was a Southerner in type, of dark complexion, black eyes and hair, quite tall and slight, and had marked characteristics. I had long known his pictures and admired their great strength and richness of color. I had seen many times in the gallery of Versailles, his great painting of Charlemagne on a magnificent charger with warlike trappings. It was wonderfully grand work and always impressed me more than anything in the gallery, although there were many good things there, especially the battle pieces of Horace Vernet. A Scotch artist by the name of Stevenson has written a book called " Velasquez, " and who is a great admirer of that artist. He studied in Paris with Carolus Duran, and others; he says that all the well-known impressionists of to-day are endeavoring to follow in the footsteps of the great master Velasquez, and cites among others such men as Duran, Delacroix, Henner, Sargent, Whistler and others. He says that Velasquez was a long time working himself up to the point of impressionistic work, but from the pictures of his I have seen there was no strife for slashing work or decorative touches. The paint is put on in such a subtle manner that the whole mass appears to have grown there without hands. I have not seen his greatest works in the Madrid galleries, but I have been familiar with such works as are found in the National gallery of London, the Louvre, and in Rome, and have seen no such thing as modern impressionism. I think these painters have simply copied his strong peculiarities and have sometimes sadly caricatured them. In striving to be odd in art, they go to all kinds of extravagance, and if these men were not possessed of splendid abilities their work might degenerate into something akin to the absurd. Delacroix I respect and honor. During my first years in Paris, there was a great controversy and even war between the students and adherents of Delacroix and those of Ingres, the so-called second Raphael of France-who contended for purity of line and classic severity, but whose pictures were cold and pale in color. The pupils of Ingres were not allowed to copy Rubens or any brilliant colorist, and the fight between the factions was so fierce at times, that blows and kicks were exchanged. For Henner's work I have great admiration. He is perhaps the greatest master of color in France. His drawing is good, the modelling solid and fine, and his best works remind one of the masters of the Italian school. Of many of the Franco-American painters I know very little, but that many of them have great skill in drawing there is no doubt, and they have the science of art at their fingers' end, and some day when they come home will no doubt be an honor to our country. But I must close these, to me, very pleasant reminiscences of Paris life. My friend Kensett, as I have said, went to England, to receive a small inheritance, intending to stay there only a couple of weeks, but the lawyers made so much trouble his stay was prolonged for two years. He passed his time mostly in painting and engraving. The English school attracted him. He felt the gray mists of the country, and this feeling for gray cool tints gradually possessed him. He felt the subtlety of their airy tones very keenly, and had a delicate, sensitive touch which harmonized perfectly with the feeling. Of course his talent and ambition as an artist were not at all developed at this time, and it needed experience and this careful study to bring them out. But gleams of his poetic power would occasionally flash out. I would like to say now how delightful his companionship was to me. There was nothing trivial or common in his make-up. He was generous and sympathetic, as well as broad and refined in his tastes. I was so intimate with him for years that had anything like envy or jealousy ever held possession of him I should have seen it. But in its place was a generous appreciation of the works of others and a hearty sympathy. Kensett came back and joined me in Paris, and after making a few sketching excursions to Fontainbleau and other places, we decided to do what we had long desired to do-visit Italy via the Rhine and Switzerland. This was a great undertaking for us ;with our slender means. Our plan was to do the distance on foot as much as possible, sketching as we went. Our old friend Dr. Ainsworth, and a young German musician, who had lived in America, and was going back to his home on the Rhine, would accompany us. Our journey began with a long diligence ride to Coblentz, for you must remember there were no railroads in those days-1845. Coblentz was a beautiful place to us, and the enthusiasm with which our musical friend was received by his old companions of the fraternity was extended to us, and we were feted royally. After taking a trip on foot up the Arweiler Valley to test our walking powers, and sketching some of the wild and almost unknown scenery, we bade adieu to our good German friend, and journeyed on, enjoying the romantic scenery of the Rhine. Hardly any of the old feudal ruins on its banks had been restored at that time. I believe Stolzenfels was the only exception, and that very year the King of Prussia received Queen Victoria at that place. I saw His Majesty on the steamer that landed him at Stolzenfels, and he certainly did appear as a most ordinary individual wearing a very rusty stovepipe hat. We walked up the Rhine as far as Mayence and oil to Heidelberg, enjoying the trip much; then on to Basle and Strasbourg. At Basle, the gallery containing the pictures by Holbein surprised us for we had no previous conception of this artist's powers. Our course then led over the Jura Mts. to Neufchatel, and across the lake to Lausanne. There we got our first impres-sions of the grandeur of the Swiss mountains, for the great peaks of Savoy were before us bathed in sunlight. We were not disappointed. They surpassed even our anticipations. Our cravings for the grand were satisfied. We moved on to Geneva that we might take in the Valley of Chamouni, and the giant Mont Blanc by approaching it from that side. It was a great thing to do for every rod of the way was full of interest. The giant mountain showed himself to us in the fullness of his glory. We determined to walk up the Montanvert, and