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Gift of
HOWARD MANSFIELD, 1871
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RAPHAEL

Copyright, 1916,
By The Roycrofters

CONTENTS
RAPHAEL  9
LEONARDO  37
BOTTICELLI  63
THORWALDSEN  93
GAINSBOROUGH  127
VELASQUEZ  153
COROT  185
CORREGGIO  219
BELLINI  247
CELLINI  271
ABBEY  303
WHISTLER  327

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RAPHAEL

And with all this vast creative activity, he recognized
only one self-imposed limitation — beauty JS Hence,
though his span of life was short, his work is imperish
able. He steadily progressed: but he was ever true,
beautiful and pure, and freer than any other master
from superficiality and mannerism. He produced a vast
number of pictures, elevating to men of every race and
of every age, and before whose immortal beauty artists
of every school unite in common homage.
—fVilhelm Lubke

RAPHAEL

HE term " Preraphaelite " traces a
royal lineage to William Morris.
Just what the word really meant,
Willizim Morris was not sure, yet he
once expressed the hope that he
would some day know, eis a thou
sand industrious writers were labor
ing to make the matter plain.
Seven men help>ed William Morris to Id.unch the phrase,
by forming themselves into an organization which they
"were plecised to call the " Preraphaelite Brotherhood."
^ The word " brotherhood " has a lure and a promise
for every lonely and tired son of earth. And Bume- Jones
pleaded for the prefix because it was like holy writ: it
gave everybody an opportunity to read anything into
it that he desired.
Of this I am very sure, in the Preraphaelite Brotherhood
there was no lack of appreciation for Raphael. In fact,
there is proof positive that Bume -Jones and Madox
Brown studied him with profit, and loved him so wisely
and well that they laid impression-paper on his poses.
This would have been good and sufficient reason for
hating the man; and possibly this accounts for their
luminous fleishes of silence conceming him. The Pre-
raphaelite Brotherhood, like all other liberal organiza
tions, was quite inclined to be illiberal. And the
11

RAPHAEL

prejudice of this clanship, avowedly founded without
prejudice, lay in the assumption that life and art suf
fered a degeneration from the rise of Raphael. In art,
as in literature, there is overmuch tilting with names —
so the Preraphaelites enUsted under the banner of
Botticelli 53 SS
Raphael marks an epoch. He did what no man before
him had ever done, and by the sublimity of his genius
placed the world forever under obligations to him. In
fact, the art of the Preraphaelites Wcis built on Raphael,
with an attempt to revive the atmosphere and environ
ment that belonged to another. Raphael mirrored the
soul of things — he used the human form and the whole
natural world as symbols of spirit. And this is exactly
what Bume- Jones did, and the rest of the Brotherhood
tried to do. The thought of Raphael and of Bume- Jones
often seems identical; in temperament, disposition and
aspiration they were one. That poetic and fervid state
ment of Mrs. Jameson, that Bume- Jones is the avatar of
Raphael, contains the germ of truth. The dream-women
of Burne- Jones have the same haunting eind subtle
spiritual wistfulness that is to be seen in the Madonnas
of Raphael. Each of these men loved a woman — and
each pictured her again and again. Whether this woman
had an existence outside the figment of the brain
matters not : both painted her as they saw her — tender,
gentle and trustful.
When jealous and o'erzealous competitors made the
12

RAPHAEL

charge against Raphael that he was lax in his religious
duties. Pope Leo the Tenth waived the matter by
saying, " Well, well, well! — he is an artistic Christian! "
As much as to say, he works his religion up into art, and
therefore we grant him absolution for failure to attend
mass: he paints and you pray — it is really all the same
thing. Good work and religion are one.
The busy and captious critics went away, but came
back next day with the startling information that
Raphael's pictures were more Pagan than Christian.
Pope Leo heard the charge, and then with Lincoln-like
wit said that Raphael was doing this on his order, as
the desire of the Mother Church was to annex the Pagan
art-world, in order to Christianize it.
The charges of Paganism and Infidelity are classic
accusations. The gentle Bume- Jones weis stoutly de
nounced by his enemies as a Pagan Greek. I think he
rather gloried in the contumely, but fifty years earlier
he might have been visited by a " lettre de cachet,"
instead of a knighthood; for we can not forget how, in
Eighteen Hundred Fifteen, Parliament refused to pay
for the Elgin Marbles because, as Lord Falmouth put
it, " These relics will tend to prostitute England to the
depth of unbelief that engulfed Pagan Greece." The
attitude of Parliament on the question of Paganism finds
voice occasionally even yet by Protestant England
making darkness dense with the asseveration that
Catholics idolatrously worship the pictures and statues 13

RAPHAEL

in their churches. ^ The Romans tumbled the Athenian
marbles from their pedestals, on the assumption that
the statues represented gods that were idolatrously
worshiped by the Greeks. And they continued their
work of destruction until a certain Romein general
(who surely was from County Cork) stopped the vandal
ism by issuing an order, coupled with the dire threat
that any soldier who stole or destroyed a statue should
replace it with another equally good.
Lord Elgin bankrupted himself in order to supply the
British Museum its crowning glory, and for this he
achieved the honor of getting himself poeticeJly damned
by Lord Byron. Monarchies, Uke republics, are un
grateful. Lord Elgin defended himself vigorously ageiinst
the charge of Pageuiism, just as Raphael had done three
hundred years before. But Bume- Jones was silent in the
presence of his accusers, for the world of buyers besieged
his doors with bank-notes in hand, demanding pictures.
And now today we find Alma-Tadema opeiJy emd
avowedly Pagan, and with a grace and loveliness that
compel the glad acclaim of every lover of beautiful
things 5S 33
We are making head. We have ceased to believe that
Paganism is " bad." All the men and women who have
ever lived and loved and hoped and died, were God's
children, and we are no more. With the nations dead
and turned to dust, we reach out through the darkness
of forgotten days and touch friendly hands. Some of
14

RAPHAEL

these people that existed two, three or four thousand
years ago did things so marvelously grand and great
that in presence of the broken fragments of their work
we stand silent, o'erawed and abetshed. We realize, too,
that long before the nations Uved that have left a
meager eind scattered history hewn in stone, lived still
other men, possibly greater far than we; and no sign or
signal comes to us from those whose history, like ours,
is writ in water.
Yet we are one with them all. The same Power that
brought them upon this stage of Time brought us. As
we were called into existence without our consent, so
are we being sent out of it, day by day, against our will.
The destiny of all who live or have Uved, is one; and no
tavmt of " paganism," " heathenism " or " infidelity "
escapes our lips. With love and sympathy, we salute
the eternity that lies behind, realizing that we ourselves
are the oldest people that have tasted existence — the
newest nation lingers away behind Assyria and Egypt,
back of the Mayas, lost in continents sunken in shore
less seas that hold their secrets inviolate. Yes, we are
brothers to all that have trod the earth; brothers and
heirs to dust and shade — mayhap to immortality! 53

15

RAPHAEL

N the story of " John Ball," WiUiam Morris
pictured what to him was the Ideal Life. And
Morris was certainly right in this: The Ideal
Life is only the normal or natural life as we
shall some day know it. The scene of Morris' story
was essentially a Preraphaelite one. It weis the great
virtue (or limitation) of WilUam Morris that the Dark
Ages were to him a time of special light and illumination.
Life then was simple. Men worked for the love of it,
and if they wanted things they made them. " Every
trade exclusively followed means a deformity," says
Ruskin. Division of labor had not yet come, and men
were skilled in many ways. There Weis neither pxjverty
nor riches, and the idea of brotherhood vfas firmly fixed
in the minds of men. The feverish desire for place, pelf
and power was not upon them. The rise of the barons
and an entzdled aristocracy were yet to come.
Governments grant men immimity from danger on
payment of a teix. Thus men cease protecting themselves,
and so in the course of time lose the ability to protect
themselves, because the faculty of courage has atro
phied through disuse. Brooding apprehension and
crouching fear are the properties of civilized men — men
who are protected by the State. The joy of reveling in
life is not possible in cities. Bolts and bars, locks and
keys, soldiers and police, and a hundred other symbols
of distrust, suspicion and hate, are on every hand,
reminding us that man is the enemy of man, and must
16

RAPHAEL

be protected from his brothers. Protection and slavery
are near of kin.
Before Raphael, art was not a profession — the man did
things to the glory of God. When he painted a picture of
the Holy Family, his wife served as his model, and he
grouped his children in their proper order, and made the
picture to hang on a certain spot on the walls of his
village church. No payment was expected nor fee
demanded — it was a love-offering. It was not until
ecclesiastics grew ambitious sind Eisked for more pictures
that bargains were struck. Did ever a painter of that
far-off day marry a maid, and in time were they blessed
with a babe, then straightway the painter worked his
joy up into art by p>ainting the Mother and Child, and
presenting the picture as a thank-offering to God. The
immaculate conception of love and the miracle of birth
are recurring themes in the symphony of Ufe. Love,
religion and art have ever walked and ever will walk
hand in hand. Art is the expression of man's joy in his
work; and art is the beautiful way of doing things.
Pope Julius W£is right — work is religion when you put
your soul into your task.
Giotto painted the " Mother and Child," and the
mother was his wife, and the child theirs. Another child
came to them, and Giotto painted another picture,
calUng the older boy Saint John, and the wee baby Jesus.
The years went by and we find stiU another picture of
the Holy Family by this same artist, in which five
17

RAPHAEL

children are shown, while back in the shadow is the
artist himself, posed as Joseph. And with a beautiful
contempt for anachronism, the elder children are called
Isaiah, Ezekiel and Elijah. This fusing of work, love
and religion gives us a glimpse into the only paradise
mortals know. It is the Ideal — and the Natural.

18

RAPHAEL

HE swift-passing years have lightly touched
the little city of Urbino, in Umbria. The place
is sleepy and quiet, and you seek the shade of
friendly awnings to shield you from the fierce
glare of the sun. Standing there you hear the bells chime
the hours, cis they have done for four hundred years;
and you watch the flocks of wheeling pigeons, the same
pigeons that Vasari saw when he came here in Fifteen
Hundred Forty-one, for the birds never grow old.
Vasari tells of the pigeons, the old cathedral — old even
then — the flower-girls and fruit-seUers, the passing
black-robed priests, the occasional soldier, and the
cobbler who sits on the curbstone and offers to mend
your shoes while you wait.
The world is debtor to Vasari. He was not much of a
painter and he failed at architecture, but he made up
for lack of skill by telling all about what others were
doing; and if his facts ever faltered, his imeigination
bridged the break. He is as interesting as Plutarch, as
gossipy as Pepys, and as luring as Boswell.
A sUm slip of a girl, selling thyme and mignonette out
of a reed basket, offered to show Vcisari the birthplace
of Raphael ; and a brown-cheeked, barefoot boy, selling
roses on which the dew yet lingered, volunteered a like
service for me, three hundred years later.
The house is one of a long row of low stone structures,
with the red-tile roof ever3rwhere to be seen. Above the
door is a bronze tablet which informs the traveler that
19

RAPHAEL

Raphael Sanzio weis bom here, April Sixth, Fourteen
Hundred Eighty-three. Herman Grimm takes three
chapters to prove that Raphael was not bom in this
house, and that nothing is so unreUable as a bronze
tablet, except figures. Grimm is a painstaking biogra
pher, but he fails to distinguish between fact and
truth. Of this we are sure, Giovanni di Sanzio, the
father of Raphael, lived in this house. TTiere are church
records to show that here other children of Giovanni
were bom, and this very naturally led to the assumption
that Raphael was born here, also.
Just one thing of touching interest is to be seen in this
house, and that is a picture of a Mother and Child
p>ainted on the wall. For meiny years this picture weis
said to be the work of Raphael; but there is now very
good reason to beUeve it weis the work of Raphael's
father, eind that the figures represent the baby Raphael
and his mother. TTie picture is faded and dim, like the
history of this sainted womein who gave to earth one of
the gentlest, greatest and best men that ever lived 33
Mystery enshrouds the early days of Raphael. There is
no record of his birth. His father we know was a mein of
decided power, and might yet rank as a great artist,
had he not been so unfortunate eis to have had a son
that outclassed him. But now Giovanni Seinzio's only
claim to fame rests on his being the father of his son.
Of the boy's mother we have only obstructed glances
and glimpses through half-flung lattices in the gloaming.
20

RAPHAEL

Raphael weis her only child. She weis scarce twenty
when she bore him. In a sonnet written to her, on the
back of a painting, Raphael's father speaks of her
wondrous eyes, slender neck, and the form too frail for
earth's rough buffets. Mention is also made of " this
child bom in purest love, and sent by God to comfort
and caress." 33 53
The mother grew aweary and passed away when her
boy was scarce eight years old, but his memories of her
were deeply etched. She told him of Cimabue, Giotto,
Ghirlandajo, Leonardo eind Perugino, and especially of
the last two, who were living and working only a few
miles away. It was this spiritual and loving mother who
infused into his soul the desire to do and to become.
That hunger for harmony which marked his life was the
heritage of mother to child.
When an artist paints a portrait, he paints two — him
self and the sitter. Raphael gave himself; and eis his
father more than once seiid the boy weis the image of
his mother, we have her picture, too. Father and son
painted the same woman 33 Their hearts went out to
her with a sort of idolatrous love. The sonnets indited to
her by her husband were written after her death, and
after his second marriage. Do then men love dead
women better than they do the living? Perhaps. And
then a certain writer has said : " To have known a great
and exalted love, and have had it flee from your grasp —
flee as a shadow before it is sullied by selfishness or
21

RAPHAEL

misunderstanding — ^is the highest good. The memory of
such a love can not die from out the heart. It affords a
balleist 'gainst all the sordid impulses of life, and though
it gives an unutterable sadness, it imparts em unspeak
able peace."

11

RAPHAEL

APHAEL'S father foUowed the boy's mother
when the lad was eleven years old. We know
the tender, poetic love this father had for the
child, and we realize somewhat of the mystical
mingling in the man's heart of the love for the woman
dead and her child aUve. Reverencing the mother's wish
that the boy should be an artist, Giovanni Sanzio, proud
of his delicate and spiritual beauty, took the lad to visit
all the other artists in the vicinity. They also visited the
ducal palace, buUt by Federigo the Second, and lingered
there for hours, viewing the paintings, statueiry, carv
ings, tapestries and paneUngs.
The palace still stands, and is yet one of the most noble
in Italy, vying in picturesqueness with those marble
piles that line the Grand Canal at Venice. We know that
Giovanni Sanzio contributed by his advice and skill to
the wealth of beauty in the palace, and we know that
he was always a welcome visitor there. From his boy
hood Raphael was familiar with these artistic splendors,
and how much this early environment contributed to
his correct taste and habit of subdued elegance, no man
can say. When Giovanni Sanzio realized that death was
at his door, he gave Raphael into the keeping of the
priest Bartolomeo eind the boy's stepmother. The
typical stepmother lives, moves and has her being in
neurotic novels written by very young ladies.
Instances can be cited of great men who were loved and
nurtured and ministered to by their stepmothers. I think
23

RAPHAEL

well of womankind. The woman who abuses a waif that
Fate has sent into her care would mistreat her own
children, and is a living libel on her sex.
Let Lincoln and Raphael stand as types of men who
were loved with infinite tenderness by stepmothers.
And then we must not forget Leonardo da Vinci, who
never knew a mother, and had no business to have a
father, but who held averages good with four successive
stepmothers, all of whom loved him with a tender,
jealous and proud devotion.
Bartolomeo, following the wish of the father, continued
to give the boy lessons in drawing and sketching. This
Bartolomeo must not be confused with the Bartolomeo,
friend of Savonarola, who was largely to influence
Raphael later on. It was Bartolomeo, the priest, that
took Raphael to Perugino, who Uved in Perugia.
Perugino, although he was a comparatively young man,
was bigger than the town in which he Uved. His own
name got blown away by a high wind, and he was plain
Perugino — as if there was only one man in Perugia, and
he were that one. " Here is a boy I have brought you
as a pupil," said the priest to Perugino. And Perugino
glancing up from his easel answered, " I thought it was
a girl! " 33 53
The priest continued, " Here is a boy I have brought
you for a pupil, and your chief claim to fame may yet
be that he worked here with you in your studio."
Perugino parried the thrust with a smile. He looked at
24

RAPHAEL

the boy and weis impressed with his beauty. Perugino
afterwards acknowledged that the only reeison he took
him was because he thought he would work in well as
a model 53 53
Perugino was the greatest master of technique of his
time. He had life, and life in abundance. He reveled in
his work, and his enthusiasm ran over, inundating all
those who were near. Courage is a matter of the red
corpuscle. It is oxygen that makes every attack; with
out oxygen in his blood to back him, a man attacks
nothing — not even a pie, much less a blank canvas.
Perugino weis a success; he had orders eihead; he
matched his talent against titles; power flowed his way.
Raphael's serious, sober manner and spiritual beauty
appealed to him. TTiey became eis father and son. The
methodical business plan, which is a prime aid to inspi
ration; the habit of laying out work and completing it;
the high estimate of self; the supreme animation and
belief in the divinity within — all these Raphael caught
from Perugino. Both men were egotists, as are all men
who do things. They had heard the voice — they had had
a " call." The talent is the call, and if a man fails to do
his work in a masterly way, make sure he has mistaken
a lazy wish for a divine passion. There is a difference
between loving the muse and lusting after her.
Perugino had been called, and before Raphael had
worked with him a year, he was sure he had been called,
too. The days in Perugia for Raphael were full of quiet
25

RAPHAEL

joy and growing power. He weis in the actual living
world of men, and things, and useful work. Afternoons,
when the sun's shadows began to lengthen towards the
east, Perugino would often call to his helpers, espe
cially Raphael, and Pinturicchio, another fine spirit, and
off they would go for a tramp, each with a stout staff
and the inevitable portfolio. Out along the narrow
streets of the town, across the Romein arched bridge,
by the market-place to the terraced hillside that over
looked the Umbrian plain, they went; Perugino stout,
strong, smooth-faced, with dark, swarthy features;
Pinturicchio with downy beard, merry eyes and tall,
able form; and lingering behind, came Raphael. His
small black cap fitted closely on his long bronze-gold
hair; his slight, slender and graceful figure barely sug
gested its silken strength held in fine reserve — and all
the time the great brown eyes, which looked as if they
had seen celestial things, scanned the sky, saw the tall
cedars of Lebanon, the flocks on the slopes across the
valley, the scattered stone cottages, the fleecy clouds
that faintly flecked the deep blue of the sky, the distant
spire of a church. All these treasures of the Umbrian
landscape were his. Well might he have anticipated,
four hundred years before he was bom, that greatest of
American writers, and said, " I own the landscape! "53
In frescos signed by Perugino in the year Fourteen
Hundred Ninety-two — a date we can not forget — ^we
see a certain style. In the same design duplicated in
26

RAPHAEL

Fourteen Hundred Ninety-eight, we behold a new and
subtle touch — it is the stroke and line of Raphael.
The " Resurrection" by Perugino, in the Vatican, and the
"Diotalevi Madonna" signed by the same artist, in the
Berlin Museum, show the touch of Raphael, unmistak
ably. The youth was barely seventeen, but he was putting
himself into Perugino's work — and Perugino weis glad.
Raphael's first independent work was probably done
when he was nineteen, and was for the Citta di Castello.
These frescos are signed, "Raphael Urbinas, 1502."
Other lesser pictures and panels thus signed are found
dated Fifteen Hundred Four. They are aU the designs
of Perugino, but worked out with the painstaking care
always shown by very young artists ; yet there is a subtle,
spiritual style that marks, unmistakably, Raphael's
Perugino period.
The "Sposalizio," done in Fifteen Hundred Four, now
in the Brera at Milan, is the first really imjxjrtant work
of Raphael. Next to this is the " Connestabile Madonna,"
which was painted at Perugia and remained there until
Eighteen Hundred Seventy-one, when it was sold by a
degenerate descendant of the original owner to the
Emperor of Russia for sixty-five thousand dollars. Since
then a law has been passed forbidding any one on
serious penalty to remove a " Raphael " from Italy.
But for this law, that threat of a Chicago syndicate to
buy the Pitti Gallery and move its contents to the
" lake front " might have been carried out. 27

RAPHAEL

HE Second Period of Raphael's life opens with
his visit to Florence in Fifteen Hundred Four.
He WEIS now twenty-one years of age, hand
some, proud, reserved. Stories of his power
had preceded him, and the fact that for six years he
had worked with Perugino and been his confidant
and friend made his welcome sure.
Leonardo and Michelangelo were at the height of their
fame, and no doubt they stimulated the ambition of
Raphael more than he ever admitted. He considered
Leonardo the more finished artist of the two. Michel
angelo's heroic strength and sweep of power failed to
win him. The frescos of Masaccio in the Church of
Semta Carmine in Florence he considered better than
any performance of Michelangelo: and eis a Rolemd to
this Oliver, we have a legend to the effect that Raphael
once called upon Michelangelo emd the master sent
down word from the scaffold, where he was at work,
that he was too busy to see visitors, and anyway, he
had all the apprentices that he could look after!
How much this little incident biased Raphael's opinion
conceming MichelEmgelo's art we can not say: possibly
Raphael could not have told, either. But such things
count, I Eim told, for even Doctor Johnson thought
better of Reynolds' work after they had dined together.
^ It seems that Fra Bartolomeo weis one of the first
and best friends Raphael had at Florence. The monk's
gentle spirit and his modest views of men Emd things
28

RAPHAEL

won the young Umbrian; and between these two there
sprang up a friendship so firm and true that death alone
could sever it.
The deep reUgious devotion of Bartolomeo set the key
for the first work done by Raphael at Florence. Most of
the time the young mEm and the monk lived Emd worked
in the SEime studio. It weis a wonderfully proUfic period
for Raphael; from Fifteen Hundred Four to Fifteen
Hundred Eight he pushed forward with a zest and an
earnestness he never again quite equaled. Most of his
beautiful MadoiuiEis belong to this period, and in them
all are a dignity, grace and grandeur that Uft them out
of ecclesiastic art, and place them in the category of
Uving portraits.
Before this, Raphael belonged to the Umbrian School,
but now his work must be classed, if classed at all, as
Florentine. The heindling is freer, the nude more in
evidence, eind the anatomy shows that the artist is
working from life.
Bartolomeo used to speak of Raphael affectionately as
" my son," and called the attention of Bramante, the
architect, to his work. The beauty of his Madonnas was
being discussed in every studio, and when the "Ansidei "
was exhibited in the Church of Santa Croce, such a
crowd flocked to see the picture that services had to be
dismissed. The rush continued until a thrifty priest
bethought him to stand at the main entrance with a
contribution-box and a stout stick, and allow no one
29

RAPHAEL

to enter who did not contribute good silver for " the
worthy poor."
Bartolomeo acknowledged that his " pupil " weis beyond
him. He was invited to add a finishing touch to the
Masaccio frescos; Leonardo, the courtly, had smiled
a gracious recognition, and Michelangelo had sneezed
at mention of his name. Bramante, back at Rome, told
Pope Julius the Second, " There is a yoimg Umbrian
at Florence we must send for."

30

RAPHAEL

REAT things were happening at Rome about
this time: aU roads led thitherward. Pope
JuUus had just laid the cornerstone of Saint
Peter's, and full of ambition was carrying out
the dictum of Pope Nicholas the Fifth, that " the
Church should array herself in all the beauteous spoils
of the world, in order to win the minds of men."
The Renaissance weis fairly begun, fostered and sus
tained by the Church alone. The Quattrocento — that
time of homely peace and the simple quiet of John Ball
and his fellows — lay behind.
Raphael had begim his Roman Period, which was to
round out his working life of barely eighteen years, ere
the rest of the Pantheon was to be his.
Before this his time had been his own, but now the
Church was his mistress. But it was a great honor that
had come to him, greater far than had ever before been
bestowed on any living artist. Barely twenty-five years
of age, the Pope treated him as an equal, and worked
him like a packhorse. " He has the face of an angel,"
cried Julius, " and the soul of a god! " — when some one
suggested his youth.
Pope Leo the Tenth, of the Medici family, succeeded
Julius. He sent Michelangelo to Florence to employ his
talents upon the Medicean church of San Lorenzo. He
dismissed Perugino, Pinturicchio and Piero Delia
Francesca, although Raphael in tears pleaded for them
all. Their frescos were destroyed, and Raphael was
31

RAPHAEL

told to go ahead and make the Vatican what it should
be 53 53
His first large work was to decorate the Hall of the
Signatures (Steinza della Segnatura), where we today
see the " Dispute." Near at hand is the famous " School
of Athens." In this picture his own famous portrait is
to be seen with that of Perugino. The first place is given
to Perugino, and the faces affectionately side by side are
posed in a way that has given a cue to ten thousand
photographers.
The attitude is especially valuable, eis a bit of history
showing Raphael's sterUng attachment to his old
teacher. The Vatican is filled with the work of Raphael,
and aside from the galleries to which the general public
is admitted, studies and frescos are to be seen in many
rooms that are closed unless, say. Archbishop Ireland
be with you, when all doors fly open at your touch.
The seven Raphsiel tapestries are shown at the Vaticein
an hour each day ; the rest of the time the room is closed
to protect them from the light. However, the original
ceirtoons at South Kensington reveal the sweep and
scope of Raphael's genius better them the tapestries
themselves 53 53
Work, unceasing work, filled his days. The ingenuity and
industry of the mem were marvelous. Upwards of eighty
portraits were painted during the Roman Period,
besides designs innumerable for engravings, and even
for silver and iron ornaments required by the Church.
32

RAPHAEL

Pupils helped him much, of course, and among these
must be mentioned Giulio Romano and Gianfrancesco
Penni. These young men lived with Raphael in his
splendid house that stood halfway between Saint Peter's
and the Castle Angelo. Fire swept the space a hundred
years later, and the magnificence it once knew has
never been replaced. Today, hovels built from stone
quarried from the ruins mark the spot. But as one
follows this white, dusty road, it is well to remember
that the feet of Raphael, peissing and repassing, have,
more than any other one street of Rome, made it
sacred soil 33 33
We have seen that Breimante brought Raphael to Rome,
and Pope Leo the Tenth remembered this when the
first architect of Saint Peter's peissed away. Raphael was
appointed his successor. The honor was merited, but the
place should have gone to one not already overworked.
In Fifteen Hundred Fifteen Raphael WEis made Director
of Excavations, another office for which his esthetic and
delicate nature weis not fitted. In sympathy, of course,
his heart went out to the antique workers of the ancient
world, on whose ruins the Eternal City is built ; but the
drudgery of overseeing and superintendence belonged
to another type of man.
The stress of the times had told on Raphael; he was
thirty-five, rich beyond all Umbrian dreams of avarice,
on an equality with the greatest and noblest men of his
time, honored above all other living artists. But life
33

RAPHAEL

began to pall; he had won all — and thereby had learned
the worthlessness of what the world has to offer. Dreams
of rest, of love and a quiet country home, came to him.
He was betrothed to Maria di Bibbiena, a niece of
Cardinal Bibbiena. The day of the wedding had been
set, and the Pope was to perform the ceremony.
But the Pope regarded Raphael as a servant of the
Church: he had work for him to do, and moreover he
had fixed ideas concerning the glamour of sentimental-
ism, so he requested that the wedding be postponed for
a space 53 53
,A request from the Pope was an order, and so the coun
try house was packed away with other dreams that
Were to come true all in God's good time.
But the realization of love's dream did not come true, for
Raphael had a rival. Death claimed his bride.
She was buried in the Pantheon, where within a year
Raphael's wornout body was placed beside hers; and
there the dust of both mingle.
The history of this love-tragedy has never been written;
it lies buried there with the lovers. But a contemporary
said that the fear of an enforced separation broke the
young woman's heart; and this we know, that after
her death, Raphael's hand forgot its cunning, and his
frame was ripe for the fever that was so soon to burn
out the strands of his life.
Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Perugino and Fra
Bartolomeo had all made names for themselves before
34

RAPHAEL

Raphael appeared upon the scene. Yet they one and all
profited by his example, and were the richer in that he
had lived.
Michelangelo was born nine years before Raphael and
survived him forty-three years.
Titian was six years old when Raphael was born, and
he continued to live and work for fifty-six years after
Raphael had passed away.
It was a cause of grief to Michelangelo, even to the
day of his death, that he and Raphael had not been
close, personal and loving friends, as indeed they should
have been.
The art-world was big enough for both. Yet Rome was
divided into two hostile camps: those who favored
Raphael; and those who had but one prophet, Michel
angelo. Busybodies rushed back and forth, carrying
foolish and inconsequential messages; and these strong
yet gentle men, both hungering for sympathy and love,
were thrust apart.
When Raphael realized the end was nigh, he sent for
Perugino, and directed that he should complete certain
work. His career had begun by working with Perugino,
and now this friend of a lifetime must finish the broken
task and make good the whole. He bade his beloved
pupils, one by one, farewell ; signed his will, which gave
most of his valuable property to his fellow-workers;
and commended his soul to the God who gave it. He
died on his birthday. Good Friday, April Sixth, Fifteen 35

RAPHAEL

Hundred Twenty, aged thirty-seven years. Michel
angelo wore mourning upon his sleeve for a year after
Raphael's death 53 And once Michelangelo said,
" Raphael was a child, a beautiful child, and if he had
only lived a little longer, he and I would have grasped
hands as men and worked together as brothers."

36

LEONARDO

The world, perhaps, contains no other example of a
genius so universEd as Leonardo's, so creative, so
incapable of self -contentment, so athirst for the infinite,
so naturally refined, so far in advance of his own and
subsequent ages. His pictures express incredible sensi
bility and mental power; they overflow with unex
pressed ideas and emotions. Alongside of his portraits
Michelangelo's personages are simply heroic athletes;
Raphael's virgins are only placid children whose souls
are still asleep. His beings feel and think through every
line and trait of their physiognomy. Time is necessary to
enter into communion with them; not that their senti
ment is too slightly marked, for, on the contrary, it
emerges from the whole investiture; but it is too subtle,
too complicated, too far above and beyond the ordi
nary, too dreamlike and inexplicable.
— Taine in "A Journey Through Italy"

LEONARDO

LEONARDO

HERE is a little book by George B.
Rose, entitled, " Renaissance Mas
ters," which is quite worth your
while to read. 1 carried a copy, for
company, in the side-pocket of my
coat for a week, and just peeped
into it at odd times. I remember that
— ' I thought so little of the volume
that I read it with a lead-pencil and marked it all up and
down and over, and filled the fly-leaves with random
thoughts, and disfigured the margins with a few foolish
sketches 53 53
Then one fine day White Pigeon came out to the Roy-
croft Shop from Buffalo, as she was passing through.
She came on the two-o'clock train and went away on the
four-o'clock, and her visit was like a window flung open
to the Eizure.
White Pigeon remained at East Aurora only two hours
— " not long enough," she said, " to knock the gold and
emerald off the butterfly's beautiful wings."
White Pigeon saw the little book I have mentioned, on
my table in the tower-room. She picked it up and turned
the leaves aimlessly; then she opened her Boston bag
and slipped the book inside, saying as she did so:
" You do not mind? "
And I said, " Certainly not! " 39

LEONARDO

Then she added, " 1 like to follow in the pathway you
have blazed."
That closed the matter so far as the little book was con
cerned. Save, perhaps, that after 1 had walked to the
station with White Pigeon and she had boarded the
car, she stepped out upon the rear platform, and as I
stood there at the station watching the train disappear
around the curve. White Pigeon reached into the
Boston bag, took out the little book and held it up.
^ That was the last time 1 saw White Pigeon. She was
looking well and strong, and her step, I noticed, was
firm and sure, and she carried the crown of her head
high and her chin in. It made me carry my chin in, too,
just by force of example, I suppose — ^so easily are we
influenced. When you walk with some folks you slouch
along, but others there be who make you feel an upward
lift and skyey gravitation — it is very curious!
Yet I do really beUeve White Pigeon is forty, or awfully
close to it. There are silver streaks among her brown
braids, and surely the peachblow has long gone from
her cheek. TTien she was awfully tanned — and that little
mole on her forehead, and its mate on her chin, stand
out more than ever, like the freckles on the face of
Alcibiades Roycroft when he has taken on his August
russet 53 53
1 think White Pigeon must be near forty! That is the
second book she has stolen from me; the other weis Meix
Muller 's " Memories " — it was at the Louvre in Paris,
40

LEONARDO

August the Fourteenth, Eighteen Hundred Ninety-five,
as we sat on a bench, silent before the " Mona Lisa "
of Leonardo 53 53
This book, " Renaissance Masters," 1 did n't care much
for, anyway. I got no information from it, yet it gave
me a sort o' glow — that is all — like that lecture which I
heard in my boyhood by Wendell PhiUips.
There is only one thing in the book 1 remember, but that
stands out as clearly eis the little mole on White Pigeon's
forehead. The author said that Leonardo da Vinci
invented more useful appliances than emy other man
who ever lived, except our own Exlison.
1 know Edison : he is a most lovable man (because he is
himself), very deaf — and glad of it, he says, because it
saves him from hearing a lot of things he does n't wish
to hear. " It is like this," he once said to me: " deafness
gives you a needed isolation; reduces your sensitiveness
so things do not disturb or distract; allows you to con
centrate and focus on a thought until you run it down —
see? " 53 53
Edison is a great Philistine — reads everything I write —
has a complete file of the little brownie magazine; and
some of the " Little Journeys " I saw he had interlined
and marked, I think Edison is one of the greatest men
I ever met — he appreciates Good Things.
I told Edsion how this writer, Rose, had compared him
with Leonardo. He smiled and said, " Who is Rose? "
Then after a little pause he continued, " The Great Man
41

LEONARDO

is one who has been a long time dead — the woods are
full of wizards, but not many of them know that";
and the Wizard laughed softly at his own joke.
What kind of a man was Leonardo? Why, he was the
same kind of a man as Edison — only Leonardo was thin
and tall, while Edison is stout. But you and I would be
at home with either. Both are classics and therefore
essentially modern. Leonardo studied Nature at first
hand — he took nothing for granted — Nature was his
one book. Stuffy, fussy, indoor professors — men of
awful dignity — frighten folks, cause children to scream,
and ladies to gaze in awe ; but Leonardo was simple and
unpretentious. He was at home in any society, high or
low, rich or poor, learned or unlearned — and was quite
content to be himself. It 's a fine thing to be yourself!
^ Thackeray once said, " If 1 had met Shakespeare on
the stairs, 1 know I should have fainted dead away! "
1 do not believe Shakespeare's presence ever made any
body faint. He was so big that he could well afford to
put folks at their ease.
If Leonardo should come to East Aurora, Bertie, Oliver,
Lyle and 1 would tramp with him across the fields, and
he would carry that leather bag strung across his
shoulder, just as he ever did when in the country. He
was a geologist and a botanist, and was always collect
ing things (and forgetting where they were).
We would tramp with him, 1 say, and if the season were
right we would go through orchards, sit under the trees
42

LEONARDO

and eat apples. And Leonardo would talk, as he liked to
do, and tell why the side of fruit that was towards the
sun took on a beautiful color first; and when an apple
fell from the tree he would, so to speak, anticipate Sir
Isaac Newton and explain why it fell down and not up.
^ That leather bag of his, I fear, would get rather heavy
before we got back, and probably Oliver and Lyle would
dispute the honor of carrying it for him.
Leonardo was once engaged by Cesare Borgia to fortify
the kingdom of Romagna. It was a brand-new kingdom,
presented to the young man by Pope Alexander the
Sixth. It was really the Pope who ordered Leonardo to
survey the tract and make plans for the fortifications
and canals and all that — so Leonardo did n't like to
refuse. Cesare Borgia had the felicity of being the son
of the Pope, but the Pope used to refer to him as his
nephew — it was a habit that Popes once had. Pope
Alexander also had a daughter — by name, Lucrezia
Borgia — sister to Cesare and very much like him, for
they took their diversion in the same way.
Leonardo started in to do the work and make plans for
fortifications that should be impregnable. He looked the
ground over thoroughly, traveling on horseback, and his
two servants followed him up in a cart drawn by a bull,
which Leonardo calmly explains was a " side- wheeler."
^ Leonardo carried a big sketchbook, and as he made
plans for redoubts, he made notes to the effect that
crows fly in flocks without a leader, and wild ducks have
43

LEONARDO

a system and fly V shape, with a leader that changes off
from time to time with the privates. Also, a waterfall
runs the musical gamut, and the water might be sepa
rated so as to play a tune. Also, the leaves tum to gold
through oxidation, and robins pair for life.
Leonardo also wrote at this time on the movements of
the clouds, the broken strata of rocks, the fertilization of
flowers, the habits of bees, and a hundred other themes
which fill the library of notebooks that he left.
Meanwhile, Cesare Borgia was getting a trifle impatient
about the building of his forts. Two years had passed
when Cesare and his father met with em accident not
uncommon in those times. The precious pair had
indulged in their Borgian specialty for the benefit of a
certain cardinal, whom they did not warmly admire,
though the plot seems to have been chiefly the work of
Cesare. By mistake they drank the pxjisoned wine pre
pared for the cardinal, and the Pope was cut off amidst
a life of usefulness, his son surviving for a worse fate.
Pope Julius the Second coming upon the scene, speedily
dispossessed the Borgias, and the idea of the new king
dom weis abandoned.
Leonardo evidently did not go into mourning for the
Pope. He had a bullock-cart loaded with specimens,
sketches and notebooks, and he set to work to sort them
out. He was very happy in this employment — ^being
essentially a man of peace — and while he made forts
and planned siege-guns he was a deal more interested in
44

LEONARDO

certain swallows that made nests and glued the work
into a most curious and beautiful structure, and when
the birds were old enough to fly, tore up the nest,
pushing the wee birds out to " swim in the air " or
perish 53 33
I made some notes about Leonardo's bird observations
in the back of that " Renaissance " book that White
Pigeon appropriated. I can not recall just what they
were — 1 think I '11 hunt White Pigeon up the next time
I am in Paris, and get the book back.

45

LEONARDO

jHEN that painstaking biographer, Arsene
Houssaye, was endeavoring to fix the date of
Leonardo da Vinci's birth, he interviewed a
certain bishop, who waived the matter thus:
" Surely what difference does it make, since he had no
business to be born at all ? " — a very Milesian-like reply.
Houssaye is too sensible a man to weiste words with the
spiritually obese, and so merely answered in the lan
guage of Terence, " 1 am a man and nothing that is
human is alien to me! "
The gentle Erasmus when a boy was once taunted by a
schoolfellow with having " no name." And Erasmus
replied, "Then, I '11 make one for myself." And he did.
^ No record of Leonardo's birth exists, but the year is
fixed upon in a very curious way. Caterina, his mother,
was married one year after his birth. The date of this
marriage is proven, and the fact that the son of Piero da
Vinci was then a year old is also shown. As the marriage
occurred in Fourteen Hundred Fifty-three, we simply
go back one year and say that Leonardo da Vinci was
born in Fourteen Hundred Fifty-two.
Most accounts say that Caterina was a servant in the
Da Vinci family, but a later and seemingly more
authentic writer informs us that she was a governess
and a teacher of needlework. That her kinsmen hastened
her marriage with the peasant, Vacca Accattabriga,
seems quite certain: they sought to establish her in a
respectable position. And so she acquiesced, and
46

LEONARDO

avoided society's displeasure, very much as Lord Bacon
escaped disgrace by leaving " Hamlet " upon Shake
speare's doorstep.
This child of Caterina's found a warm welcome in the
noble family of his father. From his babyhood he seems
to have had the power of winning hearts — he came
fresh from God and brought love with him. We even
hear a little rustle of dissent from grandmother and
aunts when his father, Piero da Vinci, married, and
started housekeeping eis did Benjamin Franklin " with
a wife and a bouncing boy."
The charm of the child is again revealed in the fact that
his stepmother treated him as her own babe, and
lavished her love upon him even from her very wedding
morn 53 53
Perhaps the compliment should go to her, as well eis to
the child, for the woman whose heart goes out to another
woman's babe is surely good quality. And this was the
only taste of motherhood that this brave womem knew,
for she passed out in a few months.
Fate decreed that Leonardo should have successively
four stepmothers, and should live with all of them in
happiness and harmony, for he always made his father's
house his own.
Leonardo was the idol of his father and all these step
mothers. He had ten half-brothers, who alternately
boeisted of his kinship and flouted him. Yet nothing
could seriously disturb the serenity of his mind. When
47

LEONARDO

his father died, without a will, the brothers sought to
dispossess Leonardo of his rights, and we hear of a law
suit, which was finally compromised. Yet note the
magnanimity of Leonardo — in his will he leaves bequests
to these brothers who had sought to undo him!
Of the life of the mother after her marriage we know
nothing. There is a vague reference in Vasari's book to
her "large family and growing cares," but whether she
knew of her son's career, we can not say. Leonardo never
mentions her, yet one writer has attempted to show that
the rare beauty of that mysterious face shown in so
many of Leonardo's pictures was modeled from the
face of his mother.
No love-story comes to us in Leonardo's own life — he
never married. Ventura suggests that " on account of
his birth, he was indifferent to the divine institution of
marriage." But this is pure conjecture. We know that
his great contemporaries, Michelangelo, Raphael, Titian
and Giorgione, never married ; and we know further that
there was a sentiment in the air at that time, that an
artist belonged to the Church, and his life, like that of
the priest, was sacred to her service.
Like Sir William Davenant, Leonardo was always proud
of the mystery that surrounded his birth — it differen
tiated him from the mass, and placed him as one set
apart. Well might he have used the language put into
the mouth of Edmund in " King Lear." In one of
Leonardo's manuscripts is found an interjected prayer
48

LEONARDO

of thankfulness for " the divinity of my birth, and the
angels that have guarded my life and guided my feet."
^ This idea of " divinity " is strong in the mind of every
great man. He recognizes his sonship, and claims his
divine parentage. The man of masterly mind is perforce
an Egotist. When he speaks he says, " Thus saith the
Lord." If he did not believe in himself, how could he
make others believe in him? Small men are apologetic
and give excuses for being on earth, and reasons for
staying here so long, and run and peek about to find
themselves dishonorable graves. Not so the Great Souls
— the fact that they are here is proof that God sent
them. Their actions are regal, their language oracular,
their manner affirmative. Leonardo's mental attitude
was sublimely gracious — he had no grievance or quarrel
with his Maker — he accepted life, and ever found it
good. " We are all sons of God and it doth not yet
appear what we shall be."

49

LEONARDO

IHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON, who wrote
" The Intellectual Life," names Leonardo da
Vinci as having lived the richest, fullest and
best-rounded life of which we know. Yet while
Leonardo lived, there also lived Shakespeare, Loyola,
Cervantes, Columbus, Martin Luther, Savonarola,
Erasmus, Michelangelo, Titian and Raphael. Titans all
— giants in intellect and performance, doing and daring,
and working such wonders as men never worked before:
writing plays, without thought of posterity, that are
today the mine from which men work their poetry;
producing comedies that are classic; sailing trackless
seas and discovering continents; tacking proclamations
of defiance on church-doors; hunted and exiled for the
right of honest speech ; welcoming fierce flames of fagots ;
falling upon blocks of marble and liberating angels;
painting pictures that have inspired millions! But not
one touched life at so many points, or reveled so in
existence, or was so captain of his soul as was Leonardo
da Vinci 33 33
Vasari calls him the " divinely endowed," " showered
with the richest gifts as by celestial munificence," and
speaks of his countenance thus: " The radiance of his
face was so splendidly beautiful that it brought cheer
fulness to the hearts of the most melancholy, and his
presence was such that his lightest word would move
the most obstinate to say ' Yes ' or ' No.' "
Bandello, the story-teller who was made a Bishop on
50

LEONARDO

account of his peculiar talent, had the effrontery to put
one of his worst stories, that about the adventures of
Fra Lippo Lippi, into the mouth of Leonardo. This
rough-cast tale, somewhat softened down and hand-
polished, served for one of Browning's best-known
poems. Had Bandello allowed BotticelU to tell the tale,
it would have been much more in keeping. Leonardo's
days were too full of work to permit of his indulging in
the society of roysterers — ^his life was singularly digni
fied and upright.
When about twenty years old Leonardo was a fellow-
student with Perugino in the bottega of good old Andrea
del Verrocchio. It seems the master painted a group and
gave Leonardo the task of drawing in one figure.
Leonardo painted in an angel — an angel whose grace and
subtle beauty stand out, even today, like a ray of light.
The story runs that good old Verrocchio wept on first
seeing it — ^wept unselfish tears of joy, touched with a
very human pathos — his pupil had far surpassed him,
and never again did Verrocchio attempt to paint.
In physical strength Leonardo surpassed all his com
rades. " He could twist horseshoes between his fingers,
bend bars of iron across his knees, disarm every adver
sary, and in wrestling, running, vaulting and swimming
he had no equals. He was especially fond of horses, and
in the joust often rode animals that had never before
been ridden, winning prizes from the most daring." 33
Brawn is usually purchased at the expense of brain, but
51

LEONARDO

not so in this case. Leonardo was the courtier and diplo
mat, and all the finer graces were in his keeping, even
from boyhood. And a recent biographer has made the
discovery that he was called from Florence to the Court
of Milan " because he was such an adept harpist, play
ing and singing his own compositions."
Yet we have the letter written by Leonardo to the Duke
of Milan, wherein he commends himself, and in humility
tells of a few things he can do. This most precious
document is now in the Ambrosian Library at Milan.
After naming nine items in the way of constructing
bridges, tunnels, canals, fortifications, the making of
cannon, use of combustibles and explosives — known to
him alone — he gets down to things of peace and says:
" I believe I am equaled by no one in architecture in
constructing public and private buildings, and in con
ducting water from one place to another. I can execute
sculpture, whether in marble, bronze or terra cotta, and
in drawing and p>ainting I believe I can do as much as
any other man, be he who he may. Further, I could
engage to execute the bronze statue in memory of your
honored father. And again, if any of the above-men
tioned things should appear impossible or overstated, I
am ready to make such performance in any place or at
any time to prove to you my power. In humility I thus
commend myself to your illustrious house, and am your
servant, Leonardo da Vinci."
And the strange part of all this is that Leonardo could
52

LEONARDO

do all he claimed — or he might, if there were a hundred
hours in a day and man did not grow old.
The things he predicted and planned have mostly been
done. He knew the earth was round, and understood the
orbits of the planets — Columbus knew no more. His
scheme of building a canal from Pisa to Florence and
diverting the waters of the Arno, was carried out exactly
as he had planned, two hundred years after his death 33
He knew the expansive quality of steam, the right
systems of dredging, the action of the tides, the proper
use of levers, screws and cranes, and how immense
weights could be raised and lowered. He placed a new
foundation under a church that was sinking in the sand
and elevated the whole stone structure several feet. But
when Vasari seriously says he had a plan for moving
mountains (aside from faith), 1 think we had better
step aside and talk of other things.
And all this time that he was working at physics and
mathematics, he was painting and modeling in clay,
just for recreation.
Then behold the Duke of Milan, the ascetic and profli
gate, libertine and dreamer, hearing of him and sending
straightway for Leonardo because he is " the most
accomplished harpist in Italy " !
So Leonardo came and led the dance and the tourney,
improvised songs and planned the fetes and festivals
where strange animals turned into birds and gigantic
flowers opened, disclosing beautiful girls. 53

LEONARDO

Yet Leonardo found time to plan the equestrian statue
of Francisco Sporza, the Duke's father, and finding the
subject so interesting he took up the systematic study
of the horse, and dived to the depths of horse anatomy
in a way that no living man had done before. He dis
sected the horse, articulated the skeletons of different
breeds for comparison, and then wrote a book upon the
subject which is a textbook yet; and meanwhile he let
the statue wait. He discovered that in the horse there
are rudimentary muscles, and unused organs — the
" water-stomach," for instance — thus showing that
the horse evolved from a lower form of life — anticipating
Darwin by three hundred years.
The Duke was interested in statues and pictures — what
he called " results " — he did n't care for speculations or
theories, and only a live horse that could run fast
interested him. So to keep the peace, the gracious
Leonardo painted portraits of the Duke's mistress.
posing her as the Blessed Virgin, thus winning the royal
favor and getting carte-blanche orders on the Keeper of
the Exchequer. As a result of this Milan period we have
the superb portrait, now in the Louvre, of Lucrezia
Crivelli, who was supposed to be the favorite of the
Duke 33 53
But the Duke was a married man. and the good wife
must be placated. She had turned to religion when her
lover's love grew cold, just as women always do; and for
her Leonardo painted the " Last Supper " in the dining-
54

LEONARDO

room of the monastery which was under her especial
protection, and where she often dined.
The devout lady found much satisfaction in directing
the work, which was to be rather general and simply
decorative. But the heart of Leonardo warmed to the
task and as he worked he planned the most famous
painting in the world. All this time Leonardo had many
pupils in painting and sculpture. Soon he founded the
Milan Academy of Art. At odd times he made designs
for the Duke's workers in silver and gold, drew patterns
for the nuns to embroider from, and gave them and the
assembled ladies, invited on the order of the Duke's
wife, lessons in literature and the gentle art of writing
pxjetry 53 53
The Prior of the monastery watched the work of the
" Last Supper " with impatient eyes. He had given up
the room to the lumbering scaffolds, hoping to have all
cleaned up and tidy in a month, come Michaelmas. But
the month had passed and only blotches of color and
black, curious outlines marred the walls. Once the Prior
threatened to remove the lumber by force and wipe the
walls clean, but Leonardo looked at him and he re
treated 53 53
Now he complained to the Duke about the slowness of
the task. Leonardo worked alone, allowing no pupil or
helper to touch the picture. Five good, lively men could
do the job in a week — " 1 could do it myself, if allowed,"
the good Prior said. Often Leonardo would stand with
55

LEONARDO

folded arms and survey the work for an hour at a time
and not lift a brush; the Prior had seen it all through
the keyhole!
The Duke listened patiently and then summoned
Leonardo. The painter's gracious speech soon convinced
the Duke that men of genius do not work like hired
laborers. This painting was to be a masterpiece, fit
monument to a wise and virtuous ruler. So consummate
a performance must not be hastened ; besides there was
no one to pose for either the head of Christ or of Judas.
The Christ must be ideal and the face could only be
conjured forth from the painter's own soul, in moments
of inspiration. As for JudEis, " Why, if nothing better
can be found — and I doubt it much — I believe I will
take as model for Judas our friend the Prior! " And
Leonardo turned to the Prior, who fled and never again
showed his face in the room until the picture was
finished 53 53
The Prior's complaint, that Leonardo had too many
irons in the fire, was the universal cry the groundlings
raised against him. " He begins things, but never com
pletes them," they said.
The man of genius conceives things; the man of talent
carries them forward to completion. This the critics
did not know. It is too much to expect the equal balance
of genius and talent in one individual. Leonardo had
great talent, but his genius outstripped it, for he planned
what twenty lifetimes could not complete. He was
56

LEONARDO

indeed the endless experimenter — his weis in very truth
the Experimental Life. His incentive was self-develop
ment — to conceive was enough — common men could
complete. To try many things means Power: to finish
a few is Immortality.

57

LEONARDO

lOD'S masterpiece is the human face. A
woman's smile may have in it more sublimity
than a sunset; more pathos than a battle-
scarred landscape; more warmth than the
sun's bright ray ; more love than words can say.
The human face is the masterpiece of God.
The eyes reveal the soul, the mouth the flesh, the chin
stands for purpose, the nose means will. But over and
behind all is that fleeting Something we call " expres
sion." This Something is not set or fixed, it is fluid as the
ether, changeful as the clouds that move in mysterious
majesty across the surface of a summer sky, subtle as
the sob of rustling leaves — too faint at times for human
ears — elusive as the ripples that play hide-and-seek over
the bosom of a placid lake.
And yet men have caught expression and held it captive.
On the walls of the Louvre hangs the " Mona Lisa "
of Leonardo da Vinci. This picture has been for four
hundred years an exasperation and an inspiration to
every portrait-painter who has put brush to palette.
Well does Walter Pater call it, " The Despair of
Painters." The artist was over fifty years of age when
he began the work, and he was four years in completing
the task 53 53
Completing, did 1 say? Leonardo's dying regret was
that he had not completed this picture. And yet we
might say of it, as Ruskin said of Turner's work, " By
no conceivable stretch of imagination can we say where
58

LEONARDO

this picture could be bettered or improved upon."
^ Leonardo did not paint this pxjrtrait for the woman
who sat for it, nor for the woman's husband, who we
know WEIS not interested in the matter. The painter
made the picture for himself, but succumbing to
temptation, sold it to the King of France for a sum equal
to something over eighty thousand dollars — an enor
mous amount at that time to be paid for a single canvas.
The picture was not for sale, which accounts for the
tremendous price that it brought.
Unlike so many other works attributed to Leonardo, no
doubt exists as to the authenticity of " La Gioconda."
The correspondence relative to its sale yet exists, and
even the voucher proving its payment may still be seen.
Fate and fortune have guarded the " Mona Lisa" ; and
neither thief nor vandal, nor impious infidel nor un-
appreciative stupidity, nor time itself has done it harm.
France bought the picture; France has always owned
and housed it; it still belongs to France.
We call the " Mona Lisa " a portrait, and we have been
told how La Gioconda sat for the picture, and how the
artist invented ways of amusing her, by stories, recita
tions, the luring strain of hidden lutes, and strange
flowers and rare pictures brought in as surprises to
animate and cheer.
That Leonardo loved this woman we are sure, and that
their friendship was close and intimate the world has
guessed; but the picture is not her portrait — it is himself 59

LEONARDO

whom the artist reveals. ^ Away back in his youth,
when Leonardo was a student with Verrocchio. he gave
us glimpses of this same face. He showed this woman's
mysterious smile in the Madonna, in Saint Anne, Mary
Magdalen, and the outlines of the features are suggested
in the Christ and the Saint John of the " Last Supper."
But not until La Gioconda had piosed for him did the
consummate beauty and mysterious intellect of this
ideal countenance find expression.
There is in the face all you can read into it, and nothing
more. It gives you what you bring, and nothing else.
It is as silent as the lips of Memnon, as voiceless eis the
Sphinx. It suggests to you every joy that you have ever
felt, every sorrow you have ever known, every triumph
you have ever experienced.
This woman is beautiful, just eis all life is beautiful when
we are in health. She hEis no quarrel with the world — she
loves and she is loved again. No vain longing fills her
heart, no feverish unrest disturbs her dreEims, for her no
crouching fear haunts the passing hours — that ineffable
smile which plays around her mouth says plainly that
Ufe is good. And yet the circles about the eyes and the
drooping lids hint of world-weariness, and speak the
message of Koheleth and say, " Vanity of vanities, all
is vanity."
La Gioconda is infinitely wise, for she has lived. That
supreme jwjise is only possible to one who knows. All the
experiences and emotions of manifold existence have
60

LEONARDO

etched and molded that form and face until the body
has become the perfect instrument of the soul.
Like every piece of intense personality, this picture has
jxjwer both to repel and to attract. To this woman
nothing is either necessarily good or bad. She has known
strange woodland loves in far-off eons when the world
was young. She is familiar with the nights and days of
Cleopatra, for they were hers — the lavish luxury, the
animalism of a soul on fire, the smoke of curious incense
that brought p)oppy-like repose, the satiety that sickens
— all these were her pxartion; the sting of the asp yet
lingers in her memory, and the faint scar from its fangs
is upon her white breast, known and wondered at by
Leonardo who loved her. Back of her stretches her life,
a mysterious, purple shadow. Do you not see the palaces
turned to dust, the broken columns, the sunken trea
sures, the creeping mosses and the rank ooze of fretted
waters that have undermined cities and turned king
doms into desert seas? The galleys of Pagan Greece
have swung wide for her on the unforgetting tide, for
her soul dwelt in the body of Helen of Troy, and Pallfiis
Athene has followed her ways and whispered to her the
secrets even of the gods.
Aye ! not only was she Helen, but she weis Leda, the
mother of Helen. Then she was Saint Anne, mother of
Mary; and next she was Mary, visited by em Angel in a
dream, and followed by the Wise Men who had seen the
Star in the East. 61

LEONARDO

The centuries, that are but thoughts, found her a Vestal
Virgin in Pagan Rome when brutes were kings, and lust
stalked rampant through the streets. She was the bride
of Christ, and her fair, frail body weis flung to the wild
beasts, and torn limb from limb while the multitude
feasted on the sight.
True to the central impulse of her soul the Dark Ages
rightly called her Cecilia, and then Saint Cecilia, mother
of sacred music, and later she ministered to men as
Melania, the Nun of Tagaste ; next as that daughter of
William the Conqueror, the Sister of Charity who went
throughout Italy, Spain and France and taught the
women of the nunneries how to sew, to weave, to
embroider, to illuminate books, and make beauty, truth
and harmony manifest to human eyes. And so this Lady
of the Beautiful Hands stood to Leonardo as the em
bodiment of a perpetual life; moving in a constantly
ascending scale, gathering wisdom, graciousness, love,
even as he himself in this life met every experience half
way and counted it joy. knowing that experience is the
germ of power. Life writes its history upon the face, so
that all those who have had a like experience read and
understand. The human face is the masterpiece of God.

62

BOTTICELLI

In Leonardo's " Treatise on Painting," only one con
temporary is named — Sandro Botticelli. * * * The Pagan
and Christian world- mingle in the work of Botticelli ;
but the man himself belonged to an age that is past and
gone — an age that flourished long before men recorded
history. His best efforts seem to spring out of a heart
that forgot all precedent, and arose, Venus-like, perfect
and complete, from the unfathomable Sea of Existence.
—Walter Pater

BOTTICELLI

BOTTICELLI

NE Professor Max Lautner has
IrJT^^^^'f recently placed a small petard under
TF^2!^v\S^ tUe European world of Art, and
^^^''-^ <^ *^^ given it a hoist to starboard, by
asserting that Rembrandt did not
paint Rembrandt's best pictures.
TTie Professor makes his point lu
minous by a cryptogram he has
invented and for which he has filed a caveat. It Is a
very useful cryptogreim; no well-regulated family should
be without It — for by It you can prove any proposition
you may make, even to establishing that Hopkinson
Smith Is America's only stylist. My opinion Is that this
cryptogram Is an Infringement on that of our lamented
countryman, Ignatius Donnelly.
But letting that pass, the statement that Rembrandt
could not have painted the pictures that are ascribed
to him, " because the man was low, vulgar and un
taught," commands respect on account of the extreme
crudity of the thought involved. Lautner Is so dull that
he Is entertaining.
" I have the capacity In me for every crime," wrote that
gentlest of gentle men, Ralph Waldo Emerson. Of course
he had n't, and in making this assertion Emerson pulled
toward him a little more credit than was his due. That
is, he overstated a great classic truth. 65

BOTTICELLI

"If Rembrandt painted the ' Christ at Emmaus ' and
the ' Sortie of the Civic Guard,' then Rembrandt had
two souls," exclaims Professor Lautner.
And the simple answer of Emerson would have been,
" He had."
That is just the difference between Rembrandt and
Professor Lautner. Lautner has one flat, dead-level,
unprofitable soul that neither soars high nor dives deep;
and his mind reasons unobjectionable things out
syllogistlcally, in a manner perfectly inconsequential.
He is icily regular, splendidly null.
Every man measures others by himself — he heis only
one standard. When a man ridicules certain traits in
other men, he ridicules himself. How would he know
that other men were contemptible, did he not look into
his own heart and there see the hateful things? Thack
eray wrote his book on Snobs, because he was a Snob —
which is not to say that he was a Snob all the time 53
When you recognize a thing, good or bad, in the out
side world, it Is because it was yours already.
" I carry the world in my heart," said the Prophet of
old. All the universe you have is the universe you have
within 53 53
Old Walt Whitman, when he saw the wounded soldier,
exclaimed, " 1 am that man! " And two thousand years
before this, Terence said, " I am a man, and nothing
that is human Is alien to me."
I know just why Professor Lautner believes that
66

BOTTICELLI

Rembrandt never could have painted a picture with a
deep, tender, subtle and spiritual significance. Professor
Lautner averages fairly well, he labors hard to be con
sistent, but his thought gamut runs just from Bottom
the weaver to Dogberry the judge. He Is a cauliflower —
that is to say, a cabbage with a college education.
Yes, I understand him, because for most of the time I
myself am supremely dull, childishly dogmatic, beauti
fully self-complacent.
I am Lautner.
Lautner says that Rembrandt was " untaught," and
Donnelly said the same of Shakespeare, and each critic
gives this as a reason why the man could not have done
a sublime performance. Yet since " Hamlet " was never
equaled, who could have taught Its author how? And
since Rembrandt at his best was never surpassed, who
could have instructed him?
Rembrandt sold his wife's wedding-garments, and spent
the money for strong drink.
The woman was dead.
And then there came to him days of anguish, and nights
of grim, grinding pain. He paced the echoing halls, as
did Robert Browning after the death of Elizabeth Bar
rett when he cried aloud, " I want her! I want her! " 53
The cold gray light of morning came creeping into the
sky. Rembrandt was fevered, restless, sleepless. He sat
by the window and watched the day unfold. And as he
sat there looking out to the east, the light of love
67

BOTTICELLI

gradually drove the darkness from his heart. He grew
strangely calm — he listened, he thought he heard the
rustle of a woman's garments; he caught the smell of her
hair — he imagined Saskia was at his elbow. He took up
the palette and brushes that for weeks had lain idle, and
he outlined the " Christ at Emmaus " — the gentle,
loving, sympathetic Christ — the worn, emaciated.
thorn-crowned, bleeding Christ, whom the Pharisees
misunderstood, and the soldiers spat upon.
Don't you know how Rembrandt painted the " Christ
at Emmaus "? I do. I am that man.

68

BOTTICELLI

HORTLY after Sandro Botticelli had painted
that distinctly pagan picture, " The Birth of
Venus," he equalized matters, eased con
science and silenced the critics, by producing
a beautiful Madonna, surrounded by a circle of singing
angels. Yet George Eliot writes that there were wise
acres who shook their heads and said: " This Madonna
is the work of some good monk — only a man who is
deeply religious could put that look of exquisite tender
ness and sympathy in a woman's face. Some one is
trying to save Sandro's reputation, and win him back
from his wayward ways."
In the lives of Botticelli and Rembrandt there is a close
similarity. In temperament as well as In experience they
seem to parallel each other. In boyhood Botticelli and
Rembrandt were dull, perverse, wilful. Both were given
up by teachers and parents as hopelessly handicapped
by stupidity. Botticelli's father, seeing that the boy
made no progress at school, apprenticed him to a metal
worker. The lad showed the esteem in which he held his
parent by dropping the family name of Fllipepi and
assuming the name of Botticelli, the name of his
employer 53 53
Rembrandt's father thought his boy might make a fair
miller, but beyond this his ambition never soared.
Botticelli and Rembrandt were splendid animals. The
many pictures of Rembrandt, painted by himself, show
great physical vigor and vital power. 69

BOTTICELLI

The picture of Botticelli, by himself. In the " Adoration
of the Magi," reveals a powerful physique and a striking
personality. The man is as fine as an Aztec, as strong
and self-reliant as a cliff-dweller. Character and habit are
revealed in the jaw — the teeth of the Aztecs were made
to grind corn in the kernel, and as long as they con
tinued grinding dried corn in the kernel, they had good
teeth. Dentists were not required until men began to
feed on mush.
Botticelli had broad, strong, square jaws, wide nostrils.
full lips, large eyes set wide apart, forehead rather low
and sloping, and a columnar neck that rose right out of
his spine. A man with such a neck can " stand punish
ment " — and give it. Such a neck is only seen once In a
thousand times. Men with such necks have been
mothered by women who bore burdens balanced on their
heads, boycotted the corsetier, and eschewed all deadly
French heels.
Do you know the face of Oliver Goldsmith, the droop
of the head, the receding chin and the bulging forehead?
Well, Botticelli's face was the antithesis of this.
Most of the truly great artists have been men of this
Stone Age — quality men who dared. Michelangelo was
the pure type: Titian who lived a century (lacking one
year) was another. Leonardo was the same fine savage
(who in some miraculous way also possessed the grace
of a courtier). Franz Hals, Van Dyck, Rembrandt and
Botticelli were all men of fierce appetites and heroic
70

BOTTICELLI

physiques. They had animality plus that would have
carried them across the century-mark, had they not
drawn checks on futurity, in a belief that their bank-
balance was unlimited.
BotticelU and Rembrandt kept step In their history,
both receiving instant recognition in early life and
becoming rich. Then fashion and society turned against
them — the tide of popularity began to ebb. One rein
forced his genius with strong drink, and the other
became intoxicated with religious enthusiasm. Finally,
both begged alms In the public streets; and the bones of
each filled a pauper's grave.
Ruskin unearthed BotticelU Oust as he discovered
Turner), and gave him to the Preraphaelites, who fell
down and worshiped him. Whether we would have had
Burne- Jones without Botticelli Is a grave question, and
anyway it would have been another Burne- Jones. There
would have been no processions of tall, lissome, melan
choly beauties wending their way to nowhere, were it
not for the " Spring." Ruskin held up the picture, and
the Preraphaelites got them to their easels. At once all
original " Bottlcellis " were gotten out, " restored " and
reframed. The prices doubled, trebled, quadrupled, as
the brokers scoured Europe. By the year Eighteen
Hundred Eighty-six every " Botticelli " had found a
home in some public Institution or gallery, and no lure
of gold could bring one forth.
At Yale University there is a modest collection of good
71

BOTTICELLI

pictures. Among them is a " Botticelli " : not a great
picture like the " Crowned Madonna " of the Uffizi, or
" The Nativity " of the National Gallery, but still a
picture painted by Sandro Botticelli, beyond a doubt.
Recently, J. Pierpont Morgan, alumnus of Harvard,
conceived the idea that the " Botticelli " at Yale would
look quite as well and be safer if it were hung on the
walls of the new granite fireproof Art-Gallery at Cam
bridge. Accordingly, he dispatched an agent to New
Haven to buy the " Botticelli." The agent offered fifty
thousand dollars, seventy-five, one hundred — no. Then
he proposed to build Yale a new art-gallery and stock
it with Pan-American pictures, all complete, in exchange
for that little, insignificant and faded " Botticelli." 3ii
But no trade was consummated, and on the walls of
Yale the picture still hangs. Each night a cot is carried in
and placed beneath the picture. And there a watchman
sleeps and dreams of that portrait of the Duchess of
Devonshire by Gainsborough, stolen from its frame, lost
for a quarter of a century, and then rescued by one
Colonel Patrick Sheedy (philanthropist and friend of
art), for a consideration, and sold to J. Pierp>ont Morgan,
alumnus of Harvard (and a very alert, alive and active
man) 3& 53

72

BOTTICELLI

SHORT time ago, there shot across the
artistic firmament a comet of daring and
deizzling brightness. Every comet is hurling
onward to Its death: destruction is its only
end: and upon each line and tracery of the work of
Aubrey Beardsley is the taint of decay.
To deny the genius of the man were vain — he had
elements In his character that made him akin to Keats,
Shelley, Burns, Byron, Chopin and Stephen Crane.
With these his name will in brotherhood be forever
linked. He was one made to suffer, sin and die — a few
short summers, and autumn came with yellow leaves
and he was gone. And the principal legacy he left us is
the thought of wonder eis to what he might have been
had he only lived!
Aubrey Beardsley 's art was the art of the ugly. His
countenances are so repulsive that they attract. The
psychology of the looks, and leers, and grins, and hot,
hectic desires on the faces of his women is a puzzle
that we can not lay aside — ^we want to solve the riddle
of this paradox of existence — the woman whose soul is
mire and whose heart is hell. Many men have tried to
fathom it at close range, but we devise a safer plan and
follow the trail In books, art and Imagination. Art shows
you the thing you might have done or been. Burke says
the ugly attracts us, because we congratulate ourselves
that we are not it.
The Madonna pictures, multiplied without end, stand
73

BOTTICELLI

for peace, faith, hope, trustfulness and love. All that is
fairest, holiest, purest, noblest, best, men have tried to
portray in the face of the Madonna. All the good that is
in the hearts of all the good women they know, all the
good that is In their own hearts, they have made to
shine forth from the " Mother of God." Woman has
been the symbol of righteousness and faith.
On the other hand, it was a woman — Louise de la
Ramee — who said. " Woman is the instrument of lust."
Saint Chrysostom wrote, " She is the snare the Devil
uses to lure men to their doom." I am not quite ready to
accept the dictum of that old, old story that it was the
woman who collaborated with the serpent and first
introduced sin and sorrow into the world. Or, should 1
believe this, I wish to give woman due credit for giving
to man the Fruit of the Tree of Knowledge — the best
gift that ever came his way. But the first thought holds
true in a poetic way: it has always been, is yet, and
always will be true, that the very depths of degradation
are sounded only by woman. As poets, painters and
sculptors have ever chosen a woman to stand for what
is best in humanity, so she has posed as their model
when they wanted to reveal the worst.
This desire to depict villainy on a human face seems
to have found its highest modern exponent in Aubrey
Beardsley. With him man is an animal, and woman a
beast. Aye, she is worse than a beast — she is a vampire.
Kipling's summing up of woman as " a rag and a bone
74

BOTTICELLI

and a hank of hair " gives no clue to the possibilities in
way of subtle, reckless reaches of deviltry compared
with a single, simple, outline drawing by Beardsley 53
Beardsley's heroines are the kind of women who can kill
a man with a million pin-pricks, so diabolically, subtly
and slyly administered that no one but the victim would
be aware of the martyrdom — and he could not explain it.
^As you enter the main gallery of statuary at the
Luxembourg, you will see, on a slightly raised platform,
at the opposite end of the room, the nude figure of a
man. The mold is heroic, and the strong pose at once
attracts your attention. As you approach closer you will
see, standing behind the man, the figure of a woman.
Her form is elevated so she Is leaning over him and her
face is turned so her lips are about to be pressed upon
his. You approach still closer, and a feeling of horror
flashes through you — you see that the beautiful arms
of the woman end in hairy claws. The claws embrace the
man in deadly grasp, and are digging deep Into his
vitals. On his face is a look of fearful pain, and every
splendid muscle Is tense with awful agony.
Now, if you do as 1 did, you will suddenly turn and go
out Into the fresh air — the fearful realism of the marble
will for the moment unnerve you.
This Is the piece of statuary that gave Philip Burne-
Jones the cue for his painting, " The Vampire," which
picture suggested the poem, by the same name, to
Rudyard Kipling. 75

BOTTICELLI

Aubrey Beardsley gloated on the Vampire — she was the
sole goddess of his idolatry.
No wonder it was that the story of Salome attracted
him! Salome was a woman so wantonly depraved that
Beardsley, with a touch of pious hypocrisy, said he
dared not use her for dramatic purposes, save for the
fact that she was a Bible character.
You remember the story: John the Baptist, the strong,
fine youth, came up out of the wilderness crying in the
streets of Jerusalem. " Repent ye! Repent ye! "
Salome heard the call and looked upon the semi-naked
young fanatic from her window, with half-closed, cat
like eyes. She smiled, did this Idle creature of luxury,
as she lay there amid the cushions on her couch, and
gazed through the casement upon the preacher in the
street. Suddenly a thought came to her! She arose on
her elbow — she called her slaves.
They clothed her in a gaudy gown, dressed her hair, and
led her forth.
Salome followed the wild, weird, religious enthusiast.
She pushed through the crowd and placed herself near
the man, so the smell of her body would reach his
nostrils, and his eyes would range the swelling lines of
her body Si 53
Their eyes met. She half-smiled and gave him that look
which had snared the soul of many another. But he only
gEized at her with passionless, judging intensity, and
repeated his cry, " Repent ye. Repent ye, for the day
76

BOTTICELLI

is at hand! " ^ Her reply, uttered soft and low, was this:
" I would kiss thy lips! "
He turned away and she reached to seize his garment,
repeating, " I would kiss thy lips — 1 would kiss thy
lips! " He turned aside and forgot her, as he continued
his warning cry, and went his way.
The next day she waylaid the youth again; as he came
near she suddenly and softly stepped forth and said in
that same low voice, " I would kiss thy lips! "
He repulsed her with scorn. She threw her arms about
him and sought to draw his head down near hers. He
pushed her from him with sinewy hands, sprang as from
a pestilence, and was lost In the pressing throng.
That night she danced before Herod Antipas, and when
the promise was recalled that she should have anything
she wished, she named the head of the only man who
had ever turned away from her — " The head of John
the Baptist on a charger! "
1 n an hour the wish is gratified.Two eunuchs stand before
Salome with a silver tray bearing its fearsome burden 53
The woman smiles — a smile of triumph — as she steps
forth with tinkling feet. A look of pride comes over the
painted face. Her jeweled fingers reach into the blood-
matted hair. She lifts the head aloft, and the bracelets
on her brown, bare arms fall to her shoulders, making
strange music. Her face presses the face of the dead.
In exultation she exclaims, " I have kissed thy lips! "
77

BOTTICELLI

HE most famous picture by Botticelli Is the
" Spring," now In the Academy at Florence.
The picture has given rise to endless inquiry,
and the explanation weis made In the artist's
day, and is still made, that it was painted to illustrate a
certain passage in Lucretius. This innocent little subter
fuge of giving a classic turn to things In art and Uterature
has allowed many a man to shield his reputation and
gloss his good name. When Art relied upon the protect
ing wing of the Church, the j)oet-paInters caUed their
risky little things, "Susannah and the Elders," "The
Wife of Uriah," or " Pharaoh's Daughter." Luceis van
Leyden once pictured a Dutch wench with such star
tling and realistic fidelity that he scandalized a whole
community, until he labeled the picture, " Potiphar's
Wife." 53 53
When the taste for the classics began to be cultivated,
we had " Leda and the Swan," " Psyche," " Phryne
Before the Judges," " Aphrodite Rising From the Sea,"
and, later, England experienced quite Em artistic erup
tion of Lady Godivas. Literature Is filled with many
such naive little disguises as "Sonnets From the Portu
guese," and Robert Browning himself caught the Idea
and put many a maxim Into the mouth of another, for
which he preferred not to stand sponsor.
Botticelli painted the " Spring " for Lorenzo the Mag
nificent, to be placed In the Medici villa at Castello.
The picture, It will be remembered, represents seven
78

BOTTICELLI

female figures, a flying cupid, and a youth. The youth is
a young man of splendid proportions; he stands in calm
indifference with his back to the sparsely clad beauties,
and reaches into the branches of a tree for the plenteous
fruit. This youth is a composite portrait of Botticelli and
his benefactor, Lorenzo. The women were painted from
life, and represent various favorites and beauties of the
court. The drawing is faulty, the center of gravity being
lost In several of the figures, and the anatomy is of a
quality that must have given a severe shock to the
artist's friend, Leonardo. Yet the grace, the movement
and the joyous quality of Spring are In It all. It is a most
fascinating picture, and we can well imagine the flutter
it produced when first exhibited four hundred years ago.
^ Two figures in the picture challenge attention. One of
these represents approaching maternity — a most daring
thing to attempt. This feature seems to belong to the
School of Hogarth alone — a school which, let us pray,
is hopelessly dead.
Cimabue and several of his pupils painted realistic
pictures representing Mary visiting Elizabeth, but the
Intense religious zeal back of them was a salt that saved
from offending. Occasionally, the staid and sober Dutch
successfully attempted the same theme, and their
stolidity stood for them as religious zeal had done for
the early Italians — we pardon them simply because they
knew no better than to choose a subject that is beyond
the realm of art. 79

BOTTICELLI

The restorers and engravers have softened down Botti
celli's intent, which was originally well defined, but we
can easily see that the effect was delicate and spiritual.
The woman's downcast gaze Is full of tenderness and
truth. That figure when It was painted was history, and
must have had a very tender interest for two persons at
least. Had the painter dared to suggest motherhood in
that other figure — the one with the flowered raiment —
he would have offended against decency, and the art-
sense of the world would have stricken his name from
the roster of fame forever, and made him anathema 53
More has been written and said, and more copies made
of that woman In the flowered dress in the "Spring"
than of any other portrait I can remember, save possibly
the " Mona Lisa."
The face Is not without a certain attractiveness; the
high cheek-bones, the narrow forehead, and the lines
above her brow show that this Is no ideal sketch — It Is
the portrait of a woman who once lived. But the peculiar
mark of depravity is the eye : this woman looks at you
with a cold, calm, calculating, brazen leer. Hidden In the
folds of her dress or In the coil of her hair is a stiletto —
she can find It in an Instant — and as she looks at you
out of those Impudent eyes, she Is mentally searching
out your most vulnerable spot. In this woman's face
there Is an entire absence of wonder, curiosity, modesty
or passion. All that we call the eternally feminine is
obliterated 33 53
80

BOTTICELLI

" Mona Lisa " is infinitely wise, while this woman Is
only cunning. All the lure she possesses Is the lure of
warm, pulsing youth — grown old she will be a repulsive
hag. Speculation has made her one of the Borglas, for in
the days of Botticelli a Borgia was Pope, and Cesare
^Borgia and his court were well known to Botticelli —
from such a group he could have picked his model, if
anywhere. Ruskin has linked this unknown wicked
beauty with Machiavelll. But Machlavelli had a head
that outmatched hers, and he would certainly have left
her to the fool moths that fluttered around her candle.
Machiavelll used women, and this woman has only one
ambition, and that Is to use men. She represents con
crete selfishness — the. mother-Instinct swallowed up in
pride, and conscience smothered by hate. Certainly sex
is not dead In her, but it Is perverted below the brute.
Her passion would be so intense and fierce that even as
she caressed her lover, with arm about his neck, she
would feel softly for his jugular, mindful the while of
the stiletto hidden in her hair. And this is the picture
that fired the brain of Aubrey Beardsley, and caused him
to fix his ambition on becoming the Apostle of the Ugly.
^To liken Beardsley to Botticelli, however, seems
indeed a sin. The master was an artist, but Beardsley
only gave chalk talks. His work is often crude, rude and
raw. He is only a promise, turned to dust. Yet let the
simple fact stand for what It is worth, that Beardsley
had but one god, and that was Botticelli. Most of the
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BOTTICELLI

things Beardsley did were ugly; many of the things
Botticelli did were supremely beautiful.
Yet in all of Botticelli's work there is a tinge of melan
choly — a shade of disappointment. The " Spring is a
sad picture. On the faces of all his tall, fine, graceful girls
there Is a hectic flush. Their cheeks are hoUow. and you
feel that their beauty Is already beginning to fade. Like
fruit too much loved by the sun, they are ready to faU.
^ Botticelli had the true love nature. By Instinct he was
a lover, proof of which lies In the fact that he was deeply
religious. The woman he loved he has pictured over and
over again. The touch of sorrow is ever in her wan face,
but she possessed a silken strength, a heroic nature, a
love that knew no turning. She had faith In Botticelli,
and surely he had faith In her. For forty years she was In
his heart; at times he tried to dislodge her and replace
her Image with another; but he never succeeded, and the
last Madonna he drew Is the same wistful, loving,
patient face — sad yet proud, strong yet infinitely tender.

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BOTTICELLI

N that piece of lapidary work, " How Sandro
Botticelli Saw Simonetta In the Spring," is a
bit of heart psychology which, I beUeve, has
never been surpassed In English.
Simonetta, of the noble house of Vespucci, was be
trothed to Giuliano, brother of Lorenzo the Magnificent.
Simonetta was tall, stately — ^beautiful as Venus, wise as
Minerva and proud as Juno. She knew her worth,
realized her beauty, and feeling her power made others
feel It, too.
On a visit to the villa of the Medici at Fiesole she first
saw Sandro Botticelli at an evening assembly In the
gardens. She had heard of the man and knew his genius.
When they suddenly met face to face under the boughs,
she noted how her beauty startled him. His geize ranged
the exquisite lines of her tall form, then sought the
burnished gold of her hair. Their eyes met.
First of all this man was an artist: the art-instinct in
him was supreme : after that he was a lover.
Simonetta saw he had looked upon her merely as a
" subject." She was both pleased and angry. She, too,
loved art, but she loved love more. She was a woman 53
They separated, and Simonetta inwardly compared the
sallow, slavish scion of a proud name, to whom she was
betrothed, with this God's Nobleman whom she had just
met. Giuliano's words were full of soft flattery; this man
uttered an oath of surprise under his breath, on first
seeing her, and treated her almost with rudeness. 83

BOTTICELLI

She fought the battle out there, alone, leaning against
a tree, listening to the monotonous voice of a poet who
was reading from Plato. She felt the disinterested great
ness of Sandro, she knew the grandeur of his intellect —
she was filled with a desire to be of service to him.
Certainly she did not love him — a social abyss separated
them — but could not her beauty and power in some way
be allied with his, so that the world should be made
better? 53 53
" Shame is of the brute dullard who thinks shame,"
came the resonant voice of the reader. The words rang
in her ears. Sandro was greater than the mere flesh — she
would be, too. She would pose for him, and thus give her
beautiful body to the world — beauty Is eternal! Her
action would bless and benefit the centuries yet to come.
She was the most beautiful of women — he the greatest
of artists. It was an opportunity sent from the gods! 33
Instantly she half -ran, seeking the painter. She found
him standing apart, alone. She spoke eagerly and hotly,
fearing her courage would falter before she could make
known her wish: " Ecco, Messer Sandro," she whis
pered, casting a furtive look about — " who is there in
Florence like me? "
" There is no one," calmly answered Sandro.
" I will be your Lady Venus," she went on breathlessly,
stepping closer — " You shall paint me rising from the
sea!Very early the next morning, before the household was
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BOTTICELLI

astir, Sandro entered the apartments of the lady
Simonetta. She was awaiting him, leaning with feigned
carelessness against the balustrade, arrayed from head
to toe in a rose-colored mantle. One bare foot peeped
forth from under the folds of the robe.
Neither spoke a word.
Sandro arranged his easel, spread his crayons on the
table, and looked about the room making calculations
as to light.
He motioned her to a certain spot. She took the position,
and as he picked up a crayon and examined it carelessly
she raised her arms and the robe fell at her feet.
Sandro faced her, and saw the tall, delicate form, pal
pitating before him. The rays of the morning sun swept
in between the lattices and kissed her shoulder, face and
hair 53 53
For an instant the artist was In abeyance. Then from
under his breath he exclaimed: " Holy Virgin! what a
line ! Stay as you are, I implore you — swerve not a hair's
breadth, and soon you shall be mine forever! "
The pencil broke under his impetuous stroke. He seized
another and worked at headlong speed. The woman
watched him with eyes dilated. She was agitated, and the
pink of her fair skin came and went. Her face grew pale,
and she swayed like a reed.
All the time she watched the artist, fearfully. She was at
his mercy!
Ah God! he was only an artist with the biggest mouth
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BOTTICELLI

In all Florence! She noted how he tossed the hair from
his eyes every moment. She saw the heavy jaw, the
great, broad-spreading feet, the powerful chest. His
smothered exclamations as he worked filled her with
scorn. What had she done? Who was she, anyway, that
she should thus bare her beauty before such a creature?
He had not even spoken to her ! Was she only a thing? 53
She grew deadly pale and reeled as she stood there. Two
big tears chased each other down her cheeks. The painter
looking up saw other tears glistening on her lashes 53
He noted her distress.
He dropped his crayon and made a motion as if to
advance to her relief.
A few moments before and he might have folded her
mantle about her and assisted her to a seat — then they
would have talked, reassured each other, and been
mutually understood. To be understood — to be appre
ciated — that Is It!
It was too late, now — she hated him.
As he advanced she recovered herself.
She pointed her finger to the door, and bade him begone.
^ Hastily he huddled his belongings Into a parcel, and
without looking up, passed out of the door. She heard
his steps echoing down the stairway, and soon from out
the lattice she saw him walk across the court and dis
appear. He did not look up!
She threw herself upon her couch, burled her face in the
pillows and burst into tears.
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BOTTICELLI

In one short week word came to Sandro that Simonetta
was dead — a mysterious quick fever of some kind — she
had refused all food — the doctors could not understand
It — the fever had just bumed her life out!
Let Maurice Hewlett tell the rest:
" They carried dead Simonetta through the streets of
Florence, with her pale face uncovered and a crown of
myrtle in her hair. People thronging there held their
breath, or wept to see such still loveliness; and her poor
parted lips wore a patient little smile, and her eyelids
were pale violet and lay heavy on her cheek. White, like
a bride, with a nosegay of orange-blossoms, and syringa
at her throat, she lay there on her bed, with lightly
folded hands and the strange aloofness and preoccupa
tion all the dead have. Only her heilr burned about her
like molten copper.
"The great procession swept forward; black brothers
of Misericordia, shrouded and awful, bore the bed or
stalked before it with torches that guttered and flared
sootily In the dancing light of day.
" Santa Croce, the great church, stretched forward be
yond her into the distances of gray mist and cold spaces
of light. Its bare vastness was damp like a vault. And
she lay in the midst listless, heavy-Udded, apart, with
the half -smile, as it seemed, of some secret mirth. Round
her the great candles smoked and flickered, Emd mass
was sung at the High Altar for her soul's repose. Sandro
stood alone, facing the shining altar, but looking fixedly
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BOTTICELLI

at Simonetta on her couch. He was white and dry —
parched lips and eyes that ached and smarted. Was this
the end? Was it possible, my God! that the transparent,
unearthly thing lying there so prone and pale was dead?
Had such loveliness aught to do with life or death? Ah!
sweet lady, dear heart, how tired she was, how deadly
tired ! From where he stood he could see with intolerable
anguish the somber rings around her eyes and the violet
shadows on the Uds, her folded hands and the straight,
meek line to the feet. And her poor wan face with its
wistful, pitiful Uttle smile was turned half-eiside on the
delicate throat, as if in a last appeal : Leave me now, 0
Florentines, to my rest. Poor child! Poor child! Sandro
was on his knees with his face pressed against the pulpit
and tears running through his fingers as he prayed.
"As he had seen her, so he painted. As at the beginning
of life in a cold world, passively meeting the long trouble
of It, he painted her a rapt Presence floating evenly to
our earth. A gray, translucent sea laps silently upon a
little creek, and In the hush of a still dawn the myrtles
and sedges on the water's brim are quiet. It is a dream in
halftones that he gives us, gray and green and steely
blue; and just that, and some homely magic of his own,
hint the commerce of another world with mem's dis
carded domain. Men and women are asleep, and as In an
early walk you may startle the hares at their play, or see
the creatures of the darkness — owls and night-hawks
and heavy moths — flit with fantastic purpose over the
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BOTTICELLI

familiar scene, so here It comes upon you suddenly that
you have surprised Nature's self at her mysteries; you
are let into the secret; you have caught the spirit of the
April woodland as she glides over the pasture to the
copse. And that, indeed, was Sandro's fortune. He caught
her in just such a propitious hour. He saw the sweet wild
thing, pure and undefiled by touch of earth; caught her
in that pregnant pause of time ere she had lighted.
Another moment and a buxom nymph of the grove
would fold her In a rosy mantle, colored as the earliest
wood-anemones are. She would vanish, we know, Into
the daffodils or a bank of violets. And you might tell
her presence there, or in the rustle of the myrtles, or
coo of doves mating In the pines; you might feel her
genius In the scent of the earth or the kiss of the west
wind; but you could only see her in mid- April, and you
should look for her over the sea. She always comes with
the first warmth of the year. But daily, before he painted,
Sandro knelt in a dark chapel in Santa Croce, while a
priest said mass for the repose of Simonetta's soul." 53

89

BOTTICELLI

EORGE ELIOT gives many a side-glimpse
of the art life of Florence in the days of the
luxury-loving Medici. She saturated herself
in Italian literature and history; and the days
of Fra Angelico, Fra Lippo Lippi and Fra Giroleimo
Savonarola are bodied forth from lines deeply etched
upon her heart.
When you go to Florence carry " Romola " In your side-
pocket, just as you take the " Marble Faun " to Rome.
"Romola" will certainly make history live again and
pass before your gaze. The story is unmistakably high
art, for from the opening lines of the proem you
hear the slow, measured wing of death; and after
you have read the volume, forever, for you, will
the smoke of martyr-fires hover about the Pieizza
Signoria, and from the gates of San Marco you will see
emerge that little man in black robe and cowl — that
homely, repulsive man with the curved nose, the pro
truding lower lip, the dark, leathery skin — that man
who lured and fascinated by his poise and power, whose
words were whips of scorpions that stung his enemies
until they had to silence him with a rope; and as a
warning to those whom he had hypnotized, they burned
his swart, shrunken body in the public square, just as
he had burned their books and pictures.
Sandro Botticelli, the painter, who made sensuality
beautiful, ugliness seductive, and the sin-stained soul
attractive, renounced all and followed the Monk of San
90

BOTTICELLI

Marco — sensuality and asceticism at the last are one 33
When the procession headed for the PiEizza Signoria,
where the fagots were piled high, Sandro stood afar off
and his heart was wrung In anguish, as he saw the glare
of the flames gild the eastern sky. And this anguish was
not for the friends who had perished — no, no, it was for
himself; the thought that he was unworthy of martyr
dom filled his mind — he had fallen at the critical
moment. Basely and cravenly he had saved himself. By
saving all he lost all. To lose one's self-respect is the
only calamity 53 Sandro BotticelU had failed to win
the approval of his Other Self — and this is defeat, and
there is none other. He might have sent his soul to God
on the wings of victory, in glorious company, but now
it was too late — too late!
From this time forth he ceeised to live — he merely
existed. Into his soul there occasionally shot gleams of
sunshine, but his nerveless hands refused to do the
bidding of his breiln. He stood on crutches, hat in hand,
at church-doors, and asked for alms. Sometimes he
would make bold to tell people of wonderful pictures
within, over the altar or upon the walls ; and he would
say that they were his, and then his hearers would laugh
aloud, and ask him to repeat his words, that others, too,
might laugh. Thus dwindled the passing days; and for
him who had painted the " Spring " there came the
chilling neglect of Winter, until Death in mercy laid an
icy hand upon him, and he was still. 91

THORWALDSEN

See the hovering ships on the wharves ! The Dannebrog
waves, the workmen sit in circle under the shade at their
frugal breakfasts; but foremost stands the principal
figure in this picture; it is a boy who cuts with a bold
hand the lifelike features in the wooden image for the
beakhead of the vessel. It Is the ship's guardian spirit,
and, as the first image from the hand of Albert Thor-
waldsen. It shall wander out into the wide world. TTie
swelling sea shall baptize it with Its waters, and hang its
wreaths of wet plants around it; nor night, nor storm,
nor icebergs, nor sunken rocks shall lure it to Its death.
for the Good Angel that guards the boy shall, too, guard
the ship upon which with mallet and chisel he has set
his mark.
— Hans Christian Andersen

THORWALDSEN

THORWALDSEN

HE real businesslike biographer be
gins by telling when his subject
" first saw the light " — by which he
means when the man weis bom. In
this instance we will go a bit further
back emd make note of the Interest
ing fact that Thorwaldsen weis de
scended from an ancestor who had
the rare fortune to be born In Rhode Islemd, in the year
Ten Hundred Seven.
Wiggling, jiggling, piggling Individuals with quibbling
proclivities, and an incapacity for distinguishing be
tween fact and truth, may maintain that there was
no Rhode Island in the year Ten Hundred Seven.
Emerson has written, " Nothing Is of less importance on
account of its being small." And so I maintain that. In
the year Ten Hundred Seven, Rhode Island was just
where It Is now, and the Cosmos quite eis important. Let
Pawtucket protest and Providence bite the thumb — no
retraction wiU be made!
About the year Eighteen Hundred Fifteen the Secretary
of the Rhode Island Historical Society wrote Thor
waldsen, Informing him that he had been elected an
honorary member of the Society, on account of his being
the only known Uving descendemt of the first European
bom in America. Thorwaldsen repUed, expressing his
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THORWALDSEN

great delight in the honor conferred, and touched feel
ingly on the fact that while he had been elected to
membership in various societies in consideration of what
he had done, this was the first honor that had come his
way on account of his ancestry. To a friend he said,
" How would we ever know who we are, or where we
come from, were It not for the genealogical savants! "
In a book called "American Antiquities," now in the
Library at Harvard College, and I suppose accessible in
various other libraries, there Is a genealogical table
tracing the ancestry of Thorwaldsen. It seems that, in
the year Ten Hundred Six, one Thorfinne, an Icelandic
whaler, commanded a ship which traversed the broad
Atlantic, and skirted the coast of New Elngland. Thor
finne wintered his craft in one of the little bays of Rhode
Island, and spent the Winter at Mount Hope, where the
marks of his habitat endure even unto this day.
The statement to the effect that when the Indians saw
the ships of Columbus, they cried out, "Alas, we are
discovered! " goes back to a much earlier period, like
many another of Mark Twain's gladsome scintillations.
So little did Thorfinne and his hardy comrades think of
crossing the Atlantic In search of adventure, that they
used to take their families along, as though it were a
picnic. And so Fate ordered that Gudrid, the good wife
of Thorfinne, should give birth to a son, there at Mount
Hope, Rhode Island, In the year Ten Hundred Seven.
And they called the baby boySnome. And toSnome,the
96

THORWALDSEN

American, the pedigree of Thorwaldsen traces. In a
lecture on the Icelandic Sagas, 1 once heard WilUam
Morris say that all really respectable Icelanders traced
their genealogy to a king, and many of them to a god.
Thorwaldsen did both — first to Harold Hildestand,
King of Denmark, and then, with the help of several
kind old gran'mameis, to the god Thor. His love for
mythology was an atavism. In childhood the good old
aunties used to tell him how the god Thor once trod
the earth and shattered the mountains with his hammer.
From Thor and the World his first ancestor was born, so
the family name was Thor-vald. The appendix " sen,"
or son, means that the man was the son of Thor-vald ;
and in some way the name got ossified, Uke the name
Robinson, Parkinson, Peterson or Albertson, and then
it was Thorwaldsen.
Men who are strong in their own natures are very apt
to smile at the good folk who chase the genealogical ani
seed trail — it Is a harmless diversion with no game at the
end of the route. And on the other hand, all men, like
Thorwaldsen, who reach cosmic consciousness, recognize
their Divine Sonship. Such men feel that their footsteps
are mortised and tenoned in granite; and the Power
that holds the worlds in space and guides the wheeling
planets, also prompts their thoughts and directs their
devious way. They know that they are a necessary part
of the Whole. Small men are provincial, mediocre men
are cosmopolitan, but the great souls are Universal 33
97

THORWALDSEN

WO Islands, one city and the open sea claim
the honor of being the birthplace of Bertel
Thorwaldsen. The date of his birth ranges,
according to the authorities, from Seventeen
hundred Seventy to Seventeen Hundred Seventy-three
— take your choice. His father was an Icelander who had
worked his passage down to Copenhagen and had found
his stint as a wood-carver In a shipyard where it was his
duty to carve out wonderful figureheads, after designs
made by others. Gottschalk Thorwaldsen never thought
to improve on a model, or change it In any way, or to
model a figurehead himself. The cold of the North had
chilled any ambition that was In his veins. Goodsooth!
Such work as designing figureheads was only for those
who had been to college, and who could read and write!
So he worked away, day after day, and with the help of
the goodwife's foresight and economy, managed to keep
out of debt, pay his tithes at church and lead a decent
life 53 53
Little Bertel used to remember when, like the Peggottys,
they lived In an abandoned caneil-boat that had been
tossed up on the beach. Bertel carried chips emd shav
ings from the shipyard for fuel, and piled them against
the " house." One night the tide came up In a very unex
pected manner and carried the chips away, for the sea
is so very hungry that It Is always sending the tide In to
shore after things. It was quite a loss for the poor wood-
carver and his wife to have all their winter fuel carried
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THORWALDSEN

away; so they cuffed little Bertel soundly (for his own
good) for not piling the chips up on the deck of the boat.
instead of leaving them on the shifting sand.
This was the first great cross that came to Bertel. He
had a few others afterwards, but he never forgot the
night of anguish and the feeling of guilt that followed the
losing of the shavings and chips.
Some weeks after, another high tide came sweeping in,
and lapped and sniffed and sighed around the canal-boat
as if it were trying to tug It loose and carry the old craft
and all the family out to sea. Little Bertel hoped the tide
would fetch it, for it would be kind o' nice to get clear
out away from everybody and everything — ^where there
were no chips to pick up. His mother could supply a
quilt for a mainsail and he would use his shirt for a jib,
and they would steer straight for America — or some
where 33 33
But lest the dream should come true, Gottschalk and his
wife talked the matter over and concluded to abandon
the boat, before it got sunk into the sand quite out of
sight. So the family moved into a little house on an
alley, half a mile away from the shipyard — it was an
awful long way to carry chips.
The second calamity that came into the life of little
Bertel was whei^ he was eight years old. He and several
companions were playing about the King's Market,
where there was an equestrian statue of Charles the
Twelfth S& 53 99

THORWALDSEN

The boys climbed up on to the pedestal, cut various
capers there, and finally they challenged Bertel to mount
the horse behind the noble rider. By dint of much
boosting from several boys older than himself, he was at
last perched on the horse. Then his companions made
hot haste to run away and leave him In his perilous posi
tion. Just then, as unkind Fate would have It, a pair of
gendarmes came along on the lookout for anything that
might savor of sedition, contumacy or contravention.
They found It In little Bertel clutching tearfully to the
royal person of Charles the Twelfth, twelve feet above
the ground. Quickly they rushed the lad off to the police-
station, between them, each with a firm grip upon his
collar 53 53
Victor Hugo once said, " The minions of the law go
stolidly after vice, and not finding It, they stolidly take
virtue instead."
Besides an awful warning " never to do this thing
again," from a judge in a ferocious wig, the boy got a
flogging at home (for his own good), although his father
first explained that it was a very painful duty to himself
to be obliged to punish his son. The son volunteered to
excuse his father, and this brought the youngster ten
extra lashes for being so smart.
Long years after, at Rome, Thorwaldsen told the story
to Hans Christian Andersen about being caught astride
the great bronze horse at Copenhagen, and of the awful
reprimand of the judge bewigged.
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THORWALDSEN

"And honestly now: 1 '11 never tell," said Andersen with
a sly twinkle in his blue eyes — " did you ever repeat the
offense? " 53 53
" Since you promise not to divulge It, I '11 confess that
forty-three years after my crime of mounting that horse,
I had occasion to cross King's Market Square at mid
night. I had been out to a little social gathering, and was
on my way home alone. I saw the great horse and rider
gleaming in the pale moonlight. I recalled vividly how
1 had occupied that elevated perch and been hauled
down by the scandalized and indignant officers. I
remembered the warning of the judge as to what would
happen if I ever did it again. Heistlly I removed my coat
and hat and clambered up on the pedestal. I seized a
leg of the royal person, and swung up behind. For five
minutes I sat there mentally defying the State, and
saying unspeakable things about all gendarmes and
Copenhagen gendarmes in particular."

101

THORWALDSEN

HAVE a profound respect for boys. Grimy.
ragged, tousled boys In the street often attract
me strangely. A boy is a man in the cocoon —
you do not know what It is going to become
— ^hls life is big with possibilities.
He may make or unmake kings, change boundary-lines
between States, write books that will mold characters, or
Invent machines that will revolutionize the commerce of
the world. Every man was a boy — 1 trust 1 shall not be
contradicted — It Is really so. Would n't you like to tum
Time backward, and see Abraham Lincoln at twelve,
when he had never worn a pair of boots? — the lank, lean,
yellow, hungry boy — hungry for love, for learning,
tramping off through the woods for twenty miles to
borrow a book, and spelling it out crouching before the
glare of the burning logs.
Then there was that Corslcan boy, one of a goodly
brood, who weighed only fifty pounds when ten years
old; who was thin and pale and perverse, and had
tantrums, and had to be sent supperless to bed, or locked
in a dark closet because he would n't " mind "! Who
would have thought that he would have mastered every
phase of warfare at twenty-six, and when told that the
Exchequer of France was in dire confusion, would say:
" The finances? I will arrange them! "
Distinctly and vividly I remember a squat, freckled boy
who was born In the " Patch " and used to pick up coal
along the railroad-tracks in Buffalo. A few months ago
102

THORWALDSEN

1 had a motion to make before the Court of Appeals.
That boy from the " Patch " was the judge who wrote
the opinion, granting my petition.
Yesterday 1 rode horseback past a field where a boy weis
plowing. The lad's hair stuck out through the top of his
hat; one suspender held his trousers in place; his form
was bony and awkward; his bare legs and arms were
brown and sunburned and briar-scratched. He swung his
horses around just as I passed by, and from under the
flapping brim of his hat he cast a quick glance out of
dark, half-bashful eyes, and modestly returned my
salute. When his back was turned I took off my hat and
sent a God-bless-you down the furrow after him.
Who knows? — I may go to that boy to borrow money
or to hear him preach, or to beg him to defend me In a
lawsuit; or he may stand with pulse unhastened, bare
of arm, In white apron, ready to do his duty, while
the cone Is placed over my face, and Night and Death
come creeping into my veins. Be patient with the boys —
you are dealing with soul-stuff — Destiny awaits just
around the corner. Be patient with the boys !

103

THORWALDSEN

ERTEL THORWALDSEN wasfourteenyears
old. He was pale and slender, and had a sharp
chin and a straight nose and hair the color of
sunburned tow. His eyes were large, set wide
apart and bright blue; and he looked out upon the world
silently, with a sort o' wistful melancholy. He helped his
father carve out the wonderful figureheads that were to
pilot the ships across strange seas and bring good luck
to the owners.
"A boy like that should be sent to the Academy and
taught designing," said one of the shipowners one day
as he watched the lad at his work. Gottschalk shook his
head dubiously. " How could a poor man, with a family
to support, and provisions so high, spare his boy from
work! Aye, was n't he teaching the lad a trade himself,
as It was? "
But the shipowner fumbled his fob, and insisted, and to
test the boy he had him work with his designers. And he
compromised with the father by having Bertel sent to
the Academy half a day at a time.
At the school one of the instructors remembered Bertel,
on account of his long yellow hair that hung down in his
eyes when he leaned over the desk; also his dulness in
every line except drawing and clay-modellng.The news
papers one day announced that a certain young Master
Thorwaldsen had been awarded a prize for clay-
modeling 53 53
"Is that your brother? " asked the teacher next day.
104

THORWALDSEN

" It is myself, Herr Chaplain," replied the boy, blushing
to the roots of his yellow hair.
The Chaplain coughed to conceal his surprise. He had
always thought this boy incapable of anything. " Herr
Thorwaldsen," he said, severely, " you will please pass
to the first grade! " And to be addressed as " Herr "
meant that you really were somebody. " He called me
' Herr,' " said Bertel to his mother that night — " He
called me ' Herr' ! "
About this time we find the painter Abildgaard taking
a special Interest in young Bertel, giving him lessons in
drawing and painting, and encouraging him in his model
ing. In fact, Thorwaldsen has himself explained that all
of his " original " designs about this time were supplied
by Abildgaard. The interest of Abildgaard in the boy
was slightly resented by the young man's parents, who
were afraid that their son was getting above his station.
Abildgaard has left a record to the effect that at this
time Thorwaldsen was very self-contained, reticent, and
seemingly without ambition. He used to postpone every
task, and would often shirk his duties until sharp
reminders came. Yet when he did begin, he would fall
on the task like one possessed, and finish it in an hour.
This proved to Abildgaard that the stuff was there, and
down in his heart he believed that this sleepy lad would
some day awake from slumber.
Anyway. Abildgaard used to say, long years after.
" What did 1 tell you? " Gottschalk was paid by the
105

THORWALDSEN

piece for his carving; he was getting better pay now,
because he did better work, his employer thought. Bertel
was helping him. The family was getting quite pros
perous 53 53

106

THORWALDSEN

HEN Bertel had secured, between sleepy
spells, about all the prizes for clay-modeling
and sketching that artistic Copenhagen had
to offer, he started for Rome, armed with a
three-year traveling scholarship. This prize proved to be
a pivotal point. The young man had done good work.
and seemingly without effort ; but he was sadly lacking
in general education — and worse, he apparently had no
desire to leam.
He was twenty-six years of age when he sailed for Rome
on the good ship " Thetis." The scholarship he had won
four years before, but through disinclination to press his
claims, and the procrastination of officialism, the matter
was pigeonholed. It might have gone by default had not
Abildgaard said " Go! " and loudly.
Thorwaldsen was a sort of charity passenger on the ship
— taken on request of the owner — and It was assumed
that he would make himself useful. But the captain of
the craft left him a recommendation to the effect that
" The young fellow Thorwaldsen is the laziest man I
ever saw." The ship was on a trading tour, and lingered
along various coasts and put Into many harbors; so nine
months went by before Bertel Thorwaldsen found him
self In the Eternal City.
" 1 was born March Eighth, Seventeen Hundred
Ninety-seven," Thorwaldsen used to say. That was the
day he reached Rome. Antonio Canova, the sculptor,
was then at the height of his popularity. Thorwaldsen' s
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THORWALDSEN

first success was the model for a statue of Jason, which
was highly praised by Canova. and Bertel received the
commission to execute it in marble from Thomas Hope.
a wealthy English art patron. From this time forth,
Thorwaldsen's success was assured.
His scholarship provided only for three years' residence ;
but twenty-three years were to elapse before he should
again see his childhood's home — as for his parents, he
had looked into their eyes for the last time.

108

THORWALDSEN

HE soul grows by leaps and bounds, by throes
and throbs. A flash! and a glory stands
revealed for which you have been groping
blindly through the years. Well did Thor
waldsen call the day of his arrival in Rome the day of his
birth! For the first time the world seemed to unfold
before him. On the voyage thither, the captain of the
" Thetis " had offered to prepare him for his stay In
Rome by teaching him the Italian language; but the
young sculptor was indifferent. During the months he
was on shipboard, he might have mastered the language:
this came back to him as he stood in the presence of
Saint Peter's, and realized that he was treading the
streets once trod by Michelangelo. He spoke only
" Sailor's Latin," a composite of Danish, Swedish, Nor
wegian and Icelandic. The waste of time of which he had
been guilty, and the extent of all that lay beyond,
pressed home upon him.
Of course we know that the fallow years are as good as
the years of plenty: the silent Winter prepares the soil
for Spring ; and we know, too. that the sense of unworthi-
ness and the discontent that Thorwaldsen felt during his
first few weeks at Rome were big with promise.
The antique world was a new world to him; he knew
nothing of mythology, nothing of history, little of books.
He began to thirst for knowledge, and this being true,
he drank it in. Little men spell things out with sweat and
lamp-smoke, but others there be who absorb in the mass.
109

THORWALDSEN

read by the page, and grow great by simply letting down
their buckets.
This fair-haired descendant of a Viking bold had the
usual preliminary struggle, for the Established Order is
always resentful toward pressing youth. He worked
incessantly: sketched, read, studied, modeled, and to
help out his finances copied pictures for prosperous
dealers who made it their business thus to employ
'prentice talent.
But a few years and we see Thorwaldsen occupying the
studio of Flaxman, and more than filling that strong
man's place. For specimens of Flaxman 's work examine
your "Wedgwood"; and then to see Thorwaldsen's
product, multiply Flaxman by one hundred. One worked
in the delicate and exquisite; the other had a taste for
the heroic: both found inspiration in the Greek.
It will not do to claim for Thorwaldsen that he was a
great and original genius. He lacked that hirsute, inde
pendent quality of Michelangelo, and surely he lacked
the Attic invention. He was receptive as a woman, and
he builded on what had been done. He moved in the line
of least resistance — made friends of Protestant and
Catholic alike; won the warm recognition of the Pope,
who averred, " Thorwaldsen is a good Catholic, only he
does not know it. " He kept clear of all factions, and with
a modicum more of will, might have been a very prince
of diplomats. But as it was, he evolved into a prince of
artists 53 53
110

THORWALDSEN

OON after his advent in Rome, Thorwaldsen
met, at the country-house of his friend, critic
and benefactor Zoega, a young woman who
was destined to have a profound influence
upon his life. Anna Maria Magnani was lady's maid and
governess in the Zoega household. She was a beautiful
animal : dark, luminous, flashing eyes, hair black as the
raven's wing, and a form that palpitated with passion —
a true daughter of the warm, sun-kissed South.
The young sculptor of the yellow locks danced with the
signorina at the rustic fetes upon the lawn. She spoke no
Danish, and his Italian was exceedingly limited, but
hand pressed hand and they contrived to make them
selves understood. She volunteered to give him lessons
in Italian; this went well, and then she p>osed for him as
a model 53 53
What should have been at best or worst a mere incident
in the artist's life ripened into something more. Intel
lectually and spiritually they lived In different worlds,
and in sober moments both realized it. An arrangement
was entered into of the same quality and kind as Goethe
and Christine Vulpius assumed. Only this woman had
moments of rebellion when she thirsted for social honors.
As his wife, Thorwaldsen knew that she would be a
veritable dead-weight, and he sought to loosen her grasp
upon him. An offer of marriage came to her from a man
of means and social station. Thorwaldsen favored the
mating, and did what he could to heisten the nuptials. Ill

THORWALDSEN

But when the other man had actually married the girl
and carried her away, he had a sick spell to pay for it —
he was n't quite so calloused in heart as he had believed.
Like many other men, Thorwaldsen found that such a
tie Is not easily broken.
Anna Maria thought she loved the man she had married.
and at least she believed she could learn to do so. Alas!
after six months of married life she packed up and came
back to Rome, declaring that, though her husband was
kind and always treated her well, she would rather be
the slave and servant of Thorwaldsen than the wife of
any man on earth. The sculptor had n't the heart to
turn her away. More properly, her will was stronger thein
his conscience. Perhaps he was glad, too, that she had
come back! TTie injured husband followed, and Anna
Maria warned the man to be gone, and emphasized the
suggestion with the gleam of a pearl-handled stiletto;
and by the same token kept all gushing females away
from the Thorwaldsen preserve.
Thorwaldsen never married, and there is no doubt that
his engagement to Miss Mackenzie, a most excellent
English lady, was vetoed by Anna Maria and her pearl-
handled stiletto.
One child was born to Anna Maria and Thorwaldsen —
a girl, who was legally acknowledged by Thorwaldsen as
his daughter. When prosperity came his way some years
later, he deposited in the Bank of Copenhagen a sum
equal to twenty thousand dollars, with orders that the
112

THORWALDSEN

interest should be paid to her as long as she lived.
^ Unlike Byron's daughter AUegra, born the same year
only a few miles away, who died young and for whose
grave at Harrow the poet had carved the touching line,
" I shall go to her, but she will not return to me," the
daughter of Thorwaldsen grew up, was happily married
and bore a son who achieved considerable distinction
as an artist. Thus the sculptor's good fortune attended
him, even In circumstances that work havoc in most
men's lives — ^he disarmed the Furies with a smile! 53

113

THORWALDSEN

ANY visitors daily thronged the studio of
Thorwaldsen. He had one general reception-
room containing casts of his work, and many
curious things in the line of art. His servant
greeted the callers and made them at home, expressing
much regret at the absence of his master, who was "out
of the city," etc. Meanwhile, Thorwaldsen was hard at It
in a back room, to which only the elect were admitted 53
The King of Bavaria, a genuine artist himself in spirit,
who spent much time in Rome, conceived a great admi
ration for Thorwaldsen. He walked into the atelier
where the sculptor was at work one day and hung around
his neck by a gold chain, the " Cross of the Com
mander," a decoration never before given to any but
great military commanders.
King Louis had a very unkinglike way of doing things.
and used to go by the studio and whistle for Thor
waldsen and call to him to come out and walk, or drive,
ride or dine.
" 1 wish that King would go off and reign — 1 have work
to do," cried the sculptor rather impatiently.
Envious critics used to maintain that there were ten
men in Rome who could model as well as Thorwaldsen,
" but they have n't yellow hair that falls to their
shoulders, and heaven-blue eyes with which to snare the
ladies." 53 53
The fact must be admitted that the vogue of Thor
waldsen owed much to the remarkable social qualities of
114

THORWALDSEN

the man. His handsome face and fine form were supple
mented by a manner most gentle and winning; and
whether his half-diffident ways and habit of reticence
were natural or the triumph of art was a vexing problem
that never found solution.
He was the social rage in every salon. And his ability to
do the right thing at the right time, seemingly without
premeditation, made him a general favorite. For
instance. If he attended a fete given by the King of
Bavaria, he wore just one decoration — the decoration of
Bavaria. If he attended a ball given by the French
Ambassador, in the lapel of his modest black velvet coat
he wore the red ribbon that tokens the Legion of Honor.
When he visited the Villa of the Grand Duchess Helena
of Russia, he wore no jewel save the diamond-studded
star presented to him by the Czar. At the reception
given by the " English Colony " to Sir Walter Scott,
the great sculptor wore a modest thistle-blossom in his
lapel, which caused Lord Elgin to offer odds that if
O'Connell should appear In Rome, Thorwaldsen would
wear a sprig of shamrock In his hat and say nothing 33
The thistle caught Sir Walter, and the next day when he
came to call on the sculptor he saw a tam-o-shanter
hanging on the top of an easel and a bit of plaid scarf
thrown carelessly across the corner of the picture below.
The poet and the sculptor embraced, patting each other
on the back, called each other " Brother " and smiled
good-will. But as Thorwaldsen could not speak English
115

THORWALDSEN

and Sir Walter spoke nothing else, they merely beamed
and ran the scale of adjectives, thus: Sublimisslo! Hero!
Precious! Plaisir! La Grande! Delighted! Splendide!
Honorable! Then they embraced again and backed
away, waving each other good-by.
Thorwaldsen had more medals, degrees and knighthoods
than Sir Walter ever saw, but he would allow no prefix
to his name. Denmark, Russia, Germany, Italy, France
and the Pope had outdone themselves in doing him
honor. All these " trifles " in the way of decorations he
kept in a specially prepared case, which was opened
occasionally for the benefit of lady visitors. " The girls
like such things," said Thorwaldsen, and smiled in
apology 33 33
Shelley found his way to TTiorwaldsen's studio, and
made mention that the Master was a bit of a poseur.
Byron came, and as we know, sat for that statue which
Is now at Cambridge. The artist sought to beguile the
melancholy sitter with pleasant conversation, but the
author of " Don Juan " would have none of It, and
when the work was completed and unveiled before him,
he exclaimed In disappointment, " I look far more
unhappy than that! "
Thorwaldsen was a musician of no mean quality, and
there was always a piano In his studio, to which he often
turned for rest. When Felix Mendelssohn was In Rome
he made the sculptor's workshop his headquarters, and
sometimes the two would play "four hands," or else
116

THORWALDSEN

Thorwaldsen would accompany the " Song Without
Words" upon his violin.
Gradually the number of the " elect " seemed to grow.
It was regarded as a great sight to see the Master at his
work. And by degrees Thorwaldsen reached a point
where he could keep right along at his task and receive
his friends at the same time.
The man at his work! There Is nothing finer. I have seen
men homely, uncouth and awkward when " dressed
up," who were superb when at their work. Once I saw
Augustus Saint Gaudens in blouse and overalls, well
plastered with mud, standing on a ladder hard at it on
an equestrian statue, lost to everything but the task in
hand — intoxicated with a thought, working like mad to
materialize an idea. The sight gave me a thrill ! — one of
those very few unforgetable thrills that Time fixes ever
the more firmly in one's memory.
To gain admittance to the workroom of Thorwaldsen
was a thing to boEist of: proud ladies schemed and some
sought to bribe the trusty valet ; but to these the door
was politely barred. Yet the servant, servantlike, was
awed by titles and nobility.
" The Duchess of Parma! " whispered the valet one day
in agitation — " the Duchess of Parma — ^she has followed
me in and is now standing behind you! "
Thorwaldsen could not just place the lady: he turned,
bowed, and gazed upon a stout personage who was
slightly overdressed. The lady quite abruptly stated that
117

THORWALDSEN

she had called to make arrangements to have a statue,
or a bust at least, made of herself. That Thorwaldsen
would be proud to model her features seemed quite fixed
in her mind. The artist cast her a swift glance and
noted that Nature had put small trace of the classic in
the lady's modeling. He mentally declined the commis
sion, and muttered something about being "so delighted
and honored, but unluckily I am so very busy," etc.
" My husband desires it," continued the lady, " and so
does my son, the King of Rome — a title, I hope, that Is
not strange to you! "
It swept over Thorwaldsen, like a winter's wave, that
this big, brusk, bizarre woman before him was Maria
Louisa, the second wife of Napoleon. He knew her
history: wedded at nineteen to Napoleon — the mother
of L'AIglon at twenty — married again in unbecoming
haste to Count Niepperg Nobody, with whom she had
been on very intimate terms, as soon as word arrived of
Napoleon's death at Saint Helena, and now raising a
goodly brood of Nobodies! The artist grew faint before
this daughter of kings who had made a mesalliance with
Genius — he excused himself and left the room.
Thorwaldsen was a hero-worshiper by nature, and
Napoleon's memory loomed large to him on the horizon
of the ideal. Needless to say, he never modeled the
features of Maria Louisa Hapsburg, but her visit fired
him with a desire to make a bust of Napoleon, and the
desire materialized is ours in heroic mold.
118

THORWALDSEN

Some time after this, Thorwaldsen designed a monu
ment to the Duke of Leuchtenberg. Eugene de Beau-
harnais, son of the Empress Josephine.
The days went in their fashion, and the Count Niepperg
passed away, as even Counts do, for Death recognizes
no title; and Maria Louisa was again experiencing the
pangs of widowhood. She sent word for Thorwaldsen to
come and design the late lamented a proper tomb,
something not unlike that which he had done for the
son of Josephine — money was no object In the Hapsburg
family! 33 53
Very few commissions were declined by Thorwaldsen.
He was a good businessman and often had a dozen men
quietly working out his orders, but he wrote to Maria
Louisa begging to be excused — and as a relief to his
feelings, straightway modeled another bust of Napoleon.
This bust was sold to Alexander Murray, Byron's
publisher, and is now to be seen in Edinburgh. Strange,
is it not, that the home of " The Scotch Greys,"
tumbled by Fate and Napoleon into an open grave,
should do the Little Man honor! And Thorwaldsen, the
man of peace, was bound to the man of war by the
silken thread of sentiment.
Thorwaldsen was the true successor of Canova — his
career was inaugurated when Canova gave him his
blessing. The triumphs of the lover of Pauline Bona
parte were transferred to him. He accepted the situation
with all of Its precedents. 119

THORWALDSEN

^B

HORWALDSEN spent forty-two years of his
life at Rome, but Denmark never lost her hold
upon him during this time. The King show
ered him with honors and gave him every
privilege at his command.
The Danish Ambassador always had special Instructions
" not to neglect the interests and welfare of our brother.
Chevalier Thorwaldsen, Artist and Sculptor to the
King." 53 53
For years, in the Academy at Copenhagen, rooms were
set apart for him, and he was solicited to return and
occupy them, and by his gracious presence honor the
institution that had sent him forth. Only once, however,
did he return, and then his stay was brief. But from time
to time he presented specimens of his work to his native
city, and various casts and copies of his pieces found
their way to the " Thorwaldsen Room" at the Academy;
so there gradually grew up there a " Thorwaldsen
Museum." SS 53
Now the shadows were lengthening toward the east.
The Master had turned his seventieth milestone, and he
began to look backward to his boyhood's home as a
place of rest, as old men do. A Commissioner was sent
by the King of Denmark with orders to use his best
offices to the end that Thorwaldsen should return; and
plans were made to evolve the Thorwaldsen Room into
a complete museum.
The result of these negotiations brought about the
120

THORWALDSEN

Thorwaldsen Museum — that plainly simple, but solidly
built structure at Copenhagen, erected by the city, from
plans made by the Master. Here are shown over two
hundred large statues and bas-reliefs, copies and orig
inals of the best things done In that long and busy life 53
^ Thorwaldsen left his medals, decorations, pictures.
books and thousands of drawings and sketches to this
Museum — the sole property of the municipality. The
building is arranged In the form of a square, with a court,
and here the dust of the Master rests. No artist has ever
had a more fitting tomb, designed by himself , surrounded
by the creations of his hand and brain. These chant his
elegy and there he sleeps.

121

THORWALDSEN

OOD looks, courtesy and social accomplish
ments are factors in our artistic career that
should not be lightly waived. Thorwaldsen
won every recognition that is possible for men
to win from other men — fame, honor, wealth. In way of
success he tasted all the world can offer. He built on
Winckelmann, Mengs and Canova, Inspired by a
classic environment, and examples of work done by
men turned to dust centuries before. In many instances
Thorwaldsen followed the letter and failed to catch the
spirit of Greece: this Is not to his discredit — who has
completely succeeded in revitalizing the breath of
ancient art?
Thorwaldsen won everything but Immortality. It sounds
harsh, but let us admit it: he was at best a great imi
tator, however noble the objects of his imitation. A
recent writer has tried to put him In the class with
" John Rogers, the Pride of America," but this is
manifestly unfair. As an artist he ranks rather with
Powers, Story and Palmer.
Never for a moment can he be compared with Saint
Gaudens, or our own French : Bartlett and Ward surpass
him in general skill and fertility of resources. All is
comparative — ^Thorwaldsen's fame floats upon the
wave, far astern. We are making head.
We have that superb " Night," so full of tenderness and
spirit, done In tears (as all the best things are). The
" Night " Is not to be spoken of without Its beautiful
122

THORWALDSEN

companion-piece, the " Morning." Each was done at a
sitting. In a passion of creative energy. Yet when the
roll of all Thorwaldsen's pieces Is called, we see that his
fame centers and Is chiefly embodied in " The Lion of
Lucerne." 53 53

123

THORWALDSEN

SUPPOSE It need not longer be concealed
that in Switzerland you can purchase copies
and models of Thorwaldsen's " Lion of
Luceme." Some are in marble, some In
granite, some in bronze, a great many are In wood —
carved while you wait — and at my hotel In Lucerne we
used to have the noble beast on the table every morning
at breakfast, done in butter.
The reproductions are of all sizes, from heroic mold to
watch-charms and bangles. Sculptors have carved this
lion, painters have painted it, artists have sketched it.
but did you ever see a reproduction of " The Lion of
Lucerne " ? No, dearie, you never did, and never will.
No copy has a trace of that indefinable look of mingled
pain and patience, which even the broken spear in his
side can not disturb — that soulful, human quality which
the original has. No; every copy is a caricature. It is a
risky thing to try to put love in a lion's face!
An intelligent young woman called my attention to the
fact that the psychological conditions under which we
view " The Lion " are the most subtle emd complete
that man can devise; and these are the things that add
the last touch to art and cause us to stand speechless,
and which make the unbidden tears start. The little
lake at the foot of the cliff prevents a too near approach;
the overhanging vines and melancholy boughs form a
dim, subduing shade; the falling water seems like the
playing of an organ in a vast cathedral; and last, the
124

THORWALDSEN

p>osItIon of the lion Itself, against the solid cliff, partakes
of the miraculous. It Is not set up there for people to
look at: It Is a part of the mountain, and the great seams
of the strata running through the figure lend the spirit of
miracle to it all. It seems as though God Himself had
done the work, and the surprise and joy of discovery are
ours as we stand uncovered before It.
One must concede the masterly framing and hanging of
the picture, but beyond all this is the technical skill,
giving the look of woe that does not tell of weakness, as
woe usually does, but strength and loyalty and death
without flinching In a righteous cause: symbolic of the
Swiss Guard that died at their post, not one of the three
hundred wavering, there at the King's palace at Paris —
all dead and turned to dust a century past, and this
lion, mortally wounded, mutely pleading for our tears!
^ We pay the tribute.
And the reason we are moved Is because we partake of
the emotions of the artist when he did the work; and the
reason we are not moved by any models or copies or
imitations is because there is small feeling in the heart of
an Imitator. Great art is bom of feeling! In order to
do, you must feel.
If Thorwaldsen had done nothing else, " The Lion "
would be monument enough. We remember WilUam
CuUen Bryant, like Dante Gabriel Rossetti, for one
poem; Poe for three. Thoreau wrote only one essay the
world will cherish; and "keeping Ruskln's 'Sesame emd
125

THORWALDSEN

Lilies' and "The Golden River,' we can let the rest
go," says Augustine BIrrell.
Thorwaldsen paid the penalty of success. He should
have tasted exile, poverty and heartbreak — not to have
known these was his misfortune. And perhaps his best
work lay in keeping alive the classic tradition; in edu
cating whole nations to a taste for sculpture ; In turning
the attention of society from strife to art. from war to
harmony. His were the serene successes of beauty, the
triumphs of peace.

126

GAINSBOROUGH

If ever this nation should produce a genius sufficient to
acquire to us the honorable distinction of an English
School, the name of Gainsborough will be transmitted to
posterity. In this history of art, among the very first of
that rising name.
— Sir Joshua Reynolds

' y^- --rr"

,4. ill

\ \

GAINSBOROUGH

GAINSBOROUGH

OST biographies are written with
intent either to make the man a
demigod or else to damn him as a
rogue who has hoodwinked the
world. Of the first-mentioned class,
Weems' " Life of Washington" must
ever stand as the true type. The
author is so fearful that he will not
think well of his subject that he conceals every attribute
of our common humanity, and gives us a being almost
devoid of eyes, ears, organs, dimensions, passions. Next
to Weems, In point of literary atrocity, comes John
S. C. Abbott, whose life of Napoleon is a splendid
concealment of the man.
Of those who have written biographies for the sake of
belittling their subject, John Gait's " Life of Byron "
occupies a conspicuous position. But for books written
for the double purpose of downing the subject and
elevating the author. Philip Thicknesse's " Life of
Gainsborough " must stand first. The book is so bad
that it Is Interesting, and so stupid that it will never die.
Thicknesse had a quarrel with Gainsborough, and
three-fourths of the volume Is given up to a minute
recital of " says he " and " says 1." It is really only an
extended pamphlet written by an arch-bore with intent
to get even with his man. 129

GAINSBOROUGH

The writer regards his petty affairs as of prime impor
tance to the world, and he shows with great care, and not
a single flash of wit, how all of Thomas Gainsborough's
success in life was brought about by Thicknesse. And
then, behold! after Thicknesse had made the man by
hand, all he received for pay was ingratitude and Inso
lence! Thicknesse was always good, kind, unselfish and
disinterested; while Gainsborough was ungrateful,
procrastinating, absurd and malicious — this according
to Thicknesse, who was on the spot and knew. Well, 1
guess so!
Brock- Arnold describes Thicknesse as " a fussy, osten
tatious, irrepressible busybody, without the faintest
conception of delicacy or modesty, who seems to think
he has a heaven-born right to patronize Gainsborough,
and to take charge of his affairs."
The aristocratic and pompous Thicknesse presented
the painter to his friends, and also gave much advice
about how he should conduct himself. He also loaned
him a fiddle and presented him a viola da gamba, and
often invited him to dinner. For these favors Gainsbor
ough promised to paint a portrait of Thicknesse, but
never got beyond washing in the background. During
ten years he made thirty-seven excuses for not doing the
work, and as for Mrs. Gainsborough, she once had the
temerity to hand the redoubtable Thicknesse his cocked
hat and cane and show him the door. 53 From this,
Thicknesse is emboldened to make certain remarks
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GAINSBOROUGH

about Mrs. Gainsborough's pedigree, and to suggest
that if Thomas Gainsborough had married a different
woman he might have been a different painter 53
Thicknesse, throughout the book, thrusts himself Into
the breach and poses as the Injured One.
On reading " the work " it is hard to believe it was
written in sober, serious earnest — it contains such an
intolerable deal of Thicknesse and so little of Gains
borough. The Mother Gamp flavor is upon every page.
Andrew Lang might have written it to show the literary
style of a disgruntled dead author.
And the curious part is that, up to Eighteen Hundred
Twenty-nine, Thicknesse held the stage, and many
people took his portrait of Gainsborough as authentic.
In that year Allan Cunningham put the great painter in
his proper light, and thanks to the minute researches of
Fulcher and others, we know the man as though he had
lived yesterday.

131

GAINSBOROUGH

HE father of Gainsborough was a tradesman
of acute instincts. He resided at Sudbury, in
Suffolk, seventy miles from London. It was a
time when every thrifty merchant lived over
lis place of business, so as to be on hand when buyers
came; to ward off robbers; and to sweep the sidewalk,
making all tidy before breakfast. Gainsborough pere
was fairly prosperous, but not prosperous enough to
support any of his nine children in idleness. They all
worked, took a Saturday night " tub," Eind went to the
Independent Church In decent attire on Sunday.
Thomas Gainsborough was the youngest of the brood,
the pet of his parents, and the pride of his big sisters,
who had nursed him and brought him up In the way he
should go. In babyhood he was n't so very strong; but
love and freedom gradually did their perfect work, and
he evolved Into a tall, handsome youth of gracious
manner and pleasing countenance. All the family were
sure that Tom was going to be " somebody."
The eldest boy, John, known to the town as " Scheming
Jack," had invented a cuckoo-clock, and this led to a
self-rocking cradle that wound up with a strong spring;
next he made a flying-machine; and so clever was he
that he painted signs that swung on hinges, and In
several instances essayed to put a picture of the
prosperous owner on the sign.
The second son, Humphrey, was a brilliant fellow, too.
He made the model of a steEim-engine and showed it to a
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GAINSBOROUGH

man by the name of Watt, who was greatly interested
in it ; and when Watt afterward took out a patent on it,
Humphrey's heart was nearly broken, and it might have
been quite, but he said he had in hand half a dozen
things worth more than the steam-engine. As tangible
proof of his power, he won a prize of fifty pounds from
the London Society for the Encouragement of Art, for a
mill that was to be turned by the tides of the sea. The
steam-engine would require fuel, but this tide-engine
would be turned by Nature at her own expense. In the
British Museum is a sundial made by Humphrey Gains
borough, and it must stand to his credit that he made
the original fireproof safe. From a fireproof safe to
liberal theology is but a step, and Humphrey Gains
borough became a Dissenting Clergyman, passing rich
on forty pounds a year.
The hopes of the family finally centered on Thomas. He
had assisted his brother John at the sign-painting, and
had done several creditable little things in drawing
'scutcheons on coach-doors for the gentry. Besides all
this, once, while sketching in his father's orchard, a face
cautiously appeared above the stone wall and for a
single moment studied the situation. The boy caught
the features on his palette, and transferred them to his
picture. The likeness was so perfect that it led to the
execution of the thief who had been robbing the orchard,
and also the execution of that famous picture, finished
many years after, known as " Tom Peartree." 133

GAINSBOROUGH

The orchard episode pleased the Galnsboroughs greatly.
A family council was held, and It was voted that
Thomas must be sent to London to study art. The girls
gave up a dress apiece, the mother retrimmed her
summer bonnet for the Winter, the boys contributed,
and there ceime a day when Tom was duly ticketed and
placed on top of the great coach bound for London.
Good-bys were waved until only a cloud of dust was
seen in the distance.
Gainsborough went to " Saint Martin's Drawing
Academy " at London, and the boys educated him. The
art at the "Academy " seems to have been very much
akin to the art of the Writing Academies of America,
where learned bucolic professors used to teach us the
mysteries of the Spencerian System for a modest
stipend. The humiliation of never knowing " how to
hold your pen " did much to send many budding
geniuses off on a tangent after grasshopper chirography,
but those who endured unto the end acquired the
" wrist movement." They all wrote alike. That is to
say, they all wrote like the professor, who wrote just
like all Spencerian professors. So write the girls in
Melvil Dewey's Academy for Librarians, at Albany —
God bless them all! — they all write like Dewey.
Thomas Gainsborough at London seems to have
haunted the theaters and coffeehouses, and whenever
there were pictures displayed, there was Thomas to be
found. To help out the expense-account, he worked at
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GAINSBOROUGH

engraving and made designs for a silversmith. The
strong, receptive nature of the boy showed itself, for he
succeeded in getting a goodly hold on the art of engrav
ing, in a very short time. He absorbed in the mass.
But he tired of the town — ^he wanted freedom, fresh air,
the woods and fields. Hogarth and Wilson were there in
London, but the Academy students never heard of them.
And if Gainsborough ever listened to Richardson's
famous prophecy which inspired Hogarth and Reynolds,
to the effect that England would soon produce a great
school of art, we do not know it.
The young man grew homesick; he was doing nothing
in London — ^no career was open to him — ^he retumed to
Sudbury after an absence of nearly two years. He
thought it was defeat, but his family welcomed him as a
conquering hero. He was eighteen and looked twenty —
tall, strong, fair-haired, gentle in manner, gracious In
speech 53 53
Two of his sisters had married clergymen, and were
happily situated in neighboring towns; his brother
Humphrey was " occupying the pulpit." and causing
certain local High Churchmen to have dreams of things
tumbling about their ears.
The sisters and mother wanted Tom to be a preacher,
too — he was so straight and handsome and fine, and his
eyes were so tender and blue!
But he preferred to paint. He painted in the woods and
fields, by streams and old mills, and got on good terms
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GAINSBOROUGH

with all the flocks of sheep and cattle in the neighborhood.
^ The art of landscape-painting developed from an acci
dent. The early Italian painters used landscape only
as a background for figures. All they pictured were men,
women and children, and to bring these out rightly they
introduced scenery. Imagine a theater with scenes set
and no person on the stage, and you get the idea of land
scape up to the time of Gainsborough. Lemdscape! it
was nothing — a blank.
Wilson first painted landscapes as backgrounds for other
men to draw portraits upon. A marine scene weis made
merely that a Commodore might stand in cocked hat,
a spyglass under his arm, in the foreground, while the
sun peeps over the horizon begging permission to come
up. Gradually these incomplete pictures were seen hang
ing in shop-windows, but for them there was no market.
They were merely curios.
Gainsborough drew pictures of the landscape because
he loved it. He seems to be the first English artist who
loved the country for its own sake. Old bridges, winding
roadways, gnarled oaks, cattle grazing, and all the mani
fold beauties of quiet country life fascinated him. He
educated the collector, and educated the people into a
closer observation and study of Nature. Gainsborough
stood at the crossways of progress and pointed the way.
^Wlth Hogarth's idea that a picture should teach a
lesson and have a moral, he had no sympathy. And
with Reynolds, who thought there was nothing worth
136

GAINSBOROUGH

picturing but the human face, he took issue. Beauty to
him was its own excuse for being. However, in all of
Gainsborough's landscapes you find the human interest
somewhere — man has not been entirely left out. But
from being the one important thing, he sinks simply
into a part of the view that lies before you. Turner's
meixim, " You can not leave man out," he annexed from
Gainsborough. And Corot's landscapes, where the dim,
shadowy lovers sit on the bankside under the great oaks
— the most lovely pictures ever painted by the hand of
man — reveal the extreme evolution from a time when the
lovers occupied the center of the stage, and the land
scape was only an accessory.
And it is further interesting to note that the originator
of English landscape-painting was also a great portrait-
painter, and yet he dared paint portraits with absolutely
no scenery back of them — a thing which up to that time
was done only by a man who had n't the ability to paint
landscape. Thus do we prove Rabelais' proposition,
" The man who has a well-filled strongbox can surely
afford to go ragged."

137

GAINSBOROUGH

HOMAS GAINSBOROUGH, aged nineteen,
was one day intently sketching in a wood near
Sudbury, when the branches suddenly parted
emd out into a little open space stepped Mar
garet Burr. This young woman had taken up her abode in
Sudbury during the time the young man weis in London,
and he had never met her, although he had probably
heard her praises sounded 53 Everybody around there
had heard of her. She was the handsomest woman In
all Suffolk — and knew it. She lived with her " uncle,"
and the gossips, who looked after these Uttle things,
divided as to whether she was the daughter of one of
the exiled Stuarts, or the natural child of the Duke of
Bedford. Anyway, she was a true princess, in face,
form and bearing, and had an income of her own of two
hundred pounds a year. Her pride was a thing so potent
that the rustic swains were chilled at the sight of her,
and the numerous suitors sighed and shot their lovesick
glances from a safe distance.
Let that pass : the branches parted and Margaret stepped
out Into the open. She thought she was alone, when all
at once her eyes looked full into the eyes of the young
artist — not a hundred feet away. She was startled; she
blushed, stammered and tried to apologize for the
intrusion. Her splendid self-possession had failed her for
once — she was going to flee by the way she had come 33
" Hold that position, please — stand just as you are! "
called the artist in a tone of authority.
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GAINSBOROUGH

Even the proudest of women are willing to accept orders
when the time is ripe ; and I am fully convinced that to be
domineered over by the right man Is a thing all good
women warmly desire.
Margaret Burr, the proud beauty, stood stock-still, and
Thomas Gainsborough admitted her into his landscap>e
and his heart.
This is not a love-story, or we might begin here and
extend our booklet into a volume. Suffice it to say that
within a few short months after their first meeting the
young woman, being of royal blood, exercised her divine
right and " proposed." She proposed just as Queen
Victoria did later. And then they were married — both
under twenty — and lived happily ever after.
It is a great mistake to assume that pride and a high
degree of commonsense can not go together. Margaret
knew how to manage. After a short stay in Sudbury
the couple rented a cottage at Ipswich for six pxjunds a
year — a dovecot with three rooms. The proud beauty
would not let the place be profaned by a servant : she did
all the work herself ; and if she wanted help, she called on
her husband. Base Is the man who will not fetch and
carry for the woman he loves.
They were accounted the handsomest and most distin
guished couple in all Sudbury; and when they attended
church, there was so much craning of necks and so many
muffled exclamations of admiration, that the clergyman
made it a point not to begin the service until they were
139

GAINSBOROUGH

safely seated. ^They were very happy: they loved each
other, and so loved life and everything and everybody,
and God's great green out-o' -doors was their playhouse.
Margaret's income was quite sufficient for their needs.
and mad ambition passed them by. Gainsborough drew
pictures and painted and sketched, and then gave his
pictures away.
Music was his passion, and whenever at the concerts
held round about there the player did exceptionaUy well,
Gainsborough would proffer a picture In exchemge for
the instrument used. In this way the odd comers of their
house got filled with violins, lutes, hautboys, kettle
drums and curious stringed things that have died the
death and are now extinct. At this time, if any one had
asked Gainsborough his profession, he would have said,
" 1 am a musician."
Fifteen years had slipped into the eternity that lies
behind — " years not lost, for we can tum the hourglass
and live them all over in sweet memory," once said
Gainsborough to his wife. The constant sketching had
developed much skill in the artist's hand. Thicknesse
had come puffing alongside, and insisted out of pure
friendliness on taking the artist and wife in tow. They
laughed at him behind his back, and carried on conver
sation over his head, and dropped jokes at his feet by
looks and pantomime, and communicated in cipher —
for true lovers always evolve a code.
Thicknesse was sincere and serious, and surely was not
140

GAINSBOROUGH

wholly bad — even Mephisto is not bad all of the time.
Mrs. Gainsborough once said she would prefer Mephisto
to Thicknesse, because Mephisto had a sense of humor.
Very often they naturally referred to Thicknesse as
" Thickhead " — the joke was too obvious to let pass
entirely, until each " took the pledge," witnessed by
Gainsborough's favorite terrier, " Fox."
Thicknesse had a Summer House at Bath, and thither
he insisted his friends should go. He would vouch for
them and introduce them into the best society. He would
even introduce them to Beau Nash, " the King of Bath,"
and arrange to have Gainsborough do himself the honor
of painting the " King's " picture. Two daughters
nearing womanhood reminded Mr. and Mrs. Gains
borough that an increase In income would be well;
and Thicknesse promised many commissions from his
friends, the gentry.
The cheapest house they could find in Bath was fifty
pounds a year. " Do you want to go to jail? " asked
Mrs. Gainsborough of her husband when he proposed
signing the lease. The worldly Thicknesse proposed that
they should take this house at fifty pounds a year, or
else take another at one hundred fifty at his expense.
They decided to risk it at the rate of fifty pounds a year
for a few months, and were duly settled.
Thicknesse was very proud of his art connections. He
had but one theme — Gainsborough! People of note
began to find their way to the studio of the painter-man 141

GAINSBOROUGH

in the Circus. ^ Gainsborough was gracious, handsome
and healthy — fresh from the country. He met all
nobility on a frank equality — God had made him a
gentleman. His beautiful wife, now In her early thirties,
was much sought in local society circles.
Everybody of note who ceime to Bath visited Gains
borough's studio.
Garrick sat to him and played such pranks with his
countenance that each time the artist looked up from his
easel he saw a new man. " You have everybody's face
but your own," said Gainsborough to Garrick, and dis
missing the man he completed the picture from memory.
This portrait and also pictures of General Honejrwood,
the Comedian Quin, Lady Grosvenor, the Duke of
Argyle, besides several landscapes, were sent up to the
Academy Exhibition at London.
George the Third saw them and sent word down that he
wished Gainsborough lived In London, so he could sit
to him 33 53
The carrier, Wiltshire, who packed the pictures and
took them up to London, had a passion for art that filled
his heart, and he refused to accept gold, that beise and
common drudge 'twixt man and man, for his services in
an art way. And so Gainsborough presented him with a
picture. In fact, during the term of years that Gains
borough lived at Bath, he gave Wiltshire, the modest
driver of an express-cart, a dozen or more pictures and
sketches. He gave him the finest picture he ever painted:
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GAINSBOROUGH

that portrait of the old Parish Clerk. ^ Gainsborough
was not so good a judge of his own work as Wiltshire
was. Wiltshire kept all the " Galnsboroughs " he could
get, reveled in them during his long life, basked and
bathed his soul in their beauty, and dying, bequeathed
them to his children.
Had Wiltshire been moved by nothing but keen, cold.
worldly wisdom — ^which he was n't — he could not have
done better. Even friendship, love and beauty have their
Rialto — the appraiser footed up the Wiltshire estate at
more than fifty thousand pxjunds.
Gainsborough found himself with more work than he
could very well care for, so he raised his prices for a
" half-length " from five pounds to forty; and for a
" full-length " from ten pounds to one hundred, in order
to limit the number of his patrons. It doubled them 53
His promised picture of Thicknesse was relegated behind
the door, and a check was sent the great man for five
hundred pounds for his borrowed viola da gamba and
other favors.
But Thicknesse was not to be bought off. He took charge
of the studio, looked after the visitors, explaining this
and that, telling how he had discovered the artist and
rescued him from obscurity, giving scraps of his history,
and presenting little impromptu lectures on art as he
had found it.
The fussy Thicknesse used to be funny to Mr. and Mrs.
Gainsborough, but now he had developed into a
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GAINSBOROUGH

nuisance. To escape him, they resolved to tum the
pretty compliment of King George into a genuine
request. They packed up and moved to London.
The fifty pounds a year at Bath had seemed a great
responsibility, but when Gainsborough took Schomberg
House in Pall Mall at three hundred pounds, he boasts
of his bargain. About this time " Scheming Jack" turns
up asking for a small loan to perfect a promising scheme.
The gracious brother replies that although his own
expenses are more than a thousand pounds a year, he is
glad to accommodate him, and hopes the scheme will
prosper — ^which of course he knew it would not, for
success is a matter of red corpuscle.
Almost inunediately on reaching London the Royal
Academy recognized Gainsborough's presence by elect
ing him a member of its Council. However, he never
attended a single meeting. He did not need the Academy.
Royalty stood in line at his studio-doors, and he took his
pick of sitters. He painted five different portraits of the
King, various pictures of his children, did the rascally
heir-apparent ideally, and made a picture of Queen
Charlotte that Goldsmith said " looked like a sensible
woman." 53 53
He painted portraits of his lovely wife, Richard Brinsley
Sheridan, Burke, Walpole, the dictator of Strawberry
Hill, and Immortalized the hats worn by the smashing,
dashing Duchess of Devonshire. One of these pictures
of Her Grace comes very close to us Americans, as it was
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GAINSBOROUGH

cut from the frame one dark, foggy night in London,
sealed up in the false bottom of a trunk and brought to
New York. Here it lay for more than twenty years, when
Colonel Patrlcius Sheedy, connoisseur and critic,
arranged for its delivery to the heirs of the original
owners on payment of some such trifle as twenty-five
thousand dollars. This superb picture, with its romantic
past, was not destined to traverse the Atlantic again;
for thanks to the generosity of J. Pierp>ont Morgan, it
has now found a permanent home at Harvard College.

145

GAINSBOROUGH

T is only a little way back from civilization to
savagery. We Uve in a wonderful time: the
last twenty-five years have seen changes that
mark epochs in the onward and upward
march 53 To mention but two, we might name the
almost complete evolution of our definition as to what
constitutes " Christianity "; and in material things, the
use of electricity, which hEis worked such a revolution
as even Jules Verne never conjured forth.
Americans are somewhat given to calling our country
" The Land of the Free " — as if there were no other.
But the individual in England today has greater free
dom of speech and action than the individual hEis In
America. In every large city of America there is an
extent of petty officialism and dictation that the
English people would not for a day endure. Our police
men, following their Donnybrook proclivities, are all
armed with clubs, and allowing prenatal influences to
lead, they unlimber the motto, " Wherever you see a
head, hit it," on slight excuse. In Central Park, New
York, for instance, the citizen who " talks back " would
speedily be clubbed into silence — ^but try that thing in
Hyde Park, London, if you please, and see what would
follow! But, thank heaven, we are working out our sal
vation all the time — things are getting better, emd it is
the " dissatisfied " who are making them go. Were we
satisfied, there would be no progress. During the sixty-
one years of Gainsborough's life, wondrous changes were
146

GAINSBOROUGH

made in the world of thought and feeling. And the good-
natured but sturdy quality of such as he was the one
strong factor that worked for freedom. Gainsborough
was never a tuft-hunter: he toadied to no man, and his
swinging independence refused to see any special dif
ference between himself and the sleek, titled nobility.
He asked no favors of the Academy, no quarter from his
rivals, no grants from royalty. This dissenting attitude
probably cost him the mate of the knighthood which
went to Sir Joshua, but behold the paradox! he was
usually closer to the throne than those who lay in wait
for honors. Gainsborough sought for nothing — ^he did his
work, preserved the right mental attitude, and all good
things came to him.
It is a curious thing to note that while England was
undergoing a renaissance of art, and realizing a burst of
freedom, Italy, that land so long prolific in greatness,
produced not a single artist who rose above the dull and
commonplace. Has Nature only just so much genius at
her disposal?
The reign of the Georges worked a blessed, bloodless
revolution for the people of England. They reigned
better than they knew. Gainsborough saw the power of
the monarch transferred to the people, and the King
become the wooden figurehead of the ship, instead of its
Captain. So, thanks to the weakness of George the
Third and the short-sighted policy of Lord North,
America achieved her independence about the same
147

GAINSBOROUGH

time that England did hers. ^ Theological freedom and
political freedom go hand in hand, for our conception of
Deity is always a pale reflection of our chief ruler. Did
not Thackeray say that the people of England regarded
Jehovah as an infinite George the Fourth?
Gainsborough saw Whitefield and Wesley entreating
that we should go to God direct; Howard was letting the
sunshine into dark cells; Clarkson, Sharp and Wilber
force had begun their crusade against slavery, and their
arms and arguments were to be transferred a hundred
years later to William Lloyd Garrison, Wendell Phillips
and Henry Ward Beecher, who bought " Beecher
Bibles " for Old John Brown, Osawatomie Brown, whose
body, no longer needed, was hanged on a sour-apple tree
while his soul goes marching on.
In the realm of letters, Gainsborough saw changes
occur no less important than In the political field.
Samuel Johnson bowled into view, scolding and chal
lenging the Ensconced Smug; Goldsmith scaled the
Richardson ghetto and wrote his touching and deathless
verse; Fielding's saffron comedies were produced at
Drury Lane; Cowper, nearly the same age as the artist,
did his work and lapsed into imbecility, surviving him
sixteen years; Richardson became the happy father of
the English Novel; Sterne took his Sentimental Journey;
Chatterton, the meteor, flashed across the literary sky;
Gray mused in the churchyard and laid his head upon
the lap of earth; Burns was promoted from the Excise
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GAINSBOROUGH

to be the idol of all Scotland. The year that Gains
borough died. Napoleon, a slim slip of a youth seventeen
years old, was serving as a sub-lieutenant of artillery;
while Wellington had just received his first commission
and was marching zigzag, by the right oblique, to meet
him eighteen miles from Brussels on the night of a ball
sung into immortality by Byron ; Watt had invented the
steam-engine, thanks to Humphrey Gainsborough;
Arkwright had made his first spinning-frame ; Humphrey
Davy was working at problems (with partial success)
to be solved later by Edison of Menlo Park; Lord
Hastings was tried, and it was while listening to the
speech of Sheridan — the one speech of his life, the best
words of which, according to his butler, were, " My
Lords, I am done " — that Gainsborough caught his
death o' cold.

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GAINSBOROUGH

AINSBOROUGH never went abroad to study;
he painted things at home, and painted as he
saw them. He never imagined he was a great
artist, so took no thought as to the future of
his work. He set so little store on his pictures that he did
not think even to sign them. The masterpiece that
satisfied him was never done.
His was a happy life of work and love, with no cloud to
obscure the sun, save possibly now and then a bump
tious reproof from Sir Thicknesse or the occasional
high-handed haughtiness of a Hanging Committee 53
Thus passed his life in work, music, laughter and love;
but to music he ever turned for rest. He made more
money than all of his seven brothers and sisters com
bined, five times over, and divided with them without
stint. He educated several of his nieces and nephews,
and one nephew. Gainsborough Dupont, he adopted and
helped make an acceptable artist.
Of that peculiarly-to-be-dreaded malady, artistic jeal
ousy, Gainsborough had not a trace. His failure to court
Sir Joshua's smile led foolish folks to say he was jealous
— not so! he was simply able to get along without Sir
Joshua, and he did. Yet he admired Reynolds' works
and admired the man, but was too wise to force any
close personal relationship.
He divided with West, the American, the favor of the
Court, and with Romney and Reynolds the favor of the
town. He got his share, and more, of all those things
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GAINSBOROUGH

which the world counts worth while. The gratitude of
his heart was expressed by his life — generous, kind,
joyous — never cast down except when he thought he
had spoken harshly or acted unwisely — loyal to his
friends, forgetting his enemies.
He did a deathless work, for it Is a work upon which
other men have built. He prepared the way for those
who were to come after.
It is a great privilege to live, to work, to feel, to endure,
to know: to realize that one is the instrument of Deity
— ^being used by the Maker to work out His Inscrutable
purposes; to see vast changes occur in the social fabric
and to know that men stop, pause and consider: to
comprehend that this world is a different place because
you have lived. Yes, it is a great privilege to live!
Gainsborough lived — ^he reveled in life, and filled his
days to their brim, ever and always grateful to the
Unknown that had guided his hand and led him forth
upon his way.
It is a great privilege to live!

151

VELASQUEZ

Among the notable prophets of the new and true —
Rubens, Rembrandt, Claude Lorraine — Velasquez was
the newest and certainly the truest from our point of
view. He showed us the mystery of light as God made it.
— Stevenson

VELASQUEZ

VELASQUEZ

HERE be, among writing men, those
who please the populace, and also
that Elect Few who inspire writers.
When Horace Greeley gave his daily
message to the world, every editor
of any power in America paid good
money for the privilege of being a
subscriber to the " Tribune." The
" Tribune " had no exchange-list — if you wanted the
" Tribune " you had to buy it, and the writers bought it
because it wound up their clocks — set them agoing —
and they either carefully abstained from mentioning
Greeley or else went in right valiantly Emd exposed his
vagaries SSi 53
Greeley may have been often right, and we now know
he was often wrong, but he infused the breath of life into
his words — ^his sentences were a challenge — ^he made
men think. And the reason he made men think was
because he himself was a thinker.
Among modern literary men, the two English writers
who have most inspired writers are Carlyle and Emer
son. They were writers' writers. In the course of their
work, they touched upon every phase of mein's experience
and endeavor. You can not open their books anywhere
and read a page without casting about for your pen
cil and pad. Strong men infuse into their work a deal of
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VELASQUEZ

their own spirit, and their words are charged with a
suggestion and meaning beyond the mere sound. There
is a reverberation that thrills one. All art that lives is
thus vitalized with a spiritual essence: an essence that
ever escapes the analyst, but which is felt and known by
all who have hearts that throb and souls that feel.
Strong men make room for strong men. Emerson and
Carlyle inspired other men, and they inspired each other
— ^but whether there be warrant for that overworked
reference to their " friendship " is a question. Some
other word surely ought to apply here, for their relation
ship was largely a matter of the head, with a weather-eye
on Barabbas, and three thousand miles of very salt brine
between them. Carlyle never came to America: Elmer-
son made three trips to England; and often a year or
more passed without a single letter on either side.
TEimmas Carlyle, son of a stone-mason, with his crusty
ways and clay pipe, with personality plus, at close
range would have been a combination not entirely con
genial to the culminating flower of seven generations of
New England clergjonen — probably not more so than
was the shirt-sleeved and cravatless Walt, when they
met that memorable day by appointment at the Astor
House 33 53
Our first and last demand of Art is that it shall give us
the artist's best. Art Is the mintage of the soul. All the
whim, foible, and rank personality are blown away on
the winds of time — the good remains.
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VELASQUEZ

Of artists who have inspired artists, and who being
dead yet live, Velasquez stands first.
" Velasquez was a painters' painter — the rest of us are
only painters." 53 And when the man who painted
"Symphonies in White" further explained that a
picture is finished when all traces of the means used to
bring about the end have disappeared — for work alone
will efface the footsteps of work — he had Velasquez
in mind 53 53

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VELASQUEZ

HE subject of this sketch was born in the year
Fifteen Hundred Ninety-nine, and died in
Sixteen Hundred Sixty. And while he lived
there also lived these: Shakespeare, Murillo,
Cervantes, Rembrandt and Rubens.
As an artist and a man Velasquez was the equal, in his
way, of any of the men just named. Ruskin has said,
" Everything that Velasquez does may be regarded as
absolutely right." And Sir Joshua Reynolds placed him
self on record by saying, " The portrait of Pope Inno
cent the Tenth by Velasquez, in the Doria Gallery, is
the finest portrait In all Rome." Yet until the year
Seventeen Hundred Seventy-six, a date Americans can
easily remember, the work of Velasquez was scarcely
known outside of Spain. In that year Raphael Mengs
wrote: " How this painter, greater than Raphael or
Titian, truer far than Rubens or Van Dyck, should have
been lost to view is more than 1 can comprehend. I can
not find words to describe the splendor of his art! " 53
But enthusiasts who ebulliate at low temperature are
plentiful. The world wagged on in its sleepy way, and It
was not until Eighteen Hundred Twenty-eight that an
Englishman, Sir David Wilkie, following up the clue of
Mengs, began quietly to buy up all the stray pictures by
Velasquez he could find in Spain. He sent them to Eng
land, and the world one day awoke to the fact that
Velasquez was one of the greatest artists of all time.
Curtis compiled a list of two hundred seventy-four
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VELASQUEZ

pictures by Velasquez, which he pronounces authentic.
Of these, one hundred twenty-one were owned In Eng
land, thirteen in France, twelve In Austria and eight in
Italy. At least fifteen of the English 'oldings have since
been transferred to America; so, outside of England and
Spain, America possesses more of the works of this
master than any other country. But of this be sure: no
" Velasquez " will ever leave Spain unless spirited out
of the country between two days — and if one is carried
away, it will not be in the false bottom of a trunk.
Within a year one " Velasquez " was so found secreted
at Cadiz, and the owner escaped prison only by present
ing the picture, with his compliments, to the Prado
Museum at Madrid. The release of the prisoner, and
the acceptance of the picture, were both a bit Irregular
as a matter of jurisprudence; but I am told that lawyers
can usually arrange these little matters — Dame Justice
being blind in one eye.

159

VELASQUEZ

HERE seems to have been some little discus
sion In the De Silva family of Seville as to
whether Diego should be a lawyer, and follow
in his father's footsteps, or become an artist
and possibly a vagrom. The father had hoped the boy
would be his helper and successor, and here the young
ster was wasting his time drawing pictures of water-jugs,
baskets of flowers, old women and foolish folk about the
market! 53 53
Should it be the law-school or the studio of Herrera the
painter? 53 53
To almost every fond father the idea of discipline is to
have the child act just as he does. But in this case the
mother had her way, or, more properly, she let the boy
have his — as mothers do — and the sequel shows that a
woman's heart is sometimes nearer right than a man's
head 53 sS
The fact that " Velasquez " was the maiden name of his
mother, and was adopted by the young man. Is a straw
that tells which way the vane of his affections turned 53
Diego was sixteen and troublesome. He was n't " bad "
— only he had a rollicksome, flamboyant energy that
inundated everything, and made his absence often a
blessing devoutly to be wished. Herrera had fixed
thoughts about art and deportment. Diego failed to
grasp the beauty and force of these ideas, and in the
course of a year he seems to have learned just one thing
of Herrera — to use brushes with very long handles and
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VELASQUEZ

long bristles. This peculiarity he clung to through life,
and the way he floated the color upon the canvas with
those long, ungainly brushes, no one understood; he
really did n't know himself, and the world has long since
given up the riddle. But the scheme was Herrera's,
improved upon by Velasquez; yet not all men who paint
with a brush that has a handle eight feet long can paint
like Velasquez.
In Herrera's studio there were often heated arguments
as to merits and demerits, flat contradictions as to facts,
and wordy warfare that occasionally resulted In broken
furniture. On such occasions, Herrera never hesitated to
take a hand and soundly cuff a pupil's ears, if the master
thought the pupil needed it.
Velasquez has left on record the statement that Herrera
was the most dogmatic, pedantic, overbearing and
quarrelsome man he ever knew. Just what Herrera
thought of the young man Velasquez, we unfortunately
do not know. But the belief is that Velasquez left
Herrera's studio on request of Herrera.
He next entered the studio of the rich and fashionable
painter. Pacheco. This man, like Macaulay, had so much
learning that It ran over and he stood in the slop. He
wrote a book on painting, and might also have carried on
a Correspondence School wherein the art of portraiture
would be taught in ten easy lessons.
In Madrid and Seville are various specimens of work
done by both Herrera and Pacheco. Herrera had a
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VELASQUEZ

certain style, and the early work of Velasquez showed
Herrera's earmarks plainly; but we look in vain for a
trace of influence that can be attributed to Pacheco 53
Velasquez at eighteen could outstrip his master, and
both knew it. So Pacheco showed his good sense by
letting the young man go his own pace. He admired the
dashing, handsome youth, and although Velasquez
broke every rule laid down in Pacheco's mighty tome,
" Art As I Have Found It," yet the master uttered no
word of protest.
The boy was bigger than the book.
More than this, Pacheco invited the young man to come
and make his home with him, so as the better to aveiil
himself of the master's instruction. Now, Pacheco Qike
Brabantio in the play) had a beautiful daughter — Jueina
by name. She was about the age of Velasquez, gentle,
refined and amiable. Love is largely a matter of pro
pinquity: and the world now regards Pacheco as a
master matchmaker as well as a master painter. Diego
and Juana were married, aged nineteen, and Pacheco
breathed easier. He had attached to himself the most
daring and brilliant young man he had ever known, and
he had saved himself the annoyance of having his studio
thronged with a gang of suitors such as crowded the
courts of Ulysses.
Pacheco was pleased.
And why should Pacheco not have been pleased ? He had
linked his name for all time with the History of Art. Had
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VELASQUEZ

he not been the teacher and father-in-law of Velasquez,
his name would have been writ in water, for in his own
art there was not enough Attic salt to save it; and his
learning was a thing of dusty, musty books.
Pacheco's virtue consisted in recognizing the genius of
Velasquez, and hanging on to him closely, rubbing off
all the glory that he could make stick to himself.
To the day of his death Pacheco laid the flattering
unction to his soul that he had made Velasquez; but
leaving this out of the discussion, no one doubts that
Velasquez plucked from oblivion the name and fame of
Pacheco 53 53

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VELASQUEZ

HOSE splendid blonde women of Rubens
are the solaces of the eternal fighting-man,"
writes Vance Thompson 53 The wife of
Velasquez was of the Rubens type: she
looked upon her husband as the ideal. She believed in
him, ministered to him, and had no other gods before
him. She had but one ambition, and that was to serve
her lord and master.
Her faith in the man — in his power, in his integrity and
in his art — corroborated his faith in himself. We want
One to believe in us, and this being so, all else matters
little 53 53
Velasquez seems a type of the " eternal fighting-mem "
— not the quarrelsome, quibbling man, who draws on
slight excuse, but the man with a message, who goes
straight to his destination with a will that breaks through
every barrier, and pushes aside every obstacle. With the
savage type there is no progression: the noble red man
is content to be a noble red man all his days, and the
result is that in standing still he is retreating off the face
of the earth. Not so your " eternal fighting-man " — ^he
is scourged by a restlessness that allows him no rest nor
respite save in his work.
Beware when a thinker and worker Is let loose on the
planet! 53 53
In the days of Velasquez, Spain had but two patrons
for art: Royalty and the Church.
Although nominally a Catholic, Velasquez had little
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VELASQUEZ

sympathy with the superstitions of the multitude. His
religion was essentially a Natural Religion: to love his
friends, to bathe in the sunshine of life, to preserve a
right mental attitude — the receptive attitude, the atti
tude of gratitude — and to do his work: these things
were for him the sum of life. His passion was art — to
portray his feelings on canvas and make manifest to
others the things he himself saw. The Church, he
thought, did not afford sufficient outlet for his power.
Cherubs that could live only in the tropics, emd wings
without muscles to manipulate them, did not mean
much to him. The men and women on earth appealed to
him more than the angels in Heaven, and he could not
imagine a better paradise than this. So he painted what
he saw: old men, market-women, beggars, handsome
boys and toddling babies. These things did not appeal to
prelates — they wanted pictures of things a long way off.
So from the Church Velasquez turned his geize toward
the Court of Madrid.
Velasquez had been in the studio of Pacheco at Seville
for five years. During that time he filled the days with
work — joyous, eager work. He produced a good many
valuable pictures and a great many sketches, which were
mostly given away. Yet today, Seville, with her splendid
art-gallery and her hundreds of palaces, contains not a
single specimen of the work of her greatest son.
It was a rather daring thing for a young man of twenty-
four to knock boldly at the gates of Royalty 33 But the
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VELASQUEZ

application was made in Velasquez's own way. All of his
studies, which the critics tauntingly called " tavern
pieces," were a preparation for the life and work before
him. He had mastered the subtlety of the human face,
and had seen how the spirit shines through and reveals
the soul 53 53
To know how to write correctly is nothing — you must
know something worth recording. To paint is nothing —
you must know what you are portraying. Veleisquez had
become acquainted with humanity, and gotten on
intimate terms with life. He had haunted the waysides
and markets to good purpose; he had laid the founda
tion of those qualities which characterize his best work:
mastery of expression, penetration into character, the
ability to look upon a face and read the thoughts that
lurk behind, the crouching passions, and all the eispira-
tions too great for speech. To picture great men you
must be a great man.
Velasquez was twenty-four — dark, daring, silent, with a
face and form that proclaimed him a strong and valiant
soul. Strong men can well afford to be gentle — those who
know can well cultivate silence.
The young man did not storm the doors of the Alceizar.
No; at Madrid he went quietly to work copying Titieins
in the gallery, and incidentally painting portraits —
Royalty must come to him. He had faith in his power:
he could wait. His wife knew the Court would call him—
he knew it, too — the Court of Spain needed Velasquez.
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VELASQUEZ

It Is a fine thing to make yourself needed. ^ Nearly a
year had passed, and Velasquez gave it out quietly that
he was about to return to his home in Seville. Artistic
Madrid rubbed its eyes. The Minister of State, the great
Olivarez, came to him with a commission from the King
and a goodly payment in advance, begging that, as
soon as he had made a short visit to Seville, he should
return to Madrid. Apartments had already been set
aside for him In the Alceizar Palace. Would he not
kindly comply?
Such a request from the King was really equal to an
order. Velasquez surely had no intention of declining the
compliment, since he had angled for it most ingeniously;
but he took a little time to consider it. Of course he
talked it over with his wife and her father, and we can
imagine they had a quiet little supper by themselves in
honor of the event.
And so in the month of May, Sixteen Hundred Twenty-
three, Diego de Silva Velasquez duly became a member
of the Royal Household, and very soon was the com
panion, friend, adviser and attendant of the King — that
post which he was to hold for thirty-six years, ere Death
should call him hence.

167

VELASQUEZ

HE farmer thinks that place and power are
fine things, but let him know that the Presi
dent has paid dear for his White House," said
the sage of Concord.
The most miserable man I ever knew was one who
married a rich woman, managed her broad acres, looked
after her bonds and made report of her stocks. If the
stocks failed to pay dividends, or the acres were fallow,
my friend had to explain why to the tearful wife and
sundry sarcastic next of kin.
The man was a Jeffersonian Democrat Emd preached the
Life of Simplicity, because we always preach about
things that are not ours. He rode behind horses that had
docked tails, and apx>logized for being on earth, to an
awful butler in solemn black.
The man had married for a home — he got it. When he
wanted funds for himself, he was given dole, or else was
put to the necessity of juggling the Expense-Account 33
If he wished to invite friends to his home, he had to
prove them standard-bred, morally sound in wind and
limb, and free from fault or blemish.
The good man might have Uved a thoroughly happy life,
with everything supplied that he needed, but he
acquired the Sanitarium Habit, for which there is no
cure but poverty. And this man could not be poor even
if he wanted to, for there were no grounds for divorce.
His wife loved him dearly, and her income of five
thousand dollars a month ceime along with startling
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VELASQUEZ

regularity, willy-nilly. ^ Finally, at Hot Springs, Death
gave him treatment and he was freed from pain.
From this o'ertrue incident it must not be imagined that
wealth and position are bad things. Health is potential
power. Wealth is an engine that can be used for good if
you are an engineer; but to be tied to the flywheel of an
engine is rather unfortunate. Had my friend been big
enough to rise supreme over horses with docked tails,
to subjugate a butler, to defy the next of kin and manage
the wife (without letting her know it), all would have
been well.
But it is a Herculean task to cope with the handicap of
wealth. Mediocre men can endure failure; for, as Robert
Louis the beloved has pointed out, failure is natural, but
worldly success is an abnormal condition. In order to
stand success you must be of very stern fiber, with all
the gods on your side.
The Alcazar Palace looked strong, solid and self-suf
ficient on the outside. But inside, like every Court, it
weis a den of quibble, quarrel, envy, and the hatred
which, tinctured with fear, knocks an emvil-chorus from
day-dawn to dark.
A thousand people made up the household of Philip the
Fourth. Any one of these could be dismissed in an hour
— the power of Olivarez, the Minister, was absolute.
Very naturally there were plottings and counterplottings.
^ A Court is a prison to most of its Inmates; no freedom
is there — thought is strangled and inspiration still-bom. 169

VELASQUEZ

Yet Ufe is always breaking through. When locked In a
cell in a Paris prison, Horace Greeley wrote, " Thank
God, at last 1 am free from Intrusion."
" Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a
cage," laughed Lovelace. Have not some of the great
books of the world been written in prison? Things work
by antithesis; and if your discipUne is too severe, you
get no discipline at all. Puritanical pretense, hjqxrcrlsy
and a life of repression, with " thou shalt not " set on a
hair-trigger, have made more than one man bold,
genuine and honest. Draw the bow far enough this way,
and your arrow will go a long way that. Forbid a man to
think for himself or to act for himself, and you may add
the joy of piracy and the zest of smuggling to his life 53
In the Spanish Court, Velasquez found life a lie, public
manners an exaggeration, etiquette a pretense, and all
the emotions put up in sealed cans. Fashionable Society
is usually nothing but Canned Life. Look out for
explosions! Velasquez held the balance true by an
artistic courage and an audacity of private thought that
might not have been his in a freer atmosphere. He did
not wear his art upon his sleeve: he outwardly con
formed, but inwardly his soul towered over every petty
annoyance, and all the vain power of the fearing and
quibbling little princes touched him not.

170

VELASQUEZ

PAIN, under the rule of Philip the Second,
grew great. Her ships sailed every sea — the
world contributed to her wealth. Art comes
after a surplus has accumulated and the mere
necessaries of life have been provided. Philip built great
palaces, founded schools, gave encouragement to the
handicrafts, and sent his embassies scouring the world
for the treasures of Art. The King was a practical man,
blunt, farseeing, direct. He knew the cost of things,
studied out the best ways, ascertained right methods.
He had the red corpuscle, the deep convolution, and so
was King. His ministers did his bidding.
The grim sarcasm of entailed power is a thing so obvious
that one marvels it has escaped the recognition of man
kind until yesterday. But stay! Men have always seen
its monstrous absurdity — hence the rack.
The Spanish Inquisition, in which Church and State
combined against God, seems an awful extreme to show
the depths of iniquity to which Pride married to
Hypocrisy can sink. Yet martyrdom has its compensa
tion. The spirit flies home upon the wings of victory, and
in the very moment of so-called defeat, the man has the
blessed consolation that he is still master of his fate —
captain of his soul.
The lesson of the Inquisition was wortn the price — the
martyrs bought freedom for us. The fanged dogs of war,
once turned loose upon the man who dared to think,
have left as sole successor only a fat and harmless 171

VELASQUEZ

poodle, known as Social Ostracism. This p>oodle is old,
toothless and given over to introspection; it has to be
fed on pap; its only exercise is to exploit the horse
blocks, doze in milady's lap, and dream of a long-lost
canine paradise. The dog-catcher aweiits around the
corner 53 53
Philip the Third was an etiolated and perfumed dandy.
In him culture had begun to tum yellow. Men who pride
themselves upon their culture have n't any of which to
speak. All the beauties of art, this man thought, were
exclusively for him and his precious company of lisping
exquisites and giggling, mincing queans. The thought
that those who create beauty are also they who possess
it, never dawned upon this crack-pated son of tired
sheets 53 53
He lived to enjoy — and so he never enjoyed anything.
^ Surfeit and satiety overtook him in the royal hog-
wallow; digestion and zest took flight. Philip the Third
speedily became a wooden Indian on wheels, moved by
his Minister of State, the Duke of Lerma.
Huge animals sustain huge parasites, and so the Court
of Philip the Third, with its fools, dwarfs, idiots and all
of its dancing, jiggling, juggling, wasteful folly, did not
succeed in wrecking the land. When Philip the Third
traveled, he sent hundreds of men Eihead to beat the
swamps, day and night, in the vicinity of his royeJ
presence, so as to silence the frogs. He thought their
croaking was a personal matter meant for him.
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VELASQUEZ

I think he was right. ^ How the Lords of Death must
chuckle in defiant glee when they send malaria and night
into the palaces of the great through cracks and
crevices ! Philip's bloated, unkingly body became full of
disease emd pain ; lingering unrest racked him ; the unseen
demons he could not exorcise, danced on his bed,
wrenched his members and played mad havoc with
each quivering nerve. And so he died. Then comes
Philip the Fourth, immortal through his forty portraits
painted by Velasquez. Philip was only fourteen when
his father died. He was a rareripe, and showed strength
and decision far beyond his years. His grandfather,
Philip the Second, weis his ideal, and he let it be known
right speedily that his reign was to be one of moderation
and simplicity, modeled along the lines of Philip the
Great 53 53
The Duke of Lerma, Minister of State, who had so long
been the actual ruler of Spain, was deposed, and into his
place slipped the suave and handsome Olivarez,
Gentleman-in- Waiting to the young King.
Olivarez was from Seville, and had known the family of
Velasquez. It was through his influence that Diego so
soon got the nod of Royalty. The King was eighteen,
Velasquez was twenty-four, and Olivarez not much
older — all boys together. And the fact that Velasquez
secured the appointment of Court Painter with such
ease was probably owing to his dashing horsemanship,
as much as to his being a skilful painter. 173

VELASQUEZ

At Harvard once 1 saw a determined effort made to
place a famous " right tackle " in the chair of Assistant
Professor of Rhetoric. The plan was only given over
with great reluctance, when it was discovered that the
" right tackle " was beautifully ignorant of the subject
he would have to tackle. Even then it was argued he
could " cram " — keeping one lesson in advance of his
class 53 Si
But Olivarez knew Velasquez could paint, and the
artist's handsome face, stalwart frame and fearless
riding did the rest. The young King was considered the
best horseman in Madrid: Velasquez and OUvarez took
pains never to outdo him in the joust.
The biography of Olivarez as a study of Ufe is a better
subject far than either the life of VelEisquez or the King.
Their lives were too successful to be interesting. OUvarez
is a fine exeimple of a mem growing great through
exercise. Read history and behold how commonplace
men have often had greatness thrust up>on them and met
the issue. I have seen an absurd Class B lawyer elevated
into a judgeship, and rise to the level of events, keeping
silence, looking wise, hugging his dignity hard, until
there came a time when the dignity really was a fEiir fit.
Trotters often need toe-weights to give them ballast and
balance — so do men need responsibility. We have had at
least three commonplace men for President of the
United States, who live In history as adequately great —
and they were. Various and sundry good folk will here
174

VELASQUEZ

arise and say the germ of greatness was in these men all
the time, awaiting the opportunity to unfold. And the
answer is correct, right and proper; but a codicil should
then be added to the effect that the germ of greatness
is in every man, but we fall victims of arrested develop
ment, and success or society, like a worm i' the bud,
feeds on our damask cheek.
Philip was nipped in the bud by falling Into the protect
ing shadow of Olivarez. The Prime Minister provided
boar-hunts and tourneys and masquerades and fetes.
Philip's life of simplicity faded off into dressing in black
— all else went on as before. Philip glided into the line of
least resistance and signed every paper that he was told
to sign by his gracious, winning, inflexible Minister —
the true type of the iron hand in the velvet glove. From
his twentieth year, after that first little flurry of pre
tended power, the novelty of ruling wore away; and for
more than forty years he never either vetoed an act or
initiated one. His ministers arranged his recreations, his
gallantries, his hours of sleep. He was ruled and never
knew it, and here the Richelieu-like Olivarez showed his
power. It was anything to keep the King from thinking,
and Spain, the Mother of Magnificence, went drifting
to her death.
There were already three Court Painters when Velasquez
received his appointment. They were Italians appointed
by Philip the Third. Their heads were full of tradition
and precedent, and they painted like their masters, who
175

VELASQUEZ

had been pupils of men who had worked with Titian —
beautiful attenuations three times reduced. We only
know their names now because they raised a pretty
chorus of protest when Velasquez appeared at the
palace. They worked all the wires they knew to bring
about his downfall, and then dwindled away into chronic
Artistic Jealousy, which finally struck in; and they
were buried. That the plots, challenges and constEmt
knockings of these underling court painters ever
affected Velasquez, we can not see. He swung right along
at prodigious strides, living his own life — a Ufe outside
and beyond all the pretense and veinity of place and
power 53 53
The King came by a secret passage daily to the studio
to watch Velasquez work. There was always a chair for
him, and the King even had an easel and sets of brushes
and palette with which he played at painting. Pacheco,
who had come up to Madrid and buzzed around en
croaching on the Samuel Pepys copyright, has said that
the King was a skilled painter. But this statement was
for publication during the King's lifetime.
When Velasquez could not keep the King quiet In any
other way, it seems he made him sit for his picture. The
studio was never without an unfinished portrait of the
King. From eighteen to fifty-four he sat to Velasquez —
and it is always that same tall, spindle-legged, impassive
form and the dull, unspeaking face. There is no thought
there, no aspiration, no hope too great for earth, no
176

VELASQUEZ

unrequited love, no dream unrealized. The King was
Incapable of love as he was of hate. And Velasquez did
not use his art to flatter: he had the artistic conscience.
Truth was his guiding star. And the greatness of
Velasquez is shown in that aU subjects were equally
alike to him. He did not select the classic or peculiar.
Little painters are always choosing their subjects and
explaining that this or that may be pretty or Interesting,
but they will tell you it Is "unpaintable" — ^which means
that they can not paint it.
" I can write well on any topic — all are alike to me! "
said Deem Swift to Stella.
" Then write me an essay on a broomstick," answered
Stella. ^And Swift wrote the essay — full of abstruse
reasons, playful wit and charming insight.
The long, oval, dull face of Philip lured Velasquez. He
analyzed every possible shade of emotion of which this
man was capable, and stripped his soul bare. The sallow
skin, thin curling locks, nerveless hands, and unmeaning
eyes are upon the walls of every gallery of Christendom
— matchless specimens of the power to sink self, and
reveal the subject.
That is why Whistler is right when he says that Velas
quez Is the painters' painter. " The Blacksmith " by
Whistler shows you the blacksmith, not Whistler;
Rembrandt's pictures of his mother show the woman;
Franz Hals gives you the Burgomaster, not himself.
Shakespeare of all writers is the most impersonal — he
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VELASQUEZ

does not give himself away. ^ When Rubens painted a
portrait of Philip the Fourth he put a dash of daring,
exuberant health in the face that was never there. The
health and joy of life was in Rubens, and he could not
keep it off his palette. There is a sameness in every
Rubens, because the imagination of the man ran over,
and falsified his colors; he always gives you a deal of
Rubens 53 53
But stay! that expression, " sinking self." is only a
figure of speech. At the last, the true artist never sinks
self: he is always supreme, and towers above every
subject, every object, that he portrays. The riotous
health and good-cheer of Rubens marked the man's
limitations. He was not great enough to comprehend the
small, the delicate, the Insignificant and the absurd.
Only a very great man can paint dwarfs, idiots, topers
and kings. And so the many-sidedness of the great man
continually deceives the world into thinking that he is
the thing with which he associates ; or, on the other hand,
we say he " sinks self " for the time, whereas the truth
is that In his own nature he comprehends the Whole.
Shakespeare being the Universal Man, we lose him in
the labyrinth of his winding and wondrous imagination.
The greater comprehends the less.
The beginner paints what he sees; or, more properly, he
paints what he thinks he sees. If he grows he will next
I)aint what he imagines, as Rubens did. Then there is
another stage which completes the spiral and comes
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VELASQUEZ

back to the place of beginning, and the painter will again
paint what he sees.
This Velasquez did, and this Is what sets him apart 53
The difference between the last stage and the first is that
the artist has learned to see.
To write is nothing — to know what to write Is much. To
paint is nothing — to see and know the object you are
attempting to portray is everything.
" Shall I paint the thing just as I see it? " asked the
ingenue of the great artist. " Why, yes," was the answer.
" provided you do not see the thing as you paint It."

179

VELASQUEZ

HE King and the Painter grew old together.
They met on a common ground of horses,
dogs and art; and while the King used these
things to kill time and cause him to forget
self, the Painter found horses and dogs good for rest
and recreation. But art was for Velasquez a religion, a
sacred passion.
Nominally the Court Painter ranked with the Court
Barber, and his allowance was the same. But Velasquez
ruled the King, and the King knew it not. Like all
wasteful, dissolute men, Philip the Fourth had spasms
of repentance when he sought by absurd economy to
atone for folly.
We are all familiar with individuals who will blow to the
four winds good money, and much of it, on needless
meat and drink for those who are neither hungry nor
athirst, and take folks for a carriage-ride who should be
abed, and then the next day buy a sandwich for dinner
and walk a mile to save a five-cent carfare. Some of us
have done these things; and so occasionally Philip would
dole out money to buy canvas and complain of the size
of It, and ask in injured tone how many pictures
Velasquez had painted from that last bolt of cloth! 33
But Velasquez was a diplomat and humored his liege;
yet when the artist died, the administrator of his estate
had to sue the State for a settlement, and it was ten
years before the final amount due the artist was paid.
After twenty years of devotion, Olivarez — outmatched
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VELASQUEZ

by Richelieu in the game of statecraft — fell into dis
repute and was dismissed from office. Monarchies, Uke
republics, are ungrateful.
Velasquez sided with his old friend OUvarez in the
quarrel, and thus risked incurring the sore displeasure
of the King. The King could replace his Minister of
State, but there was no one to take the place of the
artist; so Philip bottled his wrath, gave Velasquez the
right of his private opinion, and refused to accept his
resignation.
There seems little doubt that it was a calamity for
Velasquez that Philip did not send him flying into dis
grace with Olivarez. Had Velasquez been lifted out on
the toe of the King's displeasure, Italy would have
claimed him, and the Vatican would have opened
wide its doors. There, relieved of financial badgering, in
the company of his equals, encouraged and uplifted, he
might have performed such miracles in form and color
that even the wonderful ceiling of the Sistine Chapel
would have faded into the mediocre.
And again he might not — ^what more idle and fascinating
than such speculation?
That the King endured the calm rebuke of Velasquez,
when OUvarez was deposed, and still retained the Painter
in favor, was probably because Rubens had assured the
King that Velasquez as an artist was the master of any
man in aU Europe.
Velasquez made two trips to Italy, being sent on royal
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VELASQUEZ

embassies to purchase statuary for the Prado Gallery,
and incidentally to copy pictures. So there Is many a
Veronese, Tintoretto and Titian now in the Prado that
was copied by Velasquez.
Think of the value of a Titian copied by Velasquez ! And
so faithfully was the copying done, even to inserting the
signature, initials and date, that much doubt exists as to
what pictures are genuine and what copies.
When Rubens appeared at the Court of Madrid, sent by
the Duke of Mantua, with presents of Old Masters
(done by himself), I can not but imagine the quiet con
fession, with smiles and popping of corks, that occurred
when the wise and princely Rubens and the equally wise
and princely Velasquez got together in some private
corner 53 53
The advent of Rubens at Madrid sent a thrill through
the entire Court, and a lesser man than Velasquez would
have quaked with apprehension when he found the King
sitting to Rubens for a portrait in his own studio.
Not so Velasquez — he had done the King on canvas a
score of times; no one else had ever been allowed to
paint the King's portrait — and he was curious to see
how the picture would come out.
Rubens, twenty-two years the senior of Velasquez,
shrank a bit, it seems, from the contest, and connoisseurs
have said that there is a little lack of the exuberant,
joyous Rubensesque quality in the various pictures
done by the gracious Fleming in Spain. ^ The taunt that
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VELASQUEZ

many of the pictures attributed to Rubens were done
by his pupils loses its point when we behold the pro
digious amount of work that the master accomplished
at Madrid in nine months — a dozen portraits, several
groups, a score of pictures copied. And besides this,
there was time for horseback rides when the King,
Rubens and Velasquez galloped away together, when
they climbed mountains, and when there were fetes and
receptions to attend. Rubens was then over fifty, but
the fire of his youth and that joyous animation of the
morning, the years had not subdued.
Velasquez had many pupils, but in Murillo his skill as a
teacher is best revealed. Several of his pupils painted
exactly like him, save that they neglected to breathe into
the nostrils of their work the breath of life. But Velas
quez seems to have encouraged Murillo to follow the
bent of his moody and melancholy genius — so Murillo
was himself, not a diluted Velasquez.
The strong, administrative ability of Velasquez was
prized by the King as much as his ability as a painter,
and he was, therefore, advanced to the position of
Master of Ceremonies. In this work, with its constant
demand of close attention to petty details, his latter
days were consumed. He died, aged sixty-one, a victim
to tasks that were not worth the doing, but which the
foolish King considered as important as painting
deathless pictures.
So closely was the life of his wife blended with his own
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VELASQUEZ

that in eight days after his passing she foUowed him
across the Border, although the physiciems declared
that she had no disease. Husband and wife were buried
in one grave in a church that a hundred years later was
bumed and never rebuilt. No stone marks their resting-
place; and none is needed, for VelEisquez lives in his
work. The truth, splendor and beauty that he produced
are on a hundred walls — the inspiration of men who do
and dare — the priceless heritage of us who live today
and of those who shall come after.

184

COROT

The sun sinks more and more behind the horizon. Bam!
he throws his last ray, a streak of gold and purple which
fringes the flying clouds. There, now it has entirely dis
appeared. Bien! bien! twilight commences. Heavens,
how charming it is ! There is now in the sky only the soft
vaporous color of pale citron — the last reflection of the
sun which plunges into the dark blue of the night, going
from green tones to a pale turquoise of an unheard-of
fineness and a fluid delicacy quite indescribable * * * *
The fields lose their color, the trees form but gray or
brown masses ***** the dark waters reflect the bland
tones of the sky. We are losing sight of things — but one
still feels that everything is there — everything is vague,
confused, and Nature grows drowsy. The fresh evening
air sighs among the leaves — the birds, these voices of
the flowers, are saying their evening prayer.
— Corot 's Letter to Graham

' //'??* '

COROT

COROT

OST young artists begin by working
for microscopic effects, trying to
portray every detail, to see every
leaf, stem and branch and reveal
them In the picture.
The ability to draw carefully and
finish painstakingly is very neces
sary, but the great artist must for
get how to draw before he paints a great picture; just as
every strong writer must put the grammar upon the
shelf before he writes well. I once heard William Dean
Howells say that any good, bright High-School girl of
sixteen could pass a far better examination in rhetoric
than he could — and the admission did Mr. Howells no
discredit 53 53
" Would you advise me to take a course In elocution? "
once asked a young man with oratorical ambitions of
Henry Ward Beecher.
" Yes, by all means. Study elocution very carefully, but
you will have to forget it all before you ever become an
orator," was the answer.
Corot began as a child by drawing very rude, crude,
uncertain pictures, just such pictures as any schoolboy
can draw. Next he began to " complete " his sketches,
and work with infinite pains. If he sketched a house he
showed whether the roof was shingled or made of straw
187

COROT
or tile; his trees revealed the texture of the bark and
showed the shape of the leaf, and every flower contained
its pistil and stamens, and told the man knew his
botany. Two of his pictures done In Rome in his twenty-
ninth year, "The Colosseum" and "The Forum," now
in the Louvre, are good pictures — complete in detail,
painstaking, accurate, hard and tight in technique. They
are bomb-proof — beyond criticism — ^absolutely safe 53
Have a care, Corot! Keep where you are and you will
become an irreproachable painter. That is to say, you
will paint just like a hundred other French painters.
There will be a market for your wares, the critics will
approve, and at the Salon your work will never be either
enskyed nor consigned to the catacombs. Society wiU
court you, fair ladles will smile and encourage. You
will be a success; your nEime will be safely pigeon
holed among the unobjectionable ones, and before your
wind-combed shock of hair has turned to silver, you
will be supplanted by a new crop of fashion's favorites.

188

COROT

r is a fact worth noting that the two greatest
landscape-painters of all time were city-born
and city-bred. Turner was born in London,
the son of a barber, and Fate held him so in
leash that he never got beyond the sound of Bow Bells
until he was a man grown. Corot was born in Paris,
and his first outdoor sketch, made at twenty-two, was
done amidst the din and jostle of the quays of the Seine.
^ Five strong men made up the Barbizon School, and
of these, three were reared in Paris — Paris the frivo
lous, Paris the pleasure-loving. Corot, Rousseau and
Daubigny were children of the Metrop)olis.
I state these facts in the interests of truth, and also to
ease conscience, for I am aware that I have glorified
the country boy in pages gone before, as if God were
kind to him alone.
Turner made over a million dollars by the work of his
hands (reinforced by head and heart); and left a dis
card of nineteen thousand sketches to the British
Nation. Was ever such an example of concentration,
energy and industry known In the history of art? 53
Corot, six feet one, weight two hundred, ruddy, simple,
guileless, singing softly to himself as he walked. In
peasant blouse, and sabot-shod, used to come up to
Paris, his birthplace, two or three times a year, and
the gEimins would follow him on the streets, making
remarks irrelevant and comments uncomplimentary,
just as they might follow old Joshua Whitcomb on
189

COROT
Broadway in New York. ^ British grandees often dress
like farmers, for pride may manifest itself in simplicity,
but the disinterested pose of Camille Corot, if pose it
was. fitted him as the feathers fit a wild duck. If pose is
natural it surely is not pose: and Corot. the simplest
man in the world, was regarded by the many as a man
of mannerisms. His work was so quiet and modest that
the art world refused to regard it seriously. Corot was as
unpretentious as Walt Whitman and just as free from
vanity 53 53
During the War of the Rebellion, Whitman bank
rupted himself In purse and body by caring for the
stricken soldiers. At the siege of Paris, Corot could
have kept outside the barriers, but safety for himself
he would not accept. He remained in the city, refused
every comfort that he could not divide with others,
spent all the money he had in caring for the wounded,
nursed the sick by night and day, listened to the con
fessions of the dying, and closed the eyes of the dead.
To everybody, especially the simple folk, the plain,
the unpretentious, the unknown, he was " Papa Corot,"
and everywhere did the stalwart old man of seventy-
five carry hope, good-cheer and a courage that never
faltered 53 53
Corot, like Whitman, had the happiness to have no
history 53 53
Corot used paint just as if no one had ever painted
before, and Whitman wrote as if he were the first man
190

COROT
who had ever expressed himself in verse — precedent
stood for naught. Each had all the time there was;
they were never in a hurry; they loafed and invited
their souls; they loved all women so well that they
never could make choice of one; both were ridiculed
and hooted and misunderstood; recognition came to
neither until they were about to depart; and yet in
spite of the continual rejection of their work, and the
stupidity that would not see, and the ribaldry of those
who could not comprehend, they continued serenely on
their way, unruffled, kind — making no apologies nor
explanations — unresentful, with malice toward none,
and charity for all.
The world is still divided as to whether Walt Whitman
was simply a coarse and careless writer, without either
skill, style or insight; or one with such a subtle, spiritual
vision, such a penetration into the heart of things, that
few comparatively can follow him.
During forty years of Corot's career the critics said,
when they deigned to mention Corot at all, " There
are two worlds, God's World and Corot's World."
He was regarded as a harmless lunatic, who saw things
differently from others, and so they indulged him. and
at the Salon hung his pictures in the " Catacombs "
with many a sly joke at his expense. The expression,
" Corot Nature," is with us yet.
But now the idea has gradually gained ground that
Camille Corot looked for beauty and found it — that he
191

COROT
painted what he saw, and that he saw things that the
average man, through incapacity, never sees at all.
Science has taught us that there are sounds so subtle
that our coarse senses can not recognize them, and there
are thousands of tints, combinations and variations in
color that the unaided or uneducated eye can not detect.
§ If Corot saw more than we, why denounce Corot?
And so Corot has gradually and very slowly come into
recognition as one who had power plus — it was we
who were weak, we who were faulty, not he. The
stones that were cast at him have been gathered up
and cemented into a monument to his memory sS

192

COROT

HE father of Camille Corot was a peasant who
drifted over to Paris to make his fortune. He
Weis active, acute, intelligent and economical
— ^and when a Frenchman is economical his
economy is of a kind that makes the Connecticut brand
look like extravagance.
This young man became a clerk in a drygoods-store that
had a millinery attachment, as most French drygoods-
stores have. He was precise, accurate, had a fair educa
tion, and always wore a white cravat. In the millinery
department of this store was employed, among many
others, a Swiss girl who had come up to Paris on her own
account to get a knowledge of millinery and dressmaking.
When this was gained she intended to go back to Swit
zerland, the land of liberty and Swiss cheese, and there
live out her life in her native village making finery for
the villagers for a consideration.
She did not go back to Switzerland, because she very
shortly married the precise young drygoods-clerk who
wore the white cravat.
The Swiss are the most competent people on this
globe of ours, which is round like an orange and slightly
flattened at the poles. There is less illiteracy, less
pauperism, less drunkenness, more general intelligence,
more freedom in Switzerland than in any other country
on earth. This has been so for two hundred years: and
the reason, some say, is that she has no standing army
and no navy. She is surrounded by big nations that are
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COROT
so jealous of her that they will not allow each other to
molest her. She is not big enough to fight them. Being
too little to declare war, she makes a virtue of necessity
and so just minds her own business. That is the only way
an individual can succeed — mind your own business —
and it is also the best policy with a nation.
The way the Swiss think things out with their heads
and materialize them with their hands Is very wonder
ful. In all the Swiss schools the pupils draw, sew,
carve wood and make things. PestalozzI was Swiss,
and Froebel was more Swiss than German. Manual
Training and the Kindergarten are Swiss ideas. AU of
our progress in the line of pedagogy that the years
have brought has consisted in carrying Kindergarten
Ideas Into the Little Red Schoolhouse, and elsewhere 33
The world is debtor to the Swiss — the carmine of their
ideas has tinted the whole thought-fabric of civilization.
^ The Swiss know how.
Skilled workmen from Switzerland are in demand every
where 53 53
That Swiss girl In the Paris shop was a skilled needle
woman, and the good taste and talent she showed in
her work was a joy to her employers. There are hints
that they tried to discourage her marriage with the
clerk in the white cravat. What a loss to the art world
if they had succeeded! But love is stronger than busi
ness ambition, and so the milliner married the young
clerk, and they had a very modest little nest to which
194