tip the Mer de Glace, and over other higher peaks to the " Jardin. " This was a famous place, a little oasis among the peaks and glaciers where young cattle were sometimes brought during the summer months to feed upon the short, sweet grass. The journey was a hard tramp of thirteen hours, as the Swiss reckon distances, and it proved to be all of that. A young Frenchman grew faint and gave out. A fresh fall of snow covered the upper portion of the way, and the jardin, to the depth of six inches. But the guide found the spring, and we found wild flowers by digging in the snow. It was a wild place, eleven thousand feet above the sea. The sun shone brightly and warm, making a very unstable footing in the melting snow, but we arrived at our destination after passing safely the dangerous fissures in the Mer de Glace, and its crumbling moraines. This was our greatest exploit in walking, although not our longest tramp. We made many hard days' work, but one night we arrived at the foot of the Gemmi Pass ' with no money in our pockets, and with no way of getting any until we reached Thun, a long distance in advance, where a banker would give us money on a letter of credit. We thought we would explain our dilemma to the landlord, and throw ourselves on his clemency, but he was not at home. We must have supper and lodging, and so we ordered our meal and took our rooms, letting discretion go. Early in the morning, the landlord returned, and we hastened to disclose our forlorn condition. He took in the situation and, with great kindness, made out his bill after our breakfast, and presented us with some gold pieces to take us as far as Thun. He wished us a pleasant journey, telling us at the same time ",where we could remit the loan. This we thought was superb treatment, and we voted the landlord a trump. We went up to the convent of St. Bernard, arriving long after dark, and feeling uncertain about the path. When the lights of the hospi-table convent came into view our fears were relieved. The good brothers welcomed us cor-dially, and gave us a good dinner and a good bed. The atmosphere was cold and wintry. The next morning we were aroused by the barking of the celebrated dogs. We determined to continue our way over the Pass, and to do this were obliged to climb to a point one thousand feet higher than the convent. This was covered with snow, but we got over all right. In descending the mountain we passed through a wild desolate place where the rough way zigzagged down a steep path for a long distance. My friend Dr. Ainsworth was disinclined to follow the zigzag, and undertook to make short cuts, but came to grief. His feet slipped from under him, and down he slid several hundred feet, struggling and kicking and making frantic efforts to check his wild career. All was in vain, until the nature of the ground stopped him and saved him from a still worse precipice a short way beyond. Kensett and I were speechless with fright, but went to his relief as rapidly as possible. No bones were broken, but his raiment was a sight, and he was terribly bruised and shaken. After resting awhile he pluckily said he would go on. We could not stay there in that desolate place with no shelter in view, and so we each took an arm, and continued our descent. We had several miles yet to do, and fortunately we arrived at the village, and the hotel. Next day our friend the doctor was one mass of bruises and sores. Thus we were forced to rest and recuperate both limbs and raiment. We had been told by a French artist that the valley of Meyringen afforded as good sketching ground as any in Switzerland, and he advised me to go to the establishment of the Père Ruoff where artists congregated. Here we found a pleasant home and agreeable company for a few weeks close study. Here we were en famille. The daughters of the house were amiable and charming in their pretty Swiss costumes, especially the eldest-Madeleine-who had a face of unusual sweetness and purity. All the young men were smitten with her beauty; not one I believe escaped unscathed, but she was cool and chaste as the Alpine snows, and favored none. The younger sister-Marian-was not so pretty, but was full of life and sunshine. Fun seemed to sparkle from her eyes and brightened the whole house. There were some French and German painters here, and some students of the Geneva school, at the head of which was Calame. I had studied some of the finest works of Calame in the salons of Paris, and knew him to be a vigorous painter, and fine draughtsman. Kensett and I, remembering some fine old beeches on a pass leading up to the higher mountains, went there one morning to attempt a sketch of them. We were alone all day. The next morning we set off again to finish our work. Just as we arrived we found another artist coming upon the ground. He was a dark, slender man of fifty or fifty-five years. His face was worn and thin, indicating a nervous, sensitive temperament, and showing him to be a hard worker. A boy bore upon his back a bag, a huge canvas and painting materials. He sat down a few feet from my point of view, and went to work. He addressed a pleasant word to me and requested permission to look at my sketch. He said at once: " Tres bien, c'est bien senti, " with other words of encouragement. Looking at Kensett's work he said: " C'est tres jolie de couleur, " and it was. We could do no less than to express a desire to look at his work. At the first glance I knew the stranger to be Calame, and said so. His study was well advanced, and was very charming, the touch and elaboration of details very beautiful. My trees were there, glorified by the magic of his knowledge and study. He liked to talk of the English school of art, having visited England to study it. He spoke with enthusiasm of Turner, Constable and others, as though he preferred their art to that of the French school. I never saw Calame after that day, but I was glad I had met the man who had done more to illustrate the grandeur and sublimity of Swiss scenery than any man before or since his time, and especially in the -series of beautiful lithographs published by him. His later work became deteriorated by his desire to get rich, a desire that becomes a curse to great artists. |