COROT
they flew when the day's work was done. ^ In a year a
domestic emergency made it advisable for the young
woman to stay at home, but she kept right along with
her sewing. Some of the customers hunted her up and
wanted her to do work for them.
When the stress of the little exigency was safely
passed, the young mother found she could make more
by working at home for special customers. A girl was
hired to help her, then two — three.
The rooms downstairs were secured, and a show-window
put in. This was at the comer of the Rue du Bac and the
Pont Royal, within sight of the Louvre. It is an easy
place to find, and you had better take a look at the site
the next time you are In Paris — It Is sacred soil.
Corot has told us much about his mother — a French
man is apt to regard his father simply as a necessary
though often inconvenient appendage, possibly absorb
ing the idea from the maternal side of the house — but
his mother is his solace, comforter and friend. The
mother of Corot was intelligent, industrious, tactful;
sturdy in body and strong in mind.
In due course of time she built up a paying business,
bought the house in which they lived, and laid by a
goodly dot for her son and two daughters. And all the
time Corot pere wore the white cravat, a precise smile
for customers and an austere look for his family. He
held his old position eis floorwalker and gave respect
ability to his good-wife's Millinery and Dressmaking 195

COROT
Establishment. ^ The father's ambition for Camille was
that he should become a model floorwalker, treading in
the father's footsteps; and so, while yet a child, the boy
was put to work in a drygoods-store, with the idea of
discipline strong in mind.
And for this discipline, in after-years Corot was grate
ful. It gave him the habit of putting things away,
keeping accurate accounts, systematizing his work;
and throughout his forty years or more of artistic life,
it was his proud boast that he reached his studio every
morning at three minutes before eight.
Young Corot's mother had quite a little skill as a
¦draftsman. In her business she drew designs for pat
terns, and If the prospective customer lacked imagina
tion, she could draw a sketch of the garment as it would
look when completed.
Savage tribes make pictures long before they acquire
an alphabet; so do all children make pictures before
they learn to read. The evolution of the child mirrors
the evolution of the race. Camille made pictures just
as all boys do, and his mother encouraged him in this,
and supplied him copies.
When he was set to work in the drygoods-store he
made sketches under the counter and often ornEimented
bundles with needless hieroglyphics. But these things
did not necessarily mean that he was to be a great
artist — thousands of drygoods-clerks have sketched and
been drygoods-clerks to the end of their days. But
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COROT
good drygoods-clerks should not sketch too much or
too well, else they will not rise in their career and some
day have charge of a Department.
Camille Corot did not get along at haberdashery — his
heart was not in it. He was not quite so bad as a certain
budding, artistic genius I once knew, who clerked in a
grocery-store, and when a woman came In and ordered
a dozen eggs and a half-bushel of potatoes, the genius
counted out a dozen potatoes, and sent the customer a
half-bushel of eggs.
Then there was that absent-minded young drug-clerk
who, when a stranger entered and inquired for the
proprietor, answered, " He 's out just at present, but
we have something that is just as good."
Corot had n't the ability to make folks think they
needed something they did not want — they only got
what they wanted, after much careful diplomacy and
insistence. These things were a great cross to Corot
pere, and the dulness of the boy made the good father
grow old before his time — so the father alleged. Were
the woes of parents written in books, the world would
not be big enough to contain the books. Camille Corot
was a failure — he was big. fat, lazy, and tantalizingly
good-natured. He haunted the Louvre, and stood open-
mouthed before the pictures of Claude Lorraine until
the attendants requested him to move on. His mother
knew something of art, and they used to discuss all
the new pictures together. The father protested: he
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COROT
declared that the mother was encouraging the boy in
his vacillation and dreaminess.
Camille lost his position. His father got him another
place, and after a month they laid him off for two
weeks, and then sent him a note not to come back. He
hung around home, played the violin, and sang for his
mother's sewing-girls while they worked. The girls all
loved him — ^If the mother went out and left him In
charge of the shop, he gave all hands a play-spell until
it was time for Madame to return. His good nature was
invincible. He laughed at the bonnets in the windows.
slyly sketched the customers who came to try on the
frivolities, and even made irrelevant remarks to his
mother about the petite fortune she was deriving from
catering to dead-serious nabobs who discussed flounces,
bows, stays, Emd beribboned gewgaws as though they
were Eternal Verities.
" Mamma is a sculptor who improves upon Nature,"
one day Camille said to the girls. " If a woman has n't
a good form Madame Corot can supply her such amorous
proportions that lovers will straightway fall at her
feet." But such jocular remarks were never made to
the father — in his presence Camille weis subdued and
suspiciously respectful. The father had " disciplined "
him — but had done nothing else.
Camille had a companion in Achille Michallon, son of
the sculptor, Claude Michallon. Young Michallon
modeled in clay and painted fairly well, and it was he
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COROT
who, no doubt, fired the mind of young Corot to follow
an artistic career, to which Corot the elder was very
much oppxjsed.
So matters drifted and CamUle Corot, aged twenty-six,
weis a flat failure, just as he had been for ten years. He
had n't self-reliance enough to push out for himself,
nor enough will to swing his parents into his way of
thinking. He was as submissive eis a child; and would
not and could not do anything until he had gotten per
mission — thus much for discipline.
Finally, in desperation, his father seiid: " Camille, you
are of an age when you should be at the head of a
business ; but since you refuse to aveiil yourself of your
oppxjrtunltles and become a merchant, why, then, I '11
settle upon you the sum of three hundred dollars a
year for life and you can follow your own Inclinations.
But depend upon it, you shall have no more than I have
named. 1 am done — ^now go and do what you want."
^The words are authentic, being taken down from
Corot's own lips; and they sound singularly like that
remark made to Alfred Tennyson by his grandfather,
" Here is a guinea for your poem, and depend upon it,
this is the first and last money you will ever receive
for poetry."
Camille was so delighted to hear his father's decision
that he burst into tears and embraced the austere and
stem-faced parent in the white cravat.
Straightway he would begin his artistic career, and
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COROT
having so announced his intention to the sewing-girls
in an impromptu operatic aria, he took easel and paints
and went down on the towpath to paint his first out
door picture.
Soon the girls came trooping after, in order to see
Monsieur Camille at his work. One girl. Mademoiselle
Rose, stayed longer than the rest. Corot told of the inci
dent in Eighteen Hundred Fifty-eight — a lapse of thirty
years — and added: " I have not married — Mademoiselle
Rose has not married — she is alive yet, and only
last week was here to see me. Ah! what changes
have taken place — I have that first picture I painted
yet — it is the same picture and still shows the hour
and the season, but Mademoiselle Rose and I, where
are we?"

200

COROT

URNER and Corot trace back to the same
artistic ancestor. It was Claude who first
fired the heart of the barber's boy, and it was
Claude who diluted the zeal of Camille Corot
for ribbons and haberdashery.
Turner stipulated in his will that a certain picture of his
should hang on the walls of the National Gallery by the
side of a " Claude Lorraine "; and today in the Louvre
you can see, side by side, a " Corot " and a " Claude."
These men are strangely akin; yet, so far as 1 know,
Corot never heard of Turner. However, he was power
fully influenced by Constable, the English painter, who
was of the same age as Turner, and for a time, his one
bitter rival.
Claude had been dead a hundred years before Constable,
Turner or Corot was born. But time is an illusion;
all souls are of one age, and in spirit these men were
contemporaries and brothers. Claude, Corot and Turner
never married — they were wedded to art. Constable
ripened fast; he got his reward of golden guineas,
and society caught him In its silken mesh. Success
came faster than he was able to endure it, and he fell
a victim to fatty degeneration of the cerebrum, and died
of an acute attack of self-complacency.
It was about the year Eighteen Hundred Thirty- two
that Constable gave an exhibition of his work In Paris —
a somewhat daring thing for an Englishman to do.
Paris had then, and has yet, about the same estimate of
201

COROT
English art that the English have now of ours —
although it is quite in order to explain in parentheses
that three Americans, Whistler, Sargent and Abbey,
have recently called a halt on English ribaldry eis
applied to American artists.
But John Constable's exhibit in Paris met with favor
— the work was singularly like the work of Claude
Lorraine, the critics said. And It weis, for Constable
had copied Claude conscientiously. Corot saw the
Englishman's pictures, realized that they were just
such pictures as he would like to paint, and so fell
down and worshiped them. For a year he dropped
Claude and painted just like Constable.
There was a time when Turner and Constable painted
just alike, for they had the seime master; but there
came a day when Turner shoved out from shore, and
no man since has been able to follow him.
And no one can copy Corot. The work that he did after
he attained freedom and swung away from Claude and
Constable has an illusive, intangible, subtle and spiri
tual quality that no imitator can ever catch on his
canvas. Corot could not even copy his own pictures —
his work Is bom of the spirit. His effects are something
beyond skill of hand, something beyond mere knowledge
of technique. You can copy a Claude and you can copy a
Constable, for the pictures have well-defined outline
and the forms are tangible. Claude was the first painter
who showed the shimmering sunlight on the leaves,
202

COROT
the upturned foliage of the silver poplar, the yellow
willows bending beneath the breeze, the sweep of the
clouds across the sky, the play of the waves across
the seashore, the glistening dewdrops on the grass,
the soft stealing mists of twilight.
Constable did all this, too, and he did it eis well as
Claude, but no better. He never got beyond the stage of
microscopic portrayal; if he painted a dewdrop he
painted it, and his blades of grass, swaying lily-stems,
and spider-webs are the genuine articles.
Corot painted in this minute way for many years, but
gradually he evolved a daring quality and gave us the
effect of dewdrops, the spider-threads, the foliage, the
tall lilies, without painting them at all — ^he gives you
the feeling, that is all, stirs the imagination until the
beholder, if his heart be in tune, sees things that only
the spiritual eye beholds.
The pale, silvery tones of Corot, the shadowy bound
aries that separate the visible from the invisible, can
never be imitated without the Master's penetration
into the heart of Nature. He knew things he could
never explain, and he held secrets he could not impart.
Before his pictures we can only stand silent — he
disarms criticism and strikes the quibbler dumb.
Before a Corot you had better give way, and let its
beauty caress your soul. His colors are thin and very
simple — there is no challenge In his work, as there is
in the work of Turner. Greens and grays predominate, 203

COROT
and the plain drab tones are blithe, airy, gracious,
graceful and piquant as a beautiful young Quaker
woman clothed in the garb of simplicity and humility
— ^but a woman still. Corot coquettes with color — ^with
pale lilac, silver gray, and diaphanous green. He poet
izes everything he touches — quiet ponds, clumps of
bushes, whitewashed cottages, simple swards, yellow
cows, blowsy peasants, woodland openings, stretching
meadows and winding streams — they are all full of
divine suggestion and joyous expectancy. Something is
just going to happen — somebody is coming, some one
we love — you can almost detect a faint perfume, long
remembered, never to be forgotten. A Corot Is a tryst
with all that you most admire and love best — it speaks
of youth, joyous, hopeful, expectant youth. The flavor
Is Grecian, and if the Greeks had left us any paintings
they would all have been just like Corot's.

204

COROT

HE bubbllug, boyish good-cheer that Corot
possessed Is well shown in a letter he once
wrote to Stevens Graham. This letter was
written, without doubt, in that fine intoxica
tion which comes after work well done; and no greater
joy ever comes to a mortal In life than this.
George Moore tells somewhere of catching Corot in one
of these moods of rapture: the Master was standing
alone on a log in the woods, like a dancing faun, leading
an imaginary orchestra with silent but tremendous
gusto. At other times, when Corot captured certain
effects in a picture, he would rush across the fields to
where there was a peasant plowing, and seizing the
astonished man, would lead him over and stand him
before the canvas crying: " Look at that! Ah, now, look
at that! What did I tell you! You thought I never could
catch it — Oho, aha, ohe, tralala, la, la. la, loo! "
This willingness to let the unrestrained spirit romp
was strong in Corot — and it is to be recommended.
How much finer it is to go out Into the woods and lift
up your voice in song, and be a child, than to fight
inclination and waste good God-given energy endeav
oring to be proper — ^whatever that may be!
Corot never wrote anything finer than that letter to
his friend Graham, and, like all really good things, it
was written with no weather-eye on futurity. The
thought that it might be published never came to him, for
if it had, he would probably have produced something 205

COROT
not worth publishing. It was scribbled off with a
pencil, hot from the heart, out of doors. Immediately
after having done a particularly choice bit of work.
Every one who writes of Corot quotes this letter, and
there are various translations of it. It can not be trans
lated literally, because the language in which it was
written is effervescent, flashing, in motion like a cas
cade. It defies all grammar, forgets rhetoric, and simply
makes you feel. I have just as good a right to translate
this letter as anybody, and while I will add nothing
that the spirit of the text does not justify, I will omit
a few things, and follow my own taste in the matter
of paragraphing.
So here is the letter:
A landscapist's day is divine. You are jealous of the
monients, and so are up at three o'clock — long before
the sun sets you the example.
You go out into the silence and sit under a tree, and
watch and watch and wait and wait.
It is very dark — the nightingales have gone to bed,
all the mysterious noises of night's forenoon have
ceased — the crickets are asleep, the tree-toad has
found a nest — even the stars have slunk away.
You wait.
There is scarcely anything to be seen at first — only
dark, spectral shapes that stand out against the blue-
black of the sky.
Nature is behind a veil, upon which some masses of
form are vaguely sketched. The damp, sweet smell of
the incense of Spring is in the air — you breathe deeply
206

COROT
— a sense of religious emotion sweeps over you — you
close your eyes an instant in a prayer of thankfulness
that you are alive.
You do not keep your eyes closed long, though — some
thing is about to happen — you grow expectant, you
wait, you listen, you hold your breath — everything
trembles with a delight that is half-pain, under the
invigorating caress of the coming day.
You breathe fast, and then you hold your breath and
listen 53 53
You wait.
You peer.
You listen.
Bing! A ray of pale yellow light shoots from horizon
to zenith. The dawn does not come all at once: it steals
upon you by leaps and subtle strides like deploying
pickets 53 53
Bing! Another ray, and the first one is suffusing itself
across an arc of the purple sky.
Bing, Bing! The east is all aglow.
The little flowers at your feet are waking in joyful mood.
^The chirrup of birds is heard. How they do sing!
When did they begin? You forgot them in watching
the rays of light.
The flowers are each one drinking its drop of quiver
ing dew.
The leaves feel the cool breath of the morning, and
are moving to and fro in the invigorating air.
The flowers are saying their morning prayers, accom
panied by the matin-song of the birds.
Amoretti, with gauzy wings, are perching on the tall
blades of grass that spring from the meadows, and the
207

COROT
tall stems of the poppies and field-lilies are swaying,
swaying, swaying a minuet motion fanned by the kiss
of the gentle breeze.
Oh, how beautiful it all is! How good God is to send it!
How beautiful! how beautiful!
But merciful easel! I am forgetting to paint — this exhi
bition is for me, and I 'm failing to improve it. My
palette — the brushes — there! there!
We can see nothing — but you feel the landscape is
there — quick now, a cottage away over yonder is push
ing out of the white mist. To thine easel — go!
Oh ! it 's all there behind the translucent gauze — I
know it — I know it — I know it!
Now the white mist lifts like a curtain — ^it rises and
rises and rises.
Bam ! the sun is risen.
I see the river, Uke a stretch of silver ribbon ; It weaves
in and out and stretches away, away, away.
The masses of the trees, of the meads, the meadows —
the poplars, the leaning willows, are all revealed by
the mist that is reeling and rolling up the hillside.
I paint and I paint and I paint, and I sing and I sing
and I paint!
We can see now all we guessed before.
Bam, Bam! The sun is just above the horizon — a great
golden ball held in place by spider-threads.
I can see the lace made by the spiders — it sparkles
with the drops of dew.
I paint and I paint and I sing and I paint.
Oh, would I were Joshua — I would command the sun
to stand still.
And if it should, I would be sorry, for nothing ever
208

COROT
did stand still, except a bad picture. A good picture is
full of motion. Clouds that stand still are not clouds —
motion, activity, life, yes, life is what we want — life!
^Bam! A peasant comes out of the cottage and is
coming to the meadow.
Ding, ding, ding! There comes a flock of sheep led by
a bellwether. Wait there a minute, please, sheepy-
sheepy, and a great man will paint you.
All right then, don't wait. I did n't want to paint you
anyway 53 33
Bam! All things break into glistening — ten thousand
diamonds strew the grasses, the lilies and the tall
stalks of swaying pxjppies. Diamonds on the cobwebs —
diamonds everywhere. Glistening, dancing, glittering
light — ^floods of light — pale, wistful, loving light: ca
ressing, blushing, touching, beseeching, grateful light.
Oh, adorable light! The light of morning that comes
to show you things — and I paint and I paint and I
paint 33 53
Oh, the beautiful red cow that plunges into the wet
grass up to her dewlaps! I will paint her. There she
is — there !
Here is Simon, my peasant friend, looking over my
shoulder 53 53
' Oho, Simon, what do you think of that? "
' Very fine," says Simon, " very fine! "
' You see what it is meant for, Simon? "
' Me? Yes, I should say I do — it is a big red rock." 53
' No, no. Simon, that is a cow."
' Well, how should I know unless you tell me," answers
Simon 33 53
I paint and I paint and I paint. 209

COROT
Boom! Boom! The sun is getting clear above the tree-
tops 53 53
It is growing hot.
The flowers droop.
The birds are silent.
We can see too much now — there is nothing in it. Art
is a matter of soul. Things you see and know all about
are not worth painting — only the intangible is splendid.
^ Let 's go home. We will dine, and sleep, and dream 53
That 's it — 1 '11 dream of the morning that would
not tarry — I '11 dream my picture out, and then I '11
get up and smoke, and complete it, possibly — who
knows! 53 53
Let 's go home.
hi# «t# «t 4£ ^ ^t* *1* *1* 4^ *1* jl* *£*
Bam! Bam! It is evening now — the sun is setting 53
1 did n't know the close of the day could be so beauti
ful — I thought the morning was the time.
But it is not just right — the sun is setting in an explo
sion of yellow, of orange, of rouge-feu, of cherry, of
purple 53 53
Ah! it is pretentious, vulgar. Nature wants me to
admire her — I will not. I *11 wait — the sylphs of the
evening will soon come and sprinkle the thirsty flowers
with their vapors of dew.
I like sylphs — I '11 wait.
Boom! The sun sinks out of sight, and leaves behind
a tinge of purple, of modest gray touched with topaz
— ah! that is better.
I paint and I paint and I paint.
Oh, Good Lord, how beautiful it is — how beautiful! 33
The sun has disappeared and left behind a soft,
210

COROT
luminous, gauzy tint of lemon — lemons half-ripe. The
light melts and blends into the blue of the night.
How beautiful! I must catch that — even now it fades
— but I have it: tones of deepening green, pallid tur
quoise, infinitely fine, delicate, fluid and ethereal.
Night draws on. The dark waters reflect the mysteries
of the sky — the landscape fades, vanishes, disappears
— we can not see it now, we only feel it is there.
But that is enough for one day — Nature is going to
sleep, and so will we, soon. Let us just sit silent a
space and enjoy the stillness.
The rising breezes are sighing through the foliage, and
the birds, choristers of the flowers, are singing their
vesper-songs — calling, some of them, plaintively for
their lost mates.
Bing! A star pricks its portrait in the pond.
All around now is darkness and gloom — the crickets
have taken up the song where the birds left off.
The little lake is sparkling, a regular ant-heap of
twinkling stars.
Reflected things are best — the waters are only to
reflect the sky — Nature's looking-glass.
The sun has gone to rest ; the day is done. But the Sun
of Art has arisen, and my picture is complete.
Let us go home.

211

COROT

HE Barbizon School — which, by the way, was
never a school, and If it exists now Is not at
Barbizon — ^weis made up of five men: Corot.
Millet, Rousseau. Diaz and Daubigny.
Corot saw it first — this straggling little village of
Barbizon, nestling there at the foot of the Forest of
Fontainebleau, thirty-five miles southeeist of Paris.
This was about the year Eighteen Hundred Thirty.
There was no market then for Corot's wares, and the
artist would have doubted the sanity of any one who
might have wanted to buy. His income was one dollar a
day — and this was enough. If he wanted to go anywhere,
he walked; and so he walked into Barbizon one day, his
pack on his back, and found there a little inn, so quaint
and simple that he stayed two days.
The landlord quite liked the big, jolly stranger. Hang
ing upon his painting outfit was a mandolin, a har
monica, a guitar and two or three other small musical
instruments of nondescript pedigree. The painter made
music for the village, and on invitation painted a
sketch on the tavern-wall to pay for his board. And
this sketch is there even to this day. and is as plain to
be seen as the splash of ink on the wall at Eisenach
where Martin Luther threw the ink-bottle at the devil,
^ When Corot went back to Paris he showed sketches
of Barbizon and told of the little snuggery, where life
was so simple and cheap.
Soon Rousseau and Dieiz went down to Barbizon for a
212

COROT
week's stay — later came Daubigny, ^ In the course of a
few years Barbizon grew to be a kind of excursion point
for artistic and ragged Bohemians, most of whom have
done their work, and their little life is now rounded with
a sleep. ^ Rousseau, Diaz and Daubigny, all younger men
than Corot, made comfortable fortunes long before Corot
got the speaker's eye; and when at last recognition
came to him, not the least of their claim to greatness
was that they had worked with him.
It was not until Eighteen Hundred Forty-nine that
Jean Francois Millet with his goodly brood was let
down from the stage at Barbizon, to work there for
twenty-six years, and give himself and the place immor
tality. For when we talk of the Barbizon School, we
have the low tones of " The Fagot-Gatherer " in mind —
the browns, the russets and the deep, dark yellows
fading off into the gloom of dying day.
And only a few miles away, clinging to the hillside, is
By, where lived Rosa Bonheur — too busy to care for
Barbizon, or if she thought of the " Barbizon School "
it weis with a fine contempt, which the " School "
returned with usurious interest.
At the Barbizon Inn the Bohemiems used to sing songs
about the Bonheur breeches, and " the Lady who
keeps a Zoo." The offense of Rosa Bonheur was that
she minded her own business, and sold the " Horse
Fair " for more money than the entire Barbizon School
had ever earned in Its lifetime. 213

COROT
Only two names loom large out of Barbizon. Daubigny,
Diaz and Rousseau are great painters, and they each
have disciples and imitators who paint as well as they;
but Corot and Millet stand out separate and alone,
incomprehensible and unrivaled.
And yet were ever two artists more unlike! Just com
pare " The Dancing Sylphs " and " TTie Gleaners."
The theme of all Millet's work is, " Man goeth forth to
his labors unto the evening." Toil, hardship, heroic
endurance, plodding monotony, burdens grievous to be
borne — these things cover the canvases of Millet. All of
his deep sincerity, his abiding melancholy, his rugged
nobility are there; for every man who works in free
dom simply reproduces himself. That is what true work
is — self-expression, self-revelation. The style of Millet
is so strongly marked, so deeply etched, that no man
dare imitate it. It is covered by a perpetual copyright,
signed and sealed with the life's blood of the artist.
Then comes Corot the joyous, Corot the careless,
Corot who had no troubles, no sorrows, no grievances,
and not an enemy that he recognized as such. He even
loved Rosa Bonheur, or would, he once said, " If she
would only chain up her dog, and wear woman's
clothes! " Corot, singing at his work, unless he was
smoking, and if he was smoking, removing his pipe
only to lift up his voice in song: Corot, painting and
singing — "Ah ha — tra la la. Now 1 '11 paint a little boy
jho. oho, tra lala la loo — lal loo — oho — ^what a nice
214

COROT
little boy — ^and here comes a cow; hold that, bossy —
in you go for art's dear sake — tra la la la, la loo! "
^ Look at a Corot closely emd listen, and you can
always hear the echo of the pipes o' Pan, Lovers sit
on the grassy banks, children roll among the leaves,
sylphs dance In every open, and out from between the
branches lightly steps Orpheus, harp in hand, to greet
the mom. Never is there a shadow of care in a Corot
— ^all is mellow with love, ripe with the rich gift of life,
full of prayer and praise just for the rapture of drink
ing in the day — grateful for calm, sweet rest and even
tide 33 S3
Corot, eighteen years the senior of Millet, weis the
first to welcome the whipped-out artist to Barbizon.
With him Corot divided his scanty store; he sang and
played his guitar at the Millet hearthstone when he had
nothing but himself to give; and when, in Eighteen
Hundred Seventy-five, Millet felt the chill night of
death settling down upon him, and the fear that want
would come to his loved ones haunted his dreams,
Corot assured him by settling upon the family the sum
of one thousand francs a year, until the youngest child
should become of age, and during Madame Millet's life.
^ So died Jean Francois Millet.
In Eighteen Hundred Eighty-nine " The Angelus "
was bought by an American Syndicate for five hundred
eighty thousand francs. In Eighteen Hundred Ninety
it was bought back by agents of the French Govemment 215

COROT
for seven hundred fifty thousand francs, and now has
found a final resting-place in the Louvre.
Within a few months after the death of Millet, Corot,
too, passed away.

216

COROT

OROT is a remarkable exeimple of a soul
ripening slowly. His skill was not at its highest
until he was seventy-one years of age. He
then had eight years of life and work left, and
he continued even to the end. In his art there was no
decline 53 53
It can not be said that he received due recognition until
he was approaching his seventy-fifth year, for it was
then, for the first time, that the world of buyers besieged
his door. The few who had bought before were usually
friends who had purchased with the eimiable Idea of
helping a worthy man.
During the last few years of Corot's life, his income was
over fifty thousand francs a year — " more than I
received for pictures during my whole career," he once
said. And then he shed tears at parting with the treasures
that had been for so long his close companions.
" You see, I am a collector," he used to say, " but being
poor, I have to paint all my pictures myself — they are
not for sale."
And probably he would have kept his collection un
broken were it not that he wanted the money so much
to give away.
Of the painters classed in the Barbizon School, it is
probable that Corot will live longest, and will continue
to occupy the highest position. His art is more individual
than Rousseau's, more poetic than that of Daubigny,
and in every sense more beautiful than that of Millet.
217

COROT
When Camille Corot passed out, on the Twenty-second
of February, Eighteen Hundred Seventy-five, he was
the best-loved man in Paris. Five thousand art-
students wore crape on their arms for a year in memory
of " Papa Corot," a man who did his work joyously,
lived long, and to the end carried in his heart the per
fume of the morning, and the beneficent beauty of the
sunrise.

218

CORREGGIO

What genius disclosed all these wonders to thee ? All the
fair images in the world seem to have sprung forward to
meet thee, and to throw themselves lovingly into thy
arms. How joyous was the gathering when smiling
angels held thy palette, and sublime spirits stood before
thy inward vision in all their splendor as models! Let
no one think he has seen Italy, let no one think he has
learnt the lofty secrets of art, until he has seen thee
and thy Cathedral at Parma, O Correggio!
— Ludwig Tieck

CORREGGIO

CORREGGIO

HERE is no moment that comes to
mortals so charged with peace and
precious joy as the moment of recon
ciUation. If the angels ever attend
us, they are surely present then. The
ineffable joy of forgiving and being
forgiven forms an ecstacy that well
might arouse the envy of the gods.
How well the theologians have understood this! Very
often, no doubt, their psychology has been more experi
mental than scientific — but it is effective. They plunge
the candidate into a gloom of horror, guilt and despair;
and then when he is thoroughly prostrated — submerged
— they lift him out and up into the light, and the
thought of reconciliation possesses him.
He has made peace with his Maker!
That is to say, he has made peace with himself — peace
with his fellowmen. He is intent on reparation; he
wishes to forgive every one. He sings, he dances,
he leaps into the air, clasps his hands in joy, embraces
those nearest him, and calls aloud, "Glory to God!
Glory to God!" It is the moment of reconciliation.
Yet there is a finer temperament than that of the " new
convert," and his moment of joy is one of silence —
sacred silence.
In the Parma Gallery is the painting entitled, "The
221

CORREGGIO

Day," the masterpiece of Correggio. The picture shows
the Madonna, Saint Jerome, Saint John and the
Christ-child. A second woman is shown in the picture.
This woman is usually referred to as Magdalene, and
to me she is the most important figure in it. She may
lack a little of the ethereal beauty of the Madonna,
but the humanness of the pose, the tenderness and
subtle joy of it. shows you that she is a woman indeed,
a woman the artist loved — he wanted to paint her
picture, and Saint Jerome, the Madonna and the Christ-
child are only excuses.
John Ruskin. good and great, but with prejudices that
matched his genius, declared this picture " immoral
in its suggestiveness." It is so splendidly, superbly
human that he could not appreciate it. Yet this figure
of which he complains is draped from neck to ankle
— the bare feet are shown — but the attitude is sweetly,
tenderly modest. The woman, half-reclining, leans her
face over and allows her cheek, very gently, to press
against that of the Christ-child. Absolute relaxation is
shown, perfect trust — no tension, no anxiety, no pas
sion — only a stillness and rest, a gratitude and subdued
peace that are beyond speech. The woman is so happy
that she can not speak, so full of joy that she dare not
express it. and a barely perceptible tear-stain upon her
cheek suggests that this peace has not always been. She
has found her Savior — she is His and He is hers.
It is the moment of reconciliation,
222

CORREGGIO

HE Renaissance came as a great burst of
divine light, after a thousand years of lurid
night. The iron heel of Imperial Rome had
ground individuality into the mire. Unceasing
war, endless bloodshed, slavery without limit, and
rampant bestiality had stalked back and forth across
Europe, Insanity, uncertainty, drudgery and crouching
want were the portion of the many. In such a soil
neither art, literature nor religion can prosper.
But now the Church had turned her face against dis
order, and was offering her rewards for excellence
and beauty. Gradually there came a feeling of safety
— something approaching security. Throughout Italy,
beautiful, stately churches were being built; in all the
little principalities, palaces were erected: architecture
became a science. The churches and palaces were deco
rated with pictures, statues filled the niches, memorials
to great ones gone were erected in the public squares 53
It was a time of reconciliation — ^peace was more pop
ular than war — and where men did go to war, they
always apologized for it by explaining that they fought
simply to obtain peace.
Michelangelo, Raphael, Leonardo and Botticelli were
doing their splendid work — ^work palpitating with the
joy of life, and yet upon it was the tinge of sorrow,
the scars of battles fought, the tear-stains that told of
troubles gone. Yet the general atmosphere was one of
blitheness, joyous life and gratitude for existence. Men
223

CORREGGIO

seemed to have gotten rid of a great burden; they stood
erect, they breathed deeply, and looking around them,
were surprised to perceive that life was really beautiful,
and God was good.
In such an attitude of mind they reached out friendly
hands toward each other. Poets sang; musicians played;
painters painted, and sculptors carved. Universities
sprang into being — schools were everj^where. The gloom
was dispelled even from the monasteries. The monks ate
three meals a day — ^sometimes four or five. They went
a-vislting. Wine flowed, and music was heard where
music was never heard before. Instead of the solemn
processional, there were Bamabee steps seen on stone
floors — steps that looked like ecclesiastical fandango.
The rope girdles were let out a trifle, flagellations ceased,
vigils relaxed, and in many instances the coarse horse
hair garments were replaced with soft, flowing robes,
tied with red, blue or yellow sashes of silk and satin S&
The earth was beautiful, men were kind, women were
gracious, God was good, and His children should be
happy — these were the things preached from many
pulpits 53 53
Paganism had got grafted on to Christianity, and the
only branches that were bearing fruit were the pagan
branches. The old spirit of Greece had come back.
romping, laughing in the glorious Italian sunshine.
Everything had an Attic flavor. The sky was never so
blue, the yellow moonlight never before cast such soft,
224

CORREGGIO

mysterious shadows, the air was full of perfume, and
you had but to stop and listen any time and anywhere
to hear the pipes o' Pan.
When Time turned the comer Into the Sixteenth Cen
tury, the tide of the Renaissance was at its full. The
mortification of the monasteries, as we have seen,
had given place to a spirit of feasting — good things
were for use. The thought was contagious, and although
the Paulian Idea of women keeping silence in all due
subjection has ever been a favorite one with masculine
man, yet the fact is that in the matter of manners and
morals men and women are never far apart — there is
a constant transference of thought, feeling and action.
I do not know why this Is. 1 merely know that it is so.
Some have counted sex a mistake on the part of God;
but the safer view is for us to conclude that whatever is,
is good; some things are better than others, but all are
good. That is what they thought during the Renais
sance. So convent life lost its austerity, and eis the
Council of Trent had not yet Issued its stem orders com
manding asceticism, prayers were occasionally offered
accompanied by syncopated music.
The blooming daughters of great houses were con
signed to convents on slight excuse. " To a nunnery
go, and quickly, too," was an order often given and
followed with alacrity. Married women, worn with
many cares, often went into " retreat "; girls tired of
society's whirl; those wrung with hopeless passion; 225

CORREGGIO

unmanageable wives; all who had fed on the husks of
satiety; those who had incurred the displeasure of
parents or kinsmen, or were deserted, forlorn and
undone, all these found rest in the convents — provided
they had the money to pay. Those without money
or influential friends simply labored as servants and
scullions 53 Rich women contracted the " Convent
Habit "; this was about the same thing as our present
dalliance known as the " Sanitarium Bacillus " — ^which
only those with a goodly bank-balance can afford to
indulge. The poor, then as now, had a sufficient panacea
for trouble : they kept their nerves beneath their clothes
by work; they had to grin and bear it — at least they
had to bear it.
In almost every town that lined the great Emilian
Highway, that splendid road laid out by the Consul
Marcus Emilius, 83 B. C, from Rimini and Piacenza,
there were convents of high and low degree — some
fashionable, some plain, and some veritable palaces,
rich in art and full of all that makes for luxury. These
convents were at once a prison, a hospital, a sanita
rium, a workshop, a school and a religious retreat.
The day was divided up into periods for devotion,
work and recreation, and the discipline was on a slid
ing scale matching the mood of the Abbess in charge,
all modified by the prevailing spirit of the inmates 33
But the thought that life was good was rife, and this
thought got over every convent-wall, stole through the
226

CORREGGIO

garden-walks, crept softly in at every grated window,
and filled each suppliant's cell with its sweet, amorous
presence 53 53
Yes, life is good. God Is good! He wants His children to
be happy ! The white clouds chase each other across the
blue dome of heaven, the birds in the azaleas and in the
orange-trees twitter, build nests and play hide-and-seek
the livelong day. The balmy air is flavored with health,
healing and good-cheer.
Life in a convent had many advantages and benefits.
Women were taught to sew and work miracles with the
needle; they made lace, illumined missals, wove tapes
tries, tended the flowers, read from books, listened to
lectures, and spent certain hours in silence and medi
tation. To a great degree the convents were founded
on science and a just knowledge of human needs. There
were " orders " and degrees that fitted every tempera
ment and condition.
But the humble garb of a nun never yet changed the
woman's heart that beats beneath — she is a woman still.
^ Every night could be heard the tinkle of guitars
beneath bedroom-windows, notes were passed up on
forked sticks, and missives freshly kissed by warm
lips were dropped down through lattices; secret mes
sengers came with letters, and now and again rope
ladders were in demand; while not far away, there
were always priests who did a thriving business In the
specialty of Gretna Green. 227

CORREGGIO

Every sanitarium, every great hotel, every public
institution — every family, I was going to say — has
two lives : the placid moving life that the public knows,
and the throbbing, pulsing life of plot and counterplot
— the life that goes on beneath the surface. It is the
same with the human body — how bright and calm the
eye, how smooth and soft the skin, how warm and
beautiful this rose-mesh of flesh! But beneath there is a
seething struggle between the forces of life and the dis
integration — and eventually nothing succeeds but fail
ure 53 53
Every convent was a hotbed of gossip, jealousy, hate
and seething strife; and now and again there came a
miniature explosion that the outside world heard and
translated with emendations to suit.
Rivalry was rife, competition lined the corridors, and
discontent sat glum or rustled uneasily in each stone
cell. Some of the inmates brought pictures, busts and
ornaments to embellish their rooms. Friends from the
outside world sent presents; the cavalier who played
the guitar beneath the window varied his entertain
ment by gifts; flowers filled the beautiful vases, and
these blossoms were replaced ere they withered, so as
to show that true love never dies.
Monks from neighboring monasteries preached ser
mons or gave lectures; skilled musicians came, and
sang or played the organ; noblemen visited the place
to examine the works of art, or to see fair maids on
228

CORREGGIO

business, or consult the Abbess on matters spiritual.
Often these visitors were pressed to remain, and then
receptions were held and modest fetes given and ban
quets tendered. At intervals there were fairs, when
the products made by the marriage of the hand and
brain of the fair workers were exhibited and sold 53
So life, though in a convent, was life, and even death
and disintegration are forms of life — and all life is good.

229

CORREGGIO

HE Donna Giovanni Piacenza was appointed
Abbess of San Paola Convent, Parma, in
Fifteen Hundred Seven, The Abbess was the
daughter of the nobleman Marco, Donna
Giovanni was a woman of marked mental ability; she
had a genius for management; a wise sense of diplomacy;
and withal was an artist by nature and instinct.
The Convent of San Paola was one of the richest and
most popular in the Emilia.
The man to whose influence the Abbess owed most
in securing her the appointment was the Cavaliere
Scipione, a lawyer and man of affairs, married to the
sister of the Abbess.
As a token of esteem and by way of sisterly reci
procity, the Abbess soon after her appointment called
the Cavaliere Scipione to the position of Legal Adviser
and Custodian of the Convent Funds. Before this the
business of the institution had been looked after by the
Garimberti family ; and the Garimberti now refusing to
relinquish their office. Scipione took affairs into his own
hands and ran the chief offender through with his
sword. Scipione found refuge in the Convent, and the
officers of the law hEunmered on the gates for admission,
and hammered in vain.
Parma was split into two factions — those who favored
the Abbess Giovanni and those who opposed her.
Once at midnight the gates were broken down and the
place searched, for hiding cavaliers, by the Governor of
230

CORREGGIO

the city and his cohorts, to the great consternation of
the nuns 53 53
But time is the great healer, and hate left alone Is short
lived, and dies a natural death. The Abbess was wise in
her management, and with the advice and assistance of
Scipione, the place prospered. Visitors came, delega
tions passed that way, great prelates gave their blessing,
and the citizens of Parma became proud of the Convent
of San Paola.
Some of the nuns were rich in their own right, and
some of these had their rooms frescoed by local artists
to suit their fancies. Strictly religious pictures were
not much in vogue with the inmates — they got their
religion at the chapel. Mythology and the things that
symbolized life and love were the fashion. On one
door was a flaming heart pierced by an arrow, and
beneath in Italian was the motto, " Love while you
may." Other mottoes about the place were, " Eat.
drink and be merry"; "Laugh and be glad." These
mottoes revealed the prevailing spirit.
Some of the staid citizens of Parma sent petitions to
Pope Julius demanding that the decree of strict clois-
tration be enforced against the nuns. But Julius sort of
reveled in life himself, and the art spirit shown by the
Abbess was quite to his liking. Later, Leo the Tenth was
importuned to curb the festive spirit of the place, but
he shelved the matter by sending along a fatherly letter
of advice and counsel. 231

CORREGGIO

About this time we find the Abbess and her Legal
Adviser planning a scheme of decoration that should win
the admiration or envy — or both — of every art-lover in
the Emilia. The young man, Antonio AllegrI, from Cor
reggio should do the work. They had met him at the
house of Veronica Gambara, and they knew that any
one Veronica recommended must be worthy of confi
dence. Veronica said the youth had sublime talent — it
must be so. His name, AUegri, meant joy, and his work
was charged with all his name implied. He was sent for.
and he came — ^walking the forty miles from Correggio
to Parma with his painter's kit on his back.
He was short of stature, smooth-faced and looked like
a good-natured country bumpkin in his peasant garb,
all decorated with dust. He was modest, half-shy, and
the nuns who peered at him from behind the arras as
he walked down the hallway of the Convent caused
his countenance to run the chromatic scale.
He was sorry he came, and if he could have gotten
away without disgrace he surely would have started
straight back for Correggio, He had never been so far
away from home before, and although he did not know
it he was never to get farther away in his life, Venice
and Titian were to the east a hundred miles; Milan
and Leonardo were to the north about the same dis
tance; Florence and Michelangelo were south ninety
miles ; Rome and Raphael were one hundred sixty miles
beyond; and he was never to see any of these. But the
232

CORREGGIO

boy shed no tears over that; it is quite possible that he
never heard of any of these names just mentioned, save
that of Leonardo, None loomed large as they do now —
there were painters everywhere, just as Boston Common
is full of poets, Veronica Gambara had told him of Leo
nardo — ^we know that — and described in glowing words
and with an enthusiasm that was contagious how the
chief marks of Leonardo's wonderful style lay in the way
he painted hands, hair and eyes. The Leonardo hands
were delicate, long of finger, expressive and full of
life; the hair was wavy, fluffy, sun-glossed, and it
seemed as if you could stroke it, and it would give
off magnetic sparks; but Leonardo's best feature was
the eye — the large, full-orbed eye that looked down
so that you really never saw the eye, only the lid,
and the long lashes upon which a tear might glisten.
Antonio listened to Veronica with open mouth, drink
ing it all in, and then he sighed and said, " I am a
painter, too." He set to work, fired with the thought
of doing what Leonardo had done — ^hands, hair and
eyes — ^beautiful hands, beautiful hair, beautiful eyes!
Then these things he worked upon, only he never
placed the glistening tear upon the long lash, because
there were no tears upon his own lashes. He had never
known sorrow, trouble, disappointment or defeat.
The specialty of AllegrI was " putti " — tumbling,
tumultuous, tricksy putti. These cherubs sjrmboled the
joy of life, and when AUegri wished to sign his name,
233

CORREGGIO

he drew a cherub. He had come up out of a family
that had little and expected nothing. Then he needed
so little — his wants were few. If he went away from
home on little journeys, he stopped with peasants
along the way and made merry with the children and
outlined a chubby cherub on the cottage-wall, to the
delight of everybody; and in the morning was sent on
his way with blessings. Godspeeds, and urgent invi
tations to come again. Smiles and good-cheer, a little
music and the ability to do things, when accompanied
by a becoming modesty, are current coin the round
world over. Tired earth is quite willing to pay for being
amused 53 53
The Abbess Giovanni showed Antonio about the Con
vent, and he saw what had already been done. He was
appreciative, but talked little. The Abbess liked the
youth. He suggested possibilities — he might really
become the great painter that the enthusiastic Veronica
prophesied he would some day be.
The Abbess gave up one of her own rooms for his
accommodation, brought him water for a bath, and at
supper sat him at the table at her own right hand.
"And about the frescos? " asked the Abbess.
" Yes, the frescos — your room shall be done first. I
will begin the work in the morning," replied Antonio.
The confidence of the youth made the Abbess smile.
^ Many of our finest flowers are merely transplanted
weeds. Transplantation often works wonders in men.
234

CORREGGIO

When Fate lifted Antonio AUegri out of the little vil
lage of Correggio and set him down in the city of
Parma, a great change came over him. The wealth,
beauty and freer atmosphere of the place caused the
tendrils of his imagination to reach out into a richer
soil, and the result was such blossoms of beauty, so
gorgeous in form and color, that men have not yet
ceased to marvel.
The Convent of San Paola is a sacred shrine for art-
lovers — they come from the round world over, just to
see the ceiling in that one room — the room of the
Abbess Giovanni, where Antonio AUegri, the young
man from Correggio, first placed his scaffolds in Parma.

235

CORREGGIO

HE village of Correggio is quite off the beaten
track of travel. You will have to look five
times on the map before you can find it. It is
now only a village, and in the year Fourteen
Hundred Ninety-four, when Antonio AUegri was born
and Cristoforo Colombo, the Genoese, was discovering
continents, it was little better than a hEunlet. It had a
church, a convent, a palace where dwelt the Correg-
ghesi — the Lords of Correggio — ^and stretching around
the square, where stood the church, were long, low,
stone cottages, whitewashed, with trellises of climbing
flowers. Back of these cottages were little gardens where
the peas, lentils, leeks and parsley laughed a harvest.
There were flowers, flowers everywhere — ^none was too
p>oor to have flowers. Flowers are a strictly sex product
and symbol the joy of life; and where there are no flow
ers, there is little love. Lovers give flowers — and they
are enough — and if you do not love flowers, they will
refuse to blossom for you. " If I had but two loaves of
bread, 1 'd sell one of them and buy white hyacinths to
feed my soul " — that was said by a man who loved this
world, no less than the next. Do not defame this world —
she is the mother that feeds you, and she supplies you
not only bread, but white hyacinths to feed your soul.
§ On market-day in every Italian town four hundred
years ago, just as now, the country women brought
big baskets of vegetables and also baskets of flowers.
And you will see In those markets. If you observe,
236

CORREGGIO

that the people who buy vegetables usually buy sprays
of mignonette, bunches of violets, roses upon which
the dew yet sparkles, or white hyacinths. Loaves alone
are not quite enough — we want also the bread of life,
and the bread of life is love, and did n't I say that
flowers symbol love?
And 1 have noted this, in those old markets: often the
pile of flowers that repose by the basket of fruit or
vegetables is to give away to the customers as tokens
of good-will. 1 remember visiting the market at Parma
one day and buying some cherries, and the old woman
who took my money picked up a little spray of hya
cinth and pinned it to my coat, quite as a matter of
course. The next day 1 went back and bought figs,
and got a big moss-rose as a premium. The peculiar
brand of Italian that I spoke was unintelligible to the
old woman, and I am very sure that I could not under
stand her, yet the white hyacinths and the moss-rose
made all plain. That was five years ago, but if I should
go back to Parma tomorrow, I would go straight to
the Market-Place, and I know that my old friend
would reach out a brown calloused hand to give me
welcome, and the choicest rose in her basket would
be mine — the heart understands.
That spirit of mutual giving was the true spirit of the
Renaissance, and in the forepart of the Sixteenth Cen
tury it was at its fullest flower. Men gave the beauty
that was in them, and Vasari tells of how at Correggio 237

CORREGGIO

the peasants, who had nothing else to give, each
Sunday brought flowers and piled them high at the feet
of the Virgin.
There were painters and sculptors at the village of
Correggio then; great men in their day, no doubt, but
lost now to us in the maze of years. And there was,
too, a little court of beauty and learning, presided
over by Veronica Gambara. Veronica was a lover of
art and Uterature, and a poet of no mean quality.
Antonio AUegri, the son of the village baker, was a
welcome visitor at her house. The boy used to help
the decorators at the church, and had picked up a
little knowledge of art 53 That is all you want — an
entrance into the Kingdom of Art, and all these things
shall be added unto you, Veronica appreciated the boy
because he appreciated art, and great lady that she
was, she appreciated him because he appreciated her.
Nothing so warms the cockles of a teacher's heart
as appreciation in a pupil. The intellect of the village
swung around Veronica Gambara. Visitors of note
used to come from Bologna and Ferrara just to hear
Veronica read her poems, and to talk over together
the things they all loved. At these conferences Anto
nio was often present. He was eighteen, perhaps,
when his sketches were first shown at Veronica's little
court of art and letters. He had taken lessons from the
local painters, and visiting artists gave him the benefit
of advice and criticism. Then Veronica had many
238

CORREGGIO

engravings and various copies of good pictures. The boy
was immersed in beauty, and all he did he did for
Veronica Gambara. She was no longer young — she
surely was old enough to have been the boy's mother,
and this was well. Such a love as this is spiritualized
under the right conditions, and works Itself up Into art,
where otherwise it might go dancing down the wanton
winds and spend itself in folly.
Antonio painted for Veronica. All good things are done
for some one else, and then after a while a standard of
excellence is formed, and the artist works to please him
self. But paradoxically, he still works for others — the
singer sings for those who hear, the writer writes for
those who understand, and the painter paints for those
who would paint just such pictures as he, if they could.
Antonio painted just such pictures as Veronica liked —
she fixed the standard and he worked up to it.
And who then could possibly have foretold that the
work of the baker's boy would rescue the place from
oblivion, so that anj^where where the word is men
tioned, " Correggio " should mean the boy Antonio
AllegrI, and not the village nor the wide domain of the
Corregghesi! 53 53

239

CORREGGIO

HE distinguishing feature of Correggio's work
is his " putti." He delighted in these well-fed,
unspanked and needlessly healthy cherubs.
These rollicksome, frolicsome, dimpled boy
babies — and that they are boys is a fact which I trust
will not be denied — he has them everywhere!
Paul Veronese brings in his omnipresent dog — in every
" Veronese," there he is, waiting quietly for his master.
Even at the "Assumption " he sits in one comer, about
to bark at the angels. The dog obtrudes until you reach
a point where you do not recognize a " Veronese "
without the dog — then you are grateful for the dog, and
surely would scorn a " Veronese " minus the canine
attachment. We demand at least one dog, as our legal
and inborn right, with every " Veronese."
So, too, we claim the cherubs of Correggio as our
own. They are so oblivious of clothes, so beautifully
indifferent to the proprieties, so delightfully self-suf
ficient! They have no parents; they are mostly of one
size, and are all of one gender. They hide behind the
folds of every apostle's cloak, peer into the Magdalen's
jar of precious ointment, cling to the leg of Saint Joseph,
make faces at Saint Bernard, attend in a body at the
"Annunciation " — as if it were any of their business —
hover everywhere at the " Betrothal," and look on
wonderingly from the rafters, or make fun of the Wise
Men in the Stable.
They invade the inner Courts of Heaven, and are so
240

CORREGGIO

In the way that Saint Peter falls over them, much to
their amusement. They seat themselves astride of
clouds, some fall off, to the great delight of their mates,
and still others give their friends a boost over shadows
that are in the way.
I said they had no parents — they surely have a father,
and he is Correggio; but they are all in sore need of a
mother's care.
I believe it was Schiller who once intimated that it
took two to love anything into being. But Correggio
seems to have performed the task of conjuring forth
these putti all alone; yet it is quite possible that
Veronica Gambara helped him. That he loved them is
very sure — only love could have made them manifest.
This man was a lover of children, otherwise he could
not have loved putti, for he sympathized with all their
baby pranks, and sorrows as well.
One cherub bumps his head against a cloud and
straightway lifts a howl that must have echoed all
through Paradise. His mouth is open to its utmost
limit; tears start from between his closed eyes, which
he gouges with chubby fists, and his whole face is
distorted in intense pigmy wrath. One might really
feel awfully sorry for him were it not for the fact that
he sticks out one foot trying to kick a playfellow
who evidently had n't a thing to do with the accident.
He 's a bad, naughty cherub — that is what he is, and
he deserves to have his obtrusive anatomy stung, just
241

CORREGGIO

a little, with the back of a hairbrush, for his own good,
^ This same cherub appears in other places, once blow
ing a horn in another's ear; and again he is tickling a
sleeping brother's foot with a straw. These putti play
all the tricks that real babies do, and besides have a
goodly list of " stunts " of their own. One thing is
sure, to Correggio heaven would not be heaven with
out putti; and the chief difference that 1 see between
putti and sure-enough babies is, that putti require no
care and babies do.
Then putti are practical and useful — they hold up
scrolls, tie back draperies, carry pictures, point out
great folks, feed birds, and in one instance Correggio
has ten of them leading a dog out to execution. They
carry the train of the Virgin, assist the Apostles, act
as ushers, occasionally pass the poorbox, make wreaths
and crowns — but, I am sorry to say, sometimes get into
unseemly scuffles for first place.
They have no wings, yet they soar and fly like English
sparrows. They are not troubled with nerv, pros, or
introspection. What they feed upon is uncertain, but
sure it is that they are well nourished. A putti needs
nothing, not even approbation.
In the dome of the Cathedral at Parma. ' there is a
regular flight of them to help on the Ascension. They
mix in everywhere, riding on clouds, clinging to robes,
perching on the shoulders of Apostles — everywhere
thick in the flight and helping on that glorious anabasis.
242

CORREGGIO

Away, away they go — movement — movement every
where — right up into the blue dome of Heaven! As you
look up at that most magnificent picture, a tinge of
sorrow comes over you — the putti are all going away,
and what if they should never come back!
A little girl I know once went with her Mamma to
visit the Cathedral at Parma, Mother and daughter
stood in silent awe for a space, looking up at that
cloud of vanishing forms. At last the little girl turned
to her mother and said, " Mamma, did you ever see
so many bare legs in all the born days of your life? "

243

CORREGGIO

OME years ago in a lecture John La Farge
said that the world had produced only seven
painters that deserved to rank in the first
class, and one of these Is Correggio. The
speaker did not name the other six; and although
requested to do so, smilingly declined, sajdng that he
preferred to allow each auditor to complete the list for
himself 53 53
One pjerson present made out this list of seven Im
mortals, and passed the list to Edmund Russell.
seated near, for comments. This is the list: Michel
angelo, Leonardo, Titian, Rembrandt, Correggio, Velas
quez, Corot.
Mr. Russell approved the selection, but added a note
claiming the privilege to change and substitute names
from time to time as his mood might prompt. This
seems to me like a very sensible verdict. " Who is
your favorite author? " is a question that Is often
asked. Just as if any one author ever got first place in
the mind of a strong man and stuck there! Authors
jostle each other for first place in our hearts. We may
have Emerson periods and Browning periods, when
they alone minister to us; and so also pictures, like
music, make their appeals to mood.
This peaceful, beautiful May day, as I write this at
my cabin in the woods, Correggio seems to me truly
one of the world's marvelous men. He is near, very
dear, and yet before him I would stand silent and
244

CORREGGIO

uncovered. ^ He did his work and held his peace. He
was simple, modest, unobtrusive and unpretentious. He
was so big that he never knew the greatness of his work,
any more than the author of Hamlet knew the immen
sity of his.
Correggio was never more than a day's journey from
home — ^he toiled in obscurity and did work so grand
that it made its final appeal only to the future. He
never painted his own portrait, and no one else seemed
to consider him worth while; his income was barely
sufficient for his wants. He was so big that following
fast upjon his life came a lamentable decline in art:
his personality being so great that his son and a goodly
flock of disciples tried to paint just like him. All original
ity faded out of the fabric of their lives, and they were
only cheap, tawdry and dispirited imitators. That is one
of the penalties which Nature exacts when she vouch
safes a great man to earth — all others are condemned
to insipidity. They are whipped, dispirited and undone,
and spontaneity dies a-boming. No man should try to
do another man's work. Note the anatomical inanities
of Bernini in his attempts to out-Angelo Michelangelo.
^ In this " rushing-in " business, keep out, or you may
count as one more fool,
Correggio struck thirteen because he was himself, and
was to a great degree even ignorant and indifferent to
what the world was doing. He was filled with the joy
of life; and with no furtive eye on the future, and no
245

CORREGGIO

distracting fears concerning the present, he did his
work and did it the best he could. He worked to please
himself, cultivated the artistic conscience — scorning to
create a single figure that did not spring into life because
it must. All of his pictures are born of this spirit.
Good old Guido of Parma, afar from home, once asked,
with tear-filled eyes, of a recent visitor there — "And
tell me, you saw the Cathedral and the Convent of
San Paola — and are not the cherubs of Master Cor
reggio grown to be men yet? "
It is only life and love that give love and life. Correg
gio gave us both out of the fulness of a full heart.
And growing weary when scarce forty years of age,
he passed out into the Silence, but his work is ours.

246

BELLINI

And if in our day Raphael must give way to Botticelli,
with how much greater reason should Titian in the
heights of his art, with all his earthly splendor and
voluptuous glow, give place to the lovely imagination
of dear old Gian Bellini, the father of Venetian Art?
— Mrs. Oliphant, in "The Makers of Venice"

BELLINI

BELLINI

T is a great thing to teach. I am never
more complimented than when some
one addresses me as " teacher." To
give yourself in a way that will
inspire others to think, to do, to
become — ^what nobler ambition ! To
be a good teacher demands a high
degree of altruism, for one must be
willing to sink self, to die — as it were — that others may
live. There is something in It very much akin to mother
hood — a brooding quality. Every true mother realizes
at times that her children are only loaned to her — sent
from God — and the attributes of her body and mind
are being used by some Power for a Purpose. The thought
tends to refine the heart of its dross, obliterate pride
and make her feel the sacredness of her office. All good
men everywhere recognize the holiness of motherhood —
this miracle by which the race survives.
There is a touch of pathos in the thought that while
lovers live to make themselves necessary to each other,
the mother is working to make herself unnecessary to
her children. The true mother is training her children
to do without her. And the entire object of teaching is
to enable the scholar to do without his teacher. Gradu
ation should take place at the vanishing-point of the
teacher SS 53 249

BELLINI

Yes, the efficient teacher has in him much of this
mother-quality. Thoreau, you remember, said that
genius is essentially feminine; if he had teachers in
mind his remark was certainly true. The men of much
motive power are not the best teachers — the arbitrary
and imperative type that would bend all minds to
match its own may build bridges, tunnel mountains,
discover continents and capture cities, but it can not
teach. In the presence of such a towering personality
freedom dies, spontaneity droops, and thought slinks
away into a comer. The brooding quality, the patience
that endures, and the yearning of motherhood, are all
absent. The man is a commander, not a teacher; and
there yet remains a grave doubt whether the warrior
and ruler have not used their influence more to make
this world a place of the skull than the abode of happi
ness and prosperity. The orders to kill all the first
born, and those over ten years of age, were not given
by teachers.
The teacher is one who makes two ideas grow where
there was only one before.
Just here, before we pass on to other themes, seems
a good place to say that we live in a very stupid old
world, round like an orange and slightly flattened at
the poles. The proof of this seemingly pessimistic
remark, made by a hopeful and cheerful man, lies in
the fact that we place small premium in either honor
or money on the business of teaching. As, in the olden
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times, barbers and scullions ranked with musicians.
and the Master of the Hounds wore a bigger medal
than the Poet Laureate, so do we pay our teachers
the same as coachmen and coal-heavers, giving them a
plentiful lack of everything but overwork.
I will never be quite willing to admit that this country
is enlightened until we cease the inane and parsimo
nious policy of trying to drive all the really strong
men and women out of the teaching profession by
putting them on the payroll at one-half the rate, or
less, than what the same brains and energy can com
mand elsewhere. In this year of our Lord, Nineteen
Hundred Two, in a time of peace, we have appropriated
four hundred million dollars for war and war-appliances,
and this sum is just double the cost of the entire public-
school system in America. It is not the necessity of
economy that dictates our actions in this matter of
education — ^we simply are not enlightened.
But this thing can not always last — I look for the time
when we shall set apart the best and noblest men and
women of earth for teachers, and their compensation
will be so adequate that they will be free to give
themselves for the benefit of the race, without appre
hension of a yawning almshouse. A liberal policy will
be for our own good, just as a matter of cold expedi
ency; it will be Enlightened Self-interest.

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ITH the rise of the Bellinis, Venetian art
ceased to be provincial, blossoming out into
national. Jacopo Bellini was a teacher — mild,
gentle, S3Tnpathetic, animated. His work
reveals personality, but is somewhat stiff and statu
esque: sharp in outline like an antique stained-glass
window. This is because his art was descended from the
glassworkers ; and he himself continued to make designs
for the glassworkers of Murano all his life. Considering
the time in which he lived he was a great painter, for he
improved upon what had gone before and prepared the
way for those greater than he who were yet to come 53
He called himself an experimenter, and around him
clustered a goodly group of young men who were
treated by him more as comrades than as students.
They were all boys together — learners, with the added
dignity which an older head of the right sort can lend.
^ " Old Jacopo " they used to call him, and there was
a touch of affection in the term to which several of
them have testified. All of the pupils loved the old
man, who was n't so very old in years, and certainly
was not in heart. Among his pupils were his two sons,
Gentile and Gian, and they called him Old Jacopo,
too. 1 rather like this — it proves for one thing that the
boys were not afraid of their father. They surely did
not run and hide when they heard him coming, neither
did they find it necessary to tell lies in order to defend
themselves. A severe parent is sure to have untruthful
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children, and perhaps the best recipe for having noble
children is to be a noble parent.
It is well to be a companion to your children, and just
where the Idea ceime in which developed Into the Eng
lish boarding-school delusion, that children should be
sent away among hirelings — separated from their par
ents — in order to be educated, 1 do not know. It surely
was not complimentary to the parents. Old Jacopo
did n't try very hard to discipline his boys — ^he loved
them, which is better if you are forced to make choice.
They worked together and grew together. Before Gian
and Gentile were eighteen they could paint as well as
their father. When they were twenty they excelled
him, and no one was more elated over it than Old
Jacopo. They were doing things he could never do:
overcoming obstacles he could not overcome — he
clapped his hands In gladness, did this old teacher,
and shed tears of joy — ^his pupils were surpassing him !
Gian and Gentile would not admit this, but still they
kept right on, each vieing with the other. Vasari says
that Gian was the better artist, but Aldus refers to
Gentile as " the undisputed master of painting in all
Venetia," Ruskin compromises by explaining that Gen
tile had the broader and deeper nature, but that Gian
was more feminine, more poetic, nearer lyric, possess
ing a delicacy and insight that his brother never
acquired. These qualities better fitted him for a teacher;
and when Old Jacopo passed away, Gian drifted into
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his place, for every man is gravitating straight to where
he belongs.
The little workshop of one room now was enlarged:
the bottega became an atelier. There were groups of
workrooms and studios, and a small gallery that
became the meeting-place for various literary and
artistic visitors at Venice. Ludovico Ariosto, greatest of
Italian poets, came here and wrote a sonnet to " Gian
Bellini, sublime artist, performer of great things, but
best of all the loving Teacher of Men."
Gian Bellini had two pupils whose name and fame are
deathless: Giorgione and Titian. There is a fine flavor
of romance surrounds Giorgione. the gentle, the
refined, the beloved. His was a spirit like unto that of
Chopin or Shelley, and his death-dirge should have
been written by the one and set to music by the other
— brothers doloroso, sent into this rough world unpre
pared for its buffets, passing away in manhood's morn
ing. Yet all heard the song of the skylark, Giorgione
died broken-hearted, through his ladylove's incon
stancy. He was exactly the same age as Titian, and
while he lived surpassed that giant far, as the giant
himself admitted. He died aged thirty-three, the age
at which a full dozen of the greatest men of the world
have died, and the age at which several other very
great men have been born again — which possibly is
the same thing. Titian lived to be a hundred, lacking
six months, and when past seventy used to give alms
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to a beggar-woman at a church-door — the woman who
had broken the heart of Giorgione. He also painted
her portrait — this in sad and subdued remembrance of
the days agone.
The Venetian School of Art has been divided by Rus
kin into three parts: the first begins with Jacopo Bel
lini, and this part might be referred to as the budding
period. The second is the flowering period, and the
palm is carried by Gian Bellini. The period of ripe fruit
— o'erripe fruit, touched by the tint of death — Is repre
sented by four men: Giorgione, Titian, Tintoretto and
Paul Veronese. Beyond these four, Venetian Art has
never gone, and although four hundred years have
elapsed since they laughed and sang, enjoyed and
worked, all we can do is wonder and admire. We can
imitate, but we can not improve.
Gian Bellini lived to be ninety-two, working to the
last, always a learner, always a teacher. His best
work was done after his eightieth year. The cast-off
shell of this great spirit was placed in the tomb with
that of his brother Gentile, who had passed out but
a few years before. Death did not divide them S&

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lOVANNI BELLINI was his name. Yet when
people who loved beautiful pictures spoke of
" Gian," every one knew who was meant, but
to those who worked at art he was " The
Master." He was two inches under six feet in height,
strong and muscular. In spite of his seventy summers
his carriage was erect and there was a jaunty suppleness
about his gait that made him seem much younger. In
fact, no one would have believed that he had lived over
his threescore and ten. were it not for the iron-gray
hair that fluffed out all around under the close-fitting
black cap, and the bronzed complexion — sun-kissed
by wind and weather — ^which formed a trinity of
opposites that made people turn and stare.
Queer stories used to be told about him. He was a
skilful gondolier, and it was the daily row back and
forth from the Lido that gave him that face of bronze.
Folks said he ate no meat and drank no wine, and that
his food was simply ripe figs in the season, with coarse
rye bread and nuts. Then there was that funny old
hunchback, a hundred years old at least, and stone-
deaf, who took care of the gondola, spending the whole
day, waiting for his master, washing the trim, grace
ful, blue-black boat, arranging the awning with the
white cords and tassels, and polishing the little brass
lions at the sides. People tried to question the old
hunchback, but he gave no secrets away. The master
always stood up behind and rowed, while down on
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the cushions rode the hunchback, the guest of honor,
^ There stood the master erect, plying the oar, his
long black robe tucked up under the dark blue sash
that exactly matched the color of the gondola. The
man's motto might have been, " Ich Dien," or that
passage of Scripture, " He that is greatest among you
shall be your servant." Suspended around his neck
by a slender chain was a bronze medal, presented by
vote of the Signoria when the great picture of " The
Transfiguration " was unveiled. If this medal had been
a crucifix, and you had met the wearer in San Marco,
one glance at the finely chiseled features, the black
cap and the flowing robe and you would have said at
once the man was a priest, Vicar-General of some
important diocese. But seeing him standing erect on
the stern of a gondola, the wind caressing the dark
gray hair, you would have been perplexed until your
gondolier explained in serious undertone that you had
just passed " The greatest Painter in all Venice, Gian,
the Master."
Then if you showed curiosity and wanted to know
further, your gondolier would have told you more about
this strange man.
The canals of Venice are the highways, and the gon
doliers are like 'bus-drivers in Piccadilly — they know
everybody and are in close touch with all the secrets
of State, When you get to the Gindecca and tie up for
lunch, over a bottle of Chlanti, your gondolier will tell
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you this : The hunchback there in the gondola, rowed by
the Master, is the Devil, who has taken that form just to
be with and guard the greatest artist the world has
ever seen. Yes, Signor, that clean-faced man with his
frank, wide-open, brown eyes is in league with the
Evil One, He is the man who took young Tiziano from
Cadore into his shop, right out of a glass-factory, and
made him a great artist, getting him commissions and
introducing him everjrwhere! And how about the divine
Giorgione who called him father? Oho!
And who is Giorgione? The son of some unknown
peasant woman. And if Bellini wanted to adopt him,
treat him as his son indeed, kissing him on the cheek
when he came back just from a day's visit to Mestre,
whose business was it? Oho!
Besides that, his neime is n't Giorgione — It Is Giorgio
Barbarelli. And did n't this Giorgio Barbarelli, and
Tiziano from Cadore, and Espero Carbonne, and that
Gustavo from Nuremberg, and the others paint most
of Gian's pictures? Surely they did. The old man simply
washes in the backgrounds and the boys do the work.
About all old Gian does is to sign the picture, sell it and
pocket the proceeds. Carpaccio helps him, too —
Carpaccio, who painted the loveliest little angel sitting
crosslegged playing the biggest mandolin you ever saw
in your life.
That is genius, you know — the ability to get some one
else to do the work, and then capture the ducats and
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the honors for yourself. Of course Gian knows how to
lure the boys on — something has to be done in order
to hold them. Gian buys a picture from them now and
then; his studio is full of their work — better than he
can do. Oh, he knows a good thing when he sees it.
These pictures will be valuable some day, and he gets
them at his own price. It was Antonello of Messina
who introduced oil-painting into Venice. Before that
they mixed their paints with water, milk or wine. But
when Antonello came along with his dark, lustrous
pictures, he set all artistic Venice Eistir. Gian Bellini
discovered the secret, they say, by feigning to be a
gentleman and going to the newcomer and sitting for
his picture. He it was who discovered that Antonello
mixed his colors with oil. Oho!
Of course not all of the pictures in his studio are
painted by the boys — some are painted by that old
Dutchman what 's-his-name — oh, yes, Durer, Alberto
Durer of Nuremberg. Two Nuremberg painters Were
in that very gondola last week just where you sit —
they are here in Venice now, taking lessons from Gian,
they said. Gian was up there at Nuremberg and lived a
month with Durer — they worked together, drank beer
together, I suppose, and caroused. Gian is very strict
about what he does in Venice, but you can never tell
what a man will do when he is away from home. The
Germans are a roystering lot — but they do say they
can paint. Me? I have never been there — and do not
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want to go, either — there are no canals there. To be
sure, they print books In Nuremberg. It was up there
somewhere that they invented type, a lazy scheme to
do away with writing. They are a thrifty lot — those
Germans — they give me my fare and a penny more,
just a single penny, and no matter how much 1 have
talked and pointed out the wonderful sights, and im
parted useful information, known to me alone — only
one penny extra — think of it !
Yes, printing was first done at Mayence by a German,
Gutenberg, about sixty years ago. One of Gutenberg's
workmen went up to Nuremberg and taught others
how to design and cast type. This man Alberto Durer
helped them, designing the initials and making title-
pages by cutting the design on a wooden block,
then covering this block with ink, laying a sheet of
paper upon it, and placing it In a press; then when the
paper is lifted off it looks exactly like the original
drawing. In fact, most people could n't tell the difference,
and here you can print thousands of them from the
one block!
Gian Bellini makes drawings for title-pages and Initials
for Aldus and Nicholas Jenson, Venice is the greatest
printing-place In the world, and yet the business began
here only thirty years ago. The first book printed here
was In Fourteen Hundred Sixty-nine, by John of Speyer,
There are nearly two hundred licensed printing-presses
here, and it takes usually four men to a press — two to
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set the type and get things ready, and two to run the
press. This does not count, of course, the men who write
the books, and those who make the type and cut the
blocks from which they print the pictures for illustra
tions. At first, you know, the books they printed in
Venice had no title-pages, initials or illustrations. My
father was a printer and he remembers when the first
large Initials were printed — before that, the spaces were
left blank and the books were sent out to the monaster
ies to be completed by hand,
Gian and Gentile had a good deal to do about cutting
the first blocks for initials — they got the idea, I think,
from Nuremberg, And now there are Dutchmen down
here from Amsterdam learning how to print books
and paint pictures. Several of them are In Gian's studio,
1 hear — every once in a while I get them for a trip to
the Lido or to Murano.
Gentile Bellini is his brother and looks very much
like him. The Grand Turk at Constantinople came
here once and saw Gian Bellini at work in the Great
Hall. He had never seen a good picture before and was
ameized. He wanted the Senate to sell Gian to him,
thinking he was a slave. They humored the Pagan by
hiring Gentile Bellini to go instead, loaning him out
for two years, so to speak.
Gentile went, and the Sultan, who never allowed any
one to stand before him, all having to grovel in the
dirt, treated Gentile as an equal. Gentile even taught
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the old rogue to draw a little, and they say the painter
had a key to every room in the palace, and was treated
like a prince.
Well, they got along all right, until one day Gentile
drew the picture of the head of John the Baptist on a
charger 53 53
"A man's head does n't look like that when It Is cut
off," said the Turk contemptuously. Gentile had for
gotten that the Turk was on familiar ground.
" Perhaps the Light of the Sun knows more about
painting than I do! " said Gentile, as he kept right on
at his work.
" 1 may not know much about painting, but 1 'm no fool
in some other things I might name," was the reply 53
The Sultan clapped his hands three times: two slaves
appeared from opposite doors. One was a little ahead
of the other, and as this one approached, the Sultan
with a single swing of the snickersnee snipped off his
head. This teaches us that obedience to our superiors
is its own reward. But the lesson was wholly lost on
Gentile Bellini, for he did not remain even to examine
the severed head for art's sake. The thought that it
might be his turn next was supreme, and he leaped
through a window, taking the sash with him. Making
his way to the docks he found a sailing-vessel loading
with fruit, bound for Venice. A small purse of gold
made the matter easy — the captain of the boat secreted
him, and in four days he was safely back In Saint Mark's
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giving thanks to God for his deliverance. ^ No, I did n't
say Gian was a rogue — I only told you what others say.
I am only a poor gondolier — ^why should I trouble myself
about what great folks do? I simply tell you what I
hear — it may be so, and It may not; God knows! There
is that Pascale Salvini. He has a rival studio, and when
that Genoese, Cristoforo Colombo, was here and made
his stopping-place at Bellini's studio, Pascale told every
one that Colombo was a lunatic and Bellini another, for
encouraging him to show his foolish maps and charts.
Now, they do say that Colombo has discovered a new
world, and Italians are feeling troubled in conscience
because they did not fit him out with ships instead of
forcing him to go to Spain.
No, 1 did n't say Bellini was a hypocrite — Pascale's
pupils say so, and once they followed him over to
Murano — three barca-loads and my gondola besides 53
You see it was like this: Twice a week, just after sun
down, we used to see Gian Bellini untie his boat from
the landing there behind the Doge's palace, turn the
prow, and beat out for Murano, with no companion
but that deaf old caretaker. Twice a week, Tuesdays
and Fridays — always at just the same hour, regard
less of weather — ^we would see the old hunchback light
the leimps, and in a few moments the Master would
appear, tuck up his black robe, step into the boat, take
the oar, and away they would go. It was always to
Murano, and always to the same landing — one of our
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gondoliers had followed several times, just out of
curiosity 53 53
Finally it came to the ears of Pascale that Gian took
this regular trip to Murano. " It is a rendezvous," said
Pascale; " worse than that, an orgy among those
lacemakers and the rogues of the glassworks. Oh,
to think that Gian should stoop to such things at his
age — ^his pretended asceticism Is but a mask — and at
his age!" 53 53
The Pascale students took it up, and once came in
collision with that Tiziano of Cadore, who they say
broke a boat-hook over the head of one of them who
had spoken ill of the Master.
But this did not silence the talk, and one dark night,
when the air was full of flying mist, one of Pascale's
students came to me and told me that he wanted me
to take a party over to Murano. The weather was so
bad that 1 refused to go — the wind blew in gusts, sheet-
lightning filled the eastern sky, and all honest men, but
poor belated gondoliers, had hied them home.
I refused to go.
Had I not seen Gian the painter go not half an hour
before? Well, if he could go, others could, too.
I refused to go — except for double fare.
He accepted and placed the double fare in silver in
my palm. Then he gave a whistle and from behind the
corners came trooping enough swashbuckler students to
swamp my gondola. I let in just enough to fill the seats
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and pushed off, leaving several standing on the stone
steps cursing me and everything and everybody.
As my good boat slid away into the fog and headed on
our course, I glanced back and saw the three barca-loads
following in my wake.
There was much muffled talk, and orders from some
one in charge to keep silence. But there was passing
of strong drink, and then talk, and from it 1 gathered
that these were all students from Pascale's, out on one
of those student carousals, intent on heaven knows
what! It weis none of my business.
We shipped considerable water, and several of the
students were down on their knees praying and bailing,
bailing and praying.
At last we reached the Murano landing. All got out,
the barcas tied up, and 1 tied up, too, determined to
see what was doing. The strong drink was passed, and
a low heavy-set fellow who seemed to be captain charged
all not to speak, but to follow him and do as he did 53
We took a side-street where there was little travel
and followed through the dark and dripping way, fully
a half-mile, down there in that end of the island called
the sailors' bagnio, where they say no man's life is
safe if he has a silver coin or two. There was much
music in the wine-shops and shouts of mirth and
dancing feet on stone floors, but the rain had driven
every one from the streets.
We came to a long, low stone building that used to be
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a theater, but was now a dance-hall upstairs and a
warehouse below. There were lights upstairs and sounds
of music. The stairway was dark, but we felt our way
up, and on tiptoe advanced to the big double door,
from under which the light streamed.
We had received our orders, and when we got to the
landing we stood there just an instant. " Now we have
him — Gian the hypocrite! " whispered the stout man
in a hoarse breath. We burst in the doors with a
whoop and a bang. The change from the dark to the
light sort of blinded us at first. We all supposed that
there was a dance in progress of course, and the screams
from women were just what we expected, but when we
saw several overturned easels and an old man, half-
nude, and too scared to move, seated on a model throne,
we did not advance into the hall as we intended. That
one yell we gave was all the noise we made. We stood
there in a bunch, just inside the door, sort of dazed and
uncertain. We did not know whether to retreat or to
charge on through the hall as we had intended. We just
stood there like a lot of driveling fools.
" Keep right at your work, my good people! Keep right
at your work! " called a pleasant voice. " 1 see we have
some visitors."
And Gian Bellini came forward. His robe was stiU
tucked up under the blue sash, but he had laid aside his
black cap, and his tumbled gray hair looked like
the aureole of a saint. " Keep right at your work," he
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said again, and then came forward and bade us welcome
and begged us to have seats.
I dared not run away, so 1 sat down on one of the long
seats that were ranged around the wall. My companions
did the same. There must have been fifty easels, all
ranged in a semicircle around the old man who posed
as a model. Several of the easels had been upset, and
there was much confusion when we entered.
" Just help us to arrange things — that is right, thank
you," said Gian to the stout man who was captain of
our party. To my astonishment the stout man was
doing just as he was bid, and was pacifying the women
students and straightening up their easels and stools.
^ 1 was interested in watching Gian walking around,
helping this one with a stroke of his crayon, saying a
word to that, smiling and nodding to another. 1 just
sat there and stared. These students were not regular
art-students, 1 could see that plainly. Some were chil
dren, ragged and barelegged; others were old men
who worked in the glass-factories, and surely with
hands too old and stiff to ever paint well. Still others
were young girls and women of the town. 1 rubbed
my eyes and tried to make it out!
The music we heard 1 could still hear — it came from
the wine-shop across the way. 1 looked around — and
what do you believe? My companions had all gone.
They had sneaked out one by one and left me alone.
^ I watched my chance, and when the Master's back
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was turned 1 tiptoed out, too, ^ When I got down on
the street I found I had left my cap, but I dare not go
back after it. 1 made my way down to the landing, half-
running, and when 1 got there not a boat was to be
seen — the three barcas and my gondola were gone.
I thought 1 could see them, out through the mist, a
quarter of a mile away. 1 called aloud, but no answer
came back but the hissing wind. I was in despair —
they were stealing my boat, and if they did not steal
it. it would surely be wrecked — my all, my precious boat !
^ 1 cried and wrung my hands. 1 prayed ! And the howl
ing winds only ran shrieking and laughing around the
corners of the buildings.
1 saw a glimmering light down the beach at a little
landing. I ran to it, hoping some gondolier might be
found who would row me over to the city. There was
one boat at the landing and in it a hunchback, sound
asleep, covered with a canvas. It was Gian BelUni's
boat. I shook the hunchback into wakefulness and
begged him to row me across to the city. I yelled into
his deaf ears, but he pretended not to understand me.
Then I showed him the silver coin, the double fare,
and tried to place it in his hand. But no, he only shook
his head.
I ran up the beach, still looking for a boat.
An hour had passed.
I got back to the landing just as Gian came down to
his boat. I approached him and explained that I was
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a poor worker In the glass-factory, who had to work
all day and half the night, and as 1 lived over in the
city and my wife was dying, I must get home. Would
he allow me to ride with His Highness? " Certainly —
with pleasure, with pleasure! " he answered, and then
pulling something from under his sash he said, " Is
this your cap, signor? " I took my cap, but my tongue
was paralyzed for the moment so I could not thank him.
^ We stepped into the boat, and as my offer to row was
declined. I just threw myself down by the hunchback,
and the prow swung around and headed toward the city.
^ The wind had died down, the rain had ceased, and
from between the blue-black clouds the moon shone
out, Gian rowed with a strong, fine stroke, singing a
" Te Deum Laudamus " softly to himself the while 53
I lay there and wept, thinking of my boat, my all, my
precious boat!
We reached the landing — and there was my boat,
safely tied up, not a cushion or a cord missing,
Gian Bellini ? He may be a rogue as Pascale says — God
knows! How can 1 tell — 1 am only a poor gondolier.

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It is a duty incumbent upon upright and credible men
of all ranks, who have performed anything noble or
praiseworthy, to truthfully record, in their own writing.
the principal events of their lives,
— Bemenuto Cellini

CELLINI

CELLINI

HE man who is thoroughly interested
in himself is interesting to other
people," Wendell Phillips once said,
^ Good healthy egotism in literature
is the red corpuscle that makes the
thing live, Cupid naked and una
shamed is always beautiful; we
turn away only when some very
proper person perceives he is naked and attempts to
better the situation by supplying him a coat of mud 53
The Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff, wherein are many
morbid musings and information as to the development
of her mind and anatomy, is intensely interesting;
Amiel's Journal holds us with a tireless grasp; the Con
fessions of Saint Augustine can never die; Jean Jacques
Rousseau's book was the favorite of such a trinity of
opposites as Emerson, George Eliot and Walt Whitman ;
Pepys' Diary is so dull it is entertaining; and the
Memoirs of Benvenuto Cellini have made a mediocre
man immortal.
Cellini had an intense personality; he was skilful as a
workman; he told the truth as he saw it, and if he ever
prevaricated it was simply by failing to mention certain
things that he considered were no credit to anybody.
But his friendships were shallow; those he respected
most, say Michelangelo and Raphael, treated him as
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Prince Henry finally did Falstaff. never allowing him to
come within half a mile of their person on penalty. He
was intimate with so many women that he apologized
for not remembering them; he had no interest in his
children, and most of his plans and purposes were of a
pattypan order. Yet he wrote two valuable treatises:
one on the art of the goldsmith and the other on the
casting of bronze ; there is also an essay on architecture
that contains some good ideas; and courtier that he
was. of course wrote some poetry, which is not so bad
as it might be. But the book upon which his reputation
rests is the " Memoirs," and a great book it is. All these
things seem to show that a man can be a great author
and yet have a small soul. Have n't we overrated this
precious gift of authorship just a trifle?
Taine said that educated Englishmen all write alike
— they are all equally stupid. And John Addington
Symonds, an educated Englishman, and the best
translator of Cellini, wrote, " Happily Cellini was
unspoiled by literary training." Goethe translated Cel
lini's book into German and paid the doughty Italian
the compliment of saying that he did the task out of
pure enjoyment, and incidentally to improve his
literary style.
Cellini is not exactly like us, and when we read his
book we all give thanks that we are not like him, but
every trait that he had large, we have in little. Cellini
was sincere; he never doubted his own infallibility,
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but he points out untiringly the fallibilities in various
popes and everybody else. When Cellini goes out and
kills a man before breakfast, he absolves himself by
showing that the man richly deserved his fate. The
braggart and bully are really cowards at the last, A
man who is wholly brave would not think to brag of
it. He would be as brave in his calm moments as in
moments of frenzy — take old John Brown, for instance.
But when Cellini had a job on hand he first worked him
self into a torrent of righteous wrath. He poses as the
injured one, the victim of double, deep-dyed conspira
cies, and so he goes through life afraid of every one, and
is one of whom all men are afraid.
Every artist has occasional attacks of Artistic Jealousy,
and happy is the man who contents himself with the
varioloid variety. Cellini had three kinds: acute, viru
lent and chronic.
Berloiz has worked the man up into a strong and
sinewy drama, several others have done the same,
but it will require the combined skill of Rostand,
Mansfield and Samuel Eberly Gross to ever do the
character justice.
John Morley says, " There is nothlng'worse than mettle
in a blind horse." So one might say there is nothing
worse than sincerity in a superstitious person. Benvenuto
Cellini is the true type of a literary and artistic Bad
Man. Had he lived in Colorado in Eighteen Hundred
Seventy, the Vigilance Committee would have used
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him to start a graveyard. ^ But he is so open, so simple,
so candid, that we laugh at his lapses, admire his high
resolves, sigh at his follies, sympathize with his spasms
of repentance, and smile a misty smile at one who is
humorous without meaning to be, who was deeply
religious but never pious, who was highly conscientious.
undoubtedly artistic, and who blundered through life,
always in a turmoil, hopelessly entangled in the web of
Fate, committing every crime, justifying himself in
everything, and finally passing out peacefully, sincerely
believing that he had lived a Christian life.

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ENVENUTO CELLINI was born in Florence.
in the year Fifteen Hundred, the day after the
feast-day of All Souls, at four-thirty precisely
in the afternoon.
The name Benvenuto means welcome: the world wel
comed Benvenuto from the first. When five years of
age he seized upon a live scorpion that he found in the
yard and carried it into the house. His father seeing the
deadly creature in his hand sought to get him to throw
it away, but he only clung the tighter to the plaything.
The parent then grabbed a pair of shears and cut off the
tail, mouth and claws of the scorpion, much to the
wrath of the child.
Shortly after this he was seated by his father's side
looking into a brazier of coals. All at once they saw
a salamander in the fire, wiggling about in playful
mood, literally making its bed in hell. Many men go
through life without seeing a single salamander;
neither Darwin, Spencer, Huxley nor Wallace ever
saw one; they are so rare that occasionally there be
men who deny their existence, for we are very apt to
deny the existence of anything we have not seen. In
truth. Benvenuto never saw but this one salamander.
but this one was enough : coupled with the incident of
the scorpion it was an augury that the boy would have
a great career, be in many a hot position, and march
through life triumphant and unscathed — God takes
care of His own. 277

CELLINI

The father of Benvenuto was a designer, a goldsmith
and an engineer, and he might have succeeded in a
masterly way in these sublime arts had he not early in
life acquired the habit of the flute. He played the flute
all day long, and often played the flute in the morning
and the fife at night. As it was the flute that had won
him his gracious wife, he thanked God for the gift and
continued to play as long as he had breath.
Now, it was his ambition that his son should play the
flute, too, as all fond fathers regard themselves as a
worthy pattern on which their children should model
their manners and morals. But Benvenuto despised the
damnable invention of a flute — it was only blowing
one's breath through a horn and making a noise — ^yet to
please his father he mastered the instrument, and
actuated by filial piety he occasionally played in a way
that caused his father and mother to weep with joy 33
But the boy's bent was for drawing and modeling in
wax. All of his spare time was spent in this work, and
so great was his skill that when he was sixteen he was
known throughout all Florence. About this time his
brother, two years younger than himself, had the
misfortune one day to be set upon by a gang of mis
creants, and was nigh being killed when Benvenuto
ran to his rescue and seizing his sword laid around
him lustily. The miscreants were just making off when
a party of gendarmes appeared and arrested all con
cerned. The rogues were duly tried and sentenced to
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banishment from the city. ^ Benvenuto and his brothel
were also banished.
Shortly after this Benvenuto found himself at Pisa on
the road to Rome. He was footsore, penniless, and as he
stood gazing into the window of a goldsmith the pro
prietor came out and asked him his business. He replied,
" Sir, 1 am a designer and goldsmith of no mean ability."
^ Straightway the man, seeing the lad was likely and
honest, set him to work. The motto of the boy at this
time was supplied by his father. It ran thus: In whatso
ever house you be. steal not and live honestlee.
Seeing this motto, the proprietor straightway trusted
him with all the precious jewels in the store. He remained
a year at Pisa, and was very happy and contented in his
work, for never once did he have to play the flute, nor
did he hear one played. Nearly every week came
loving letters from his father begging him to come
home, and admonishing him not to omit practise on
the flute.
At the end of a year he got a touch of fever and con
cluded to go home, as Florence was much more health
ful than Pisa.
Arriving home his father embraced him with tears of
unfeigned joy. His changed and manly appearance
pleased his family greatly. And straightway when their
tears were dried and welcomes said, his father placed a
flute in his hands and begged him to play in order that
he might see if his playing had kept pace with his
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growth and skill in other ways. ^ The young man set
the instrument to his lips and played an original selec
tion in a way that made his father shout with joy,
" Genius is indispensable, but practise alone makes
perfect!" 53 53

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ICHELANGELO was born twenty-five years
before Cellini ; their homes were not far apart .
In the Gardens of Lorenzo the Magnificent,
Michelangelo had received that strong im
petus toward the beautiful that was to last him through
out his long and arduous life.
When Cellini was eighteen the Master was at Rome.
doing the work of the Pope, the pride of all artistic
Florence, and toward the Eternal City Cellini looked
longingly. He haunted the galleries and gardens where
broken fragments of antique and modern marbles were
to be seen, and stood long before the " Pieta " of
Michelangelo in the Church of Santa Croce, wondering
if he could ever do as well.
About this time he tells us that he copied that famous
cartoon of Michelangelo's, " Soldiers Bathing in the
Arno," made in competition with Leonardo for the
decoration of the Palazzo Vecchio, which he declares
marks the highest pitch of power attained by the
Master, While at this work there appeared in Florence
one Pietro Torrigiano, who had been an exile in Eng
land for over twenty years. The visitor held Cellini's
drawing in his hand, studied it carefully and remarked:
" I know this man Michelangelo Buonarrotti — ^we used
to draw and work together under the tutorship of
Masaccio. One day Buonarrotti annoyed me and I dealt
him such a blow on the nose that I felt the flesh, cartilage
and bone go down under my knuckles like a biscuit.
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It was a mark he will carry to his grave." ^ These words
were truth, save that Michelangelo was struck with a
mallet and not the man's hand. And it was for the blow
that Torrigiano had to flee, and seemingly, with the
years, he had gotten it into his head that he left Flor
ence of his own accord, and his crime was a thing of
which to boast. Voltaire once said that beyond doubt
the soldier who thrust the spear into the side of the
Savior went away and boasted of the deed. Torrigiano's
name is forever linked with that of Michelangelo. Thus
much for the pride of little men who make a virtue of a
vice 53 53
But the boast of Torrigiano caused Cellini to grow
faint and sick, then to burn with hate. He snatched
the drawing from the other's hand, and might have
deprived Torrigiano of all the nose he possessed, had
not better counsel prevailed. Ever after Cellini avoided
the man — for the man's own good.
That art was a passion to this stripling is plain. It
was his meat and drink — ^with fighting for dessert.
One of his near companions was Francisco, grandson
of Fra Lippo Lippi, and another chum was Tasso, at
this time a youth of nineteen — his own age, Tasso
became a great artist. Vasari tells of him at length,
and sketches his career while in the employ of Cosimo
de Medici,
One day Benvenuto and Tasso were walking after
their work was done, and discussing as usual the
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CELLINI

wonderful genius of Michelangelo. They agreed that
some day they must go to him at Rome. They were near
the gate of the city that led out on the direct road to
the Eternal City. They passed out of the gate still
talking earnestly.
" Why, we are on the way now," said Tasso.
"And to turn back is an ill omen — ^we will go on! "
answered Benvenuto.
So they kept on, each one saying, "And what will our
folks say tonight? "
By night they had traveled twenty miles. They stopped
at an inn, and in the morning Tasso was so lame he
declared he could not proceed. Benvenuto insisted, and
even threatened.
They trudged forward, and in a week the spire of Saint
Peter's (the wondrous dome was yet to be) lifted itself
out of the fog, and they stood speechless and uncov
ered, each devoutly crossing himself.
Benvenuto had a trade, and as skilled men are always
needed he got work at once. Tasso filled in the time
carving wood. They did not see Michelangelo — that
worthy was too busy to receive callers, or indulge
the society of adventurous youths. Cellini does not
say much about this, but skips two years in a page,
takes part in a riot and flees back to Florence. He
enters into earnest details of how 'leven rogues in
buckram suits reviled him as he passed a certain shop.
One of them upset a handcart of brick upon him. He
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CELLINI

dealt the miscreant a blow on the ear. The police
here appeared and as usual arrested the innocent
Happy Hooligan of the affair. Being taken before the
Magistrates he was accused of striking a free citizen.
Cellini insisted he had only boxed the man's ears, but
many witnesses in chorus averred that he had struck
the citizen in the face with his clenched fist. " 1 only
boxed his ears," exclaimed Cellini above the din. The
Magistrates all burst out laughing, and adjourned for
dinner, warning Cellini to remain where he was until
they came back — hoping he would run away.
He sat there thinking over his sad lot, when a sudden
impulse seizing him he darted out of the palace, and
ran swiftly for the house of his enemies. He drew his
knife, and rushing in among them where they were at
dinner, upset the table and yelled, " Send for a con
fessor, for none of you will ever need a doctor when I
get through with you! "
Several women fainted, the men sprang through win
dows, and the chief rogue got a slash that went straight
for his heart. He fell down, and Cellini thinking the man
was dead started for the street. At the door he was
greeted by all those who had jumped through the
windows, reinforced by others. They were armed with
shovels, tongs, skillets, clubs, sticks and knives. He laid
about him right and left, but the missiles descended in
such showers that he lost his knife and cap, first sending
to the earth a full dozen of the rogues.
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Running to the house of a priest Cellini begged to
confess the murder, and told of how he had acted only
in self-defense. Being shrived, for a consideration, he
awaited the coming of the constabulary. But they did
not come, for the man who thought he had been
stabbed got only a slash through his jacket, and no
one was seriously hurt, except one of the men who
jumped through a window and sprained his ankle 53
But so unjust were the Magistrates that Cellini had to
flee from the city or he would have been sentenced to the
army and sent God knows where, to fight the Moors.

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AX NORDAU has a certain amount of basis
for his proposition that genius and madness
are near allied, but it will hardly do. however,
to assume that they are the same thing.
Cellini at times showed a fine flaring up of talent that
might be called genius — he could do exquisite work —
yet there were other times when he certainly was
" queer." These queer periods might account for his
occasional fusing of memory and imagination, and the
lapses of recollection entirely concerning things he
did not wish to remember. The Memoirs were begun
when he was fifty-eight and finished when he was
sixty-three : thus many years had elapsed between the
doing and the recording. The Constable Bourbon was
killed at the siege of Rome: Cellini was present at the
siege and killed several men: therefore what more
probable than that Cellini killed the Constable? Cellini
calmly records that it was he who did the deed. He also
tells that he killed William, Prince of Orange ; in fact, he
killed at least one man a day for many weeks. At this
distance of time we should be quite willing to take his
word for it. just as we would, most certainly, if he had
told us these things face to face.
In one incidental paragraph he records that he chris
tened a son, and adds: " So far as 1 can remember this
was my first child." He drops the record there, never
once alluding to the child's mother, nor what beceime of
the child, which if it lived was a man grown at the time
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Cellini was writing. ^ His intense hatred toward all
who were in direct competition with him, his references
to them as cheese-mites, beasts, buzzards and brigands,
his fears of poison, and suspicions that they had
"curdled his bronze"; his visitations by spirits and
angels, mark him as a man who trod the borderland of
sanity. If he did not like a woman or she did not like
him — the same thing — she was a troll, wench, scullion,
punk, trollop or hussy. He had such a beautifuL vocabu
lary of names for folks he did not admire, that the trans
lator is constantly put to straits to produce a product
that will not be excluded from the mails.
If you want to know how things were done when
knighthood was in flower, you can find out here. Or
should you be possessed of literary longing and have a
desire to produce some such cheerful message for
humanity as "A Gentleman of France," " Monsieur
Beaucaire," 'or " Under the Red Robe," you can sink
your shaft in Cellini's book and mine enough Incidents
in an hour to make a volume, with a by-product of
slag for several Penny Shockers.
Yet Cellini has corroborated history on many points,
and backed up the gossipy Vasari in a valuable way.
It is very doubtful whether either of these gentlemen
had ever the felicity of reading the other's book,
unless there be books in Elysium — as Charles Lamb
thought there were — but sure it is that they render
sidelights on the times that are much to our profit 53
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CELLINI

Vasari and Cellini had been close friends in youth,
working and studying together. Vasari was a poor
artist and a commonplace architect, but he seemed to
have social qualities that bridged the gulf where his
talent broke off short. In the Palazzo Vecchio are
several large specimens of his work that must have been
once esteemed for their own sake. Now their chief
value lies in the fact that they are a Hop-Smith pro
duction, having been painted by a pleasing writer and
a charming gentleman, and so we point them out with
forefinger and bated breath.
Cellini's hate of Vasari proves, also, that the Gossipy
One stood well with the reigning powers, otherwise
Benvenuto would not have thought to condemn his
work and allude to the man as a dough-face, trickster,
lickspittle, slanderer, vulture, vagrom, villain, vilifier
and gnat's hind-foot. Cellini threatened to kill the
man several times: he denounced him in public and
used to call after him on the street, referring to him
cheerfully as a deep-dyed rogue. Had either of these
men killed the other, it would have been a loss to let
ters; but certain it is that Vasari was much more of
a gentleman than Cellini. That Vasari was judicial
in his estimates of men is shown by his references to
Cellini, whom he speaks of as "A skilled artist, of
active, alert and industrious habits, who produced
many valuable works of art, but who unfortunately
was possessed of a most unpleasant temper."
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Men are so fallible in their estimates of contempora
ries that one man's statement that another is a rogue
does not in the slightest change our views of that man.
What we are, that we see : the epithets a man applies to
another usually fit himself better, and this is the thought
in mind when we read what Cellini says of Vasari and
Bandinelli. These men were commonplace artists, but
pretty good men ; Cellini was a better artist than either,
but not a desirable tenant for the upper flat in your
house if you chanced to reside below.
Cellini was landed behind grated bars many times, but
usually managed to speedily escape. However, in his
thirty-eighth year, he found himself in a dungeon of
Sant' Angelo, that grim fortress that he had fought so
vigorously to defend.
More than one homicide the Recording Angel had
marked up against him, but men took small note of
these things, and even Pope Paul had personally
blessed him and granted him absolution for all the
murders he had committed or might commit — this in
consideration of his distinguished services in defense
of the Vatican.
The charge against him now was the very humdrum
one of stealing treasure that he was supposed to guard.
That he was innocent there is no doubt: whatever the
man was, he was no thief. The charge against him was a
trumped-up one to get him out of the way. He was
painfully in evidence — he talked like a windmill, and in
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CELLINI

his swaggering he had become inconvenient, if not
dangerous, to some who were close to political great
ness. No one caring for the job of killing him, they
locked him up, for the good of himself and society. It
probably was the intention to keep him under key for
only a few weeks, until his choler would subside; but he
was so saucy, and sent out such a stream of threats to
all concerned, that things reached a point where it was
unsafe to liberate him.
So he was kept in the Castle for over two years, during
which time he once escaped, broke his leg in the effort,
was recaptured and brought back.
A prison is not wholly bad — ^men in prison often have
time to study and think, where before such things were
impossible. At least they are free from intrusion. Cellini
became deeply religious — ^he read his Bible and the lives
of the saints. Ministering angels came to him, and
spirits appeared and whispered words of comfort. The
man became softened and subdued. He wrote poetry,
and recorded his thoughts on many things. In the
meantime, his accuser having died, he was given his
liberty. He was a better and a wiser man when he came
out than when he went in, although one feiils to find
that he was exactly grateful to his captors.
In prison he planned various statues of a religious
order. It was in prison, too, that he thought out the Per
seus and Medusa. In prison, works like the Pieta were
his ambition, but when freedom came the Perseus was
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CELLINI

uppermost in his mind. Every great work of art is an
evolution — the man sees it first as a mere germ — it
grows, enlarges, evolves. The Perseus of Cellini was
a thought that took years to germinate. The bloody
nature of the man and his love of form united, and
the world has this wonderful work of art that stands
today exactly where its creator placed it, in the Loggia
de' Lanzia — that beautiful out-of-door hall on the
Piazza Signora at Florence. The naked man, wearing
his proud helmet, one foot on the writhing body of
the wretched woman, sword in right hand and in the
left the dripping head, is a terrible picture. Yet so
exquisite is the workmanship that our horror soon evap
orates into admiration, and we geize in wonder. Prob
ably the history of no great work of art has ever been
more painstakingly presented than the story of the
making of this statue by Cellini, Again and again he
was on the point of smashing the clay to chaos, but
each time his hand was stayed. Months passed, years
went by, and innumerable difficulties were in the way
of its completion. Finally he figured out a method to
cast it in bronze. And of its final casting no better
taste of the man's quality can be given than to let
him tell the story himself. Says Cellini:
1 felt convinced that when my Perseus was accom
plished, all my trials would be turned to high felicity
and glorious well-being.
Accordingly I strengthened my heart, and with all the
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forces of my body and my purse, employing what
little money still remained to me, 1 set to work. First
I provided myself with several loads of pine-wood
from the forests of Serristori, While these were on
their way, I clothed my Perseus with the clay which
I had prepared many months beforehand, in order
that it might be duly seeisoned. After making its clay
tunic (for that is the term used in this art) and prop
erly arming and fencing it with iron girders, I began
to draw the wax out by means of slow fire. This melted
and issued through numerous air- vents I had made;
for the more there are of these, the better will the
mold fill. When I had finished drawing off the wax,
I constructed a funnel-shaped furnace all round
the model of my Perseus. It was built of bricks, so
interlaced, the one above the other, that numerous
apertures were left for the fire to exhale at. Then 1
began to lay on wood by degrees, and kept it burning
two whole days and nights.
At length, when all the wax was gone and the mold
was well baked, I set to work at digging the pit in
which to sink it. This I performed with scrupulous
regard to all the rules of art. When I had finished
that part of my work, I raised the mold by wind
lasses and stout ropes to a perpendicular position,
and suspending it with greatest care one cubit above
the level of the furnace, so that it hung exactly above
the middle of the pit, I next lowered it gently down
into the very bottom of the furnace, and had it firmly
placed with every possible precaution for its safety.
When this delicate operation was accomplished, 1
began to bank it up with the earth I had excavated;
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and ever as the earth grew higher, I introduced its
proper air-vents, which were little tubes of earthen-
Ware, such as folks use for drains and such-like pur
poses. At length, 1 felt sure that it was admirably
fixed, and that the fiUing-in of the pit and the placing
of the air-vents had been properly performed. I also
could see that my work-people understood my method,
which differed very considerably from that of all other
masters in the trade. Feeling confident, then, that I
could rely upon them, I next turned to my furnace,
which I had filled with numerous pigs of copper and
other bronze stuff. The pieces were piled according
to the laws of art, that is to say, so resting one upon
another that the flames could play freely through
them, in order that the metal might heat and liquefy
the sooner. At last I called out heartily to set the
furnace going. The logs of pine were heaped in, and,
what with the unctuous resin of the wood and the
good draft I had given, my furnace worked so well
that I was obliged to rush from side to side to keep it
from going too fast. The labor was more than 1 could
stand; yet I forced myself to strain every nerve and
muscle. To increase my anxieties, the workshop took
fire, and we were afraid lest the roof should fall upon
our heads; while from the garden such a storm of
wind and rain kept blowing in, that it perceptibly
cooled the furnace.
Battling thus with all these untoward circumstances
for several hours, and exerting myself beyond even
the measure of my powerful constitution, I could at
last bear up no longer, and a sudden fever, of the
utmost possible intensity, attacked me. I felt absolutely 293

CELLINI

obliged to go and fling myself upon my bed. Sorely
against my will having to drag myself away from the
spot, I turned to my assistants, about ten or more
in all, what with master-founders, hand-workers,
country fellows, and my own special journeymen,
among whom was Bernardino Mannellini, my appren
tice through several years. To him in particular I spoke :
" Look, my dear Bernardino, that you observe the
rules which 1 have taught you; do your best with
all dispatch, for the metal will soon be fused. You
can not go wrong; these honest men will get the
channels ready; you will easily be able to drive back
the two plugs with this pair of iron crooks; and I
am sure that mold will fill miraculously. I feel more
ill that I ever did in all my life, and verily believe
that it will kill me before a few hours are over." Thus
with despair at heart, 1 left them, and betook myself
to bed 53 53
No sooner had I got to bed, than I ordered my serv
ing-maids to carry food and wine for all the men into
the workshop; at the same time I cried, " I shall not
be alive tomorrow! " They tried to encourage me.
arguing that my illness would pass over, since it
came from excessive fatigue. In this way I spent two
hours battling with the fever, which steadily increased.
and calling out continually, " I feel that 1 am dying."
^ My housekeeper, who was named Mona Fiore da
Castel del Rio, a very notable manager and no less
warmhearted, kept chiding me for my discourage
ment; but, on the other hand, she paid me every kind
attention which was possible. However, the sight of
my physical pain and moral dejection so affected her,
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that, in spite of that brave heart of hers, she could
not refrain from shedding tears; and yet, so far as
she was able, she took good care I should not see
them. While I was thus terribly afflicted, I beheld
the figure of a man enter my chamber, twisted in his
body into the form of a capital S. He raised a lamen
table, doleful voice, like one who announces his last
hour to men condemned to die upon the scaffold, and
spoke these words: " O Benvenuto! your statue is
spoiled, and there is no hope whatever of saving it! "
No sooner had I heard the shriek of that wretch than
I gave a howl which might have been heard in hell.
Jumping from my bed, I seized my clothes and began
to dress. The maids, and my lad, and every one who
came around to help me, got kicks or blows of the fist,
while I kept crying out in lEimentation : "Ah! traitors!
enviers! This is an act of treason, done by malice
prepense! But 1 swear by God that I will sift it to the
bottom, and before I die will leave such witness to
the world of what I can do as shall make a score of
mortals marvel."
When I got my clothes on, I strode with soul bent on
mischief toward the workshop; there I beheld the
men, whom I had left erewhile in such high spirits,
standing stupefied and downcast. I began at once and
spoke: " Up with you! Attend to me! Since you have
not been able or willing to obey the directions I gave
you, obey me now that I am with you to conduct my
work in person. Let no one contradict me, for in cases
like this we need the aid of hand and hearing, not of
advice." 53 33
When I had uttered these words, a certain Maestro 295

CELLINI

Alessandro broke silence and said, " Look you, Ben
venuto, you are going to attempt an enterprise which
the laws of art do not sanction, and which can not
succeed." I turned upon him with such fury that he
and all the rest of them exclaimed with one voice:
" Oh then! Give orders! We will obey your least com
mands, so long as life is left to us." I believe they
spoke thus feelingly because they thought I must fall
shortly dead upon the ground. I went immediately to
inspect the furnace, and found that the metal was all
curdled; an accident which we expressed by being
" caked." I told two of the hands to cross the road, and
fetch from the house of the butcher Capretta a load
of young oak-wood, which had lain dry for above a
year. So soon as the first armfuls arrived, I began to
fill the grate beneath the furnace. Now oak-wood of
that kind heats more powerfully than any other sort of
tree; and for this reason, where a slow fire is wanted,
as in the case of gun-foundry, alder or pine is pre
ferred. Accordingly, when the logs took fire, oh! how
the cake began to stir beneath that awful heat, to
glow and sparkle in a blaze! At the same time I kept
stirring up the channels, and sent men upon the roof to
stop the conflagration, which had gathered force from
the increased combustion in the furnace; also I caused
boards, carpets, and other hangings to be set up
against the garden, in order to protect us from the
violence of the rain.
When I had thus provided against these several dis
asters, I roared out first to one man and then to
another: " Bring this thing here! Take that thing
there! " At this crisis, when the whole gang saw the
296

CELLINI

cake was on the point of melting, they did my bidding,
each fellow working with the strength of three. I then
ordered half a pig of pewter to be brought, which
weighed about sixty pounds, and flung it into the
middle of the cake inside the furnace. By this means,
and by piling on wood and stirring now with pokers
and now with iron rods, the curdling mass rapidly
began to liquefy. Then, knowing I had brought the
dead to life again, against the firm opinion of those
ignoramuses, I felt such vigor fill my veins that all
those pains of fever, all those fears of death, were
quite forgotten.
All of a sudden an explosion took place, attended by
a tremendous flash of flame, as though a thunderbolt
had formed and been discharged amongst us. Unwonted
and appalling terror astonished every one, and me more
even than the rest. When the din was over and the
dEizzling light extinguished, we began to look each other
in the face. Then I discovered that the cap of the
furnace had blown up, and the bronze was bubbling
over from its source beneath. So I had the mouths
of my mold immediately opened, and at the same time
drove in the two plugs which kept back the molten
metal 33 33
But I noticed that it did not flow as rapidly as usual,
the reason being probably that the fierce heat of the
fire we kindled had consumed its base alloy. Accordingly
I sent for all my pewter platters, porringers and dishes,
to the number of some two hundred pieces, and had a
portion of them cast, one by one, into the channels, the
rest into the furnace. This expedient succeeded, and
every one could now perceive that my bronze was in
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CELLINI

most perfect liquefaction, and my mold was filling;
whereup>on they all with heartiness and happy cheer
assisted and obeyed my bidding, while 1 , now here, now
there, gave orders, helped with my own hands, and
cried aloud: "O God! Thou that by Thy immeasurable
power didst rise from the dead, and in Thy glory didst
ascend to heaven! " * * * even thus in a moment my
mold was filled; and seeing my work finished, I fell upon
my knees, and with all my heart gave thanks to God 33
After all was over, I turned to a plate of salad on a
bench there, and ate with hearty appetite, and drank
together with the whole crew. Afterwards I retired
to bed, healthy and happy, for it was now two hours
before morning, and slept as sweetly as though I had
never felt the touch of illness. My good housekeeper,
without my giving any orders, had prepared a fat
capon for my repast. So that, when I rose, about the
hour for breaking fast, she presented herself with a
smiling countenance, and said: " Oh! is that the man
who felt that he was dying? Upon my word, I think
the blows and kicks you dealt us last night, when you
were so enraged, and had that demon in your body as
it seemed, must have frightened away your mortal
fever! " 53 33
All my poor household, relieved in like measure from
anxiety and overwhelming labor, went at once to buy
earthen vessels in order to replace the pewter I had
cast away. Then we dined together joyfully; nay, I
can not remember a day in my whole life when I dined
with greater gladness or a better appetite.

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CELLINI

HOUGH forms may change, nothing dies 33
Everything is in circulation. Men, as well as
planets, have their orbits. Some have a wider
swing than others, but just wait and they will
come back. Not only do chickens come home to roost,
but so does everything else. The place of Cellini's birth
was also the place of his death. The limit of his stay in
one place, at one time, it seems, was about two years.
The man was a sort of human anachronism — he had in
his heart all the beauty and passion of the Renaissance,
and carried, too, the savagery and density of the Dark
Ages. That his skill as a designer and artificer in the
fine metals saved him from death again and again,
there is no doubt. Princes, cardinals, popes, dukes and
priests protected him simply because he could serve
them 33 He designed altars, caskets, bracelets, vases,
girdles, clasps, medals, rings, coins, buttons, seals — a
tiara for the Pope, a diadem for an Emperor 53 With
minute and exquisite things he was at his best. The
final proof that he was human and his name frailty
lies In the fact that he was a busybody.
As he worked he always knew what others about him
were doing. If they were poor workmen, he encour
aged them in a friendly way; if they were beyond him
and out of his class, like Michelangelo, he was sub
servient; but if they were on his plane he hated them
with a hatred that was passing speech.
There was usually art and a woman hopelessly mixed in
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CELLINI

his melees. In his migrations he swung between Florence,
Pisa, Mantua and Rome, and clear to France when
necessary. When he arrived in a town he would soon
become a favorite with other skilled workers. Naturally
he would be introduced to their lady friends. These
ladies were usually " complaisant," to use his own
phrase. Soon he would be on very good terms with
one or more of them; then would come jealousies;
he would tire of the lady, or she of him more probably;
then, if she took up with a goldsmith, Benvenuto would
hate the pair with a beautiful hatred. He would be sure
that they were plotting to undo him: he would listen to
their remarks, lie in wait for them, watch their actions,
quietly question their friends. Then suddenly some dark
night he would spring upon them from behind a corner
and cry, " You are all dead folk! " And sometimes they
were 53 53
Then Cellini would fly without leaving orders where
to forward his mail. Getting into another principality.
he was comparatively safe — the place he left was glad
to get rid of him, and the new princeling who had
taken him up was pleased to secure his skill. Under
the new environment, with all troubles behind, he
would begin a clean balance-sheet, full of zest and
animation 53 53
The human heart does not change. Every employing
printer, lithographer and newspaper-publisher knows
this erratic, brilliant, artistic and troublesome man.
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CELLINI

He does good service for just so long, then the envi
ronment begins to pall upon him: he grows restless,
suspicious, uncertain. He is looking for a chance to
bolt. Strong drink comes in to hasten the ruction.
There is a strike, a fight, an explosion, and our artistic
tramp finds himself on the sidewalk.
He goes away dEimning everybody. In two years, or
less, he comes back, penitent. Old scores are forgotten.
several of the enemy are dead, others have passed on
into circulation, and the artistic roustabout is given a
desk or a case.
Cellini's book is immensely Interesting for various
reasons, not the least of which is that he pictures.
indirectly, that restlessness and nostalgia which only
the grave can cure. And at the last our condemnation
is swallowed up in pity, and we can only think kindly
of one who was his own worst enemy, who succeeded
in a few things, and like the rest of us, failed in many.

301

ABBEY

As an illustrator. Abbey combined daintiness with a
fair measure of dramatic feeling for the pose. A modi
cum of old Benjamin West's tendency to the grandiose
would have done Abbey no harm; but if his imagina
tion balked at the higher flights often attained by
Gustave Dore, and sometimes by Elihu Vedder, yet
there is a charm in his sobriety, there is something
which compels our respect in the workmanlike method.
in the evidences of thoroughness which appeared in all
he wrought. Some of his Shakespeare figures linger in
the memory like that of lago as played by Edwin
Booth, or that of Rosalind as played by Modjeska.
— Charles de Kay

ABBEY

ABBEY

DWIN A. ABBEY was born in Phila
delphia (not of his own choosing) in
the year Eighteen Hundred Fifty-
two. His parents were blessed in
that they had neither poverty nor
riches. Their ambition for Edwin
was that he should enter one of the
so-called Learned Professions; but
this was not to the boy's taste. I fear me he was a
heretic through prenatal influences, for they do say that
he was a child of his mother. This mother's mind was
tinted with her Quaker associations until she doubted
the five points of Calvinism and had small faith in the
Thirty-nine Articles. She was able to think for herself
and act for herself; and as she perceived that the
preachers were making a guess, so she discovered that
doctors with bushy eyebrows, who wore dogskin gloves
in Summer and who coughed when you asked them a
question — gaining time to formulate a reply — did n't
know much more about measles, mumps, chicken-pox
and whooping-cough than she did herself. Philadelphia
has always had a plethora of Medical Journals and
dogmatic doctors. Living in Philadelphia and having
had a little experience with doctors, Mrs. Abbey let
them severely alone and prescribed the pediluvium,
hop-tea, sulphur and molasses and a roll-up In warm
305

ABBEY
blankets for everything — and with great success. Beyond
this she filled the day with work and kept everybody
else at work. The moral of Old Deacon Buffum,
" Blessed Is the man who has found some one to do his
work," had no place in her creed. To her, every one had
his work that no other could do, and every day had its
work which could not be done any other day, and success
and health and happiness lay in doing well whatever
you attempted. ^^
Having eliminated two of the Learned Professions from
her ambitions for her boy, the Law was left as the only
choice 53 53
To be a Philadelphia lawyer is a proud and vaulting
ambition. Philadelphia lawyers are exceedingly astute,
and are able to confuse the simplest propositions,
thus hopelessly befogging judge and jury. On the
banks of the Schuylkill all jurors are provided with
dice so as to decide the cases with perfect justice —
small dice for little cases and large dice for big ones.
Philadelphia lawyers carry green bags full of briefs.
remarkable for everything but brevity; also statutes,
recognizances, tenures, double-vouchers, fines, recov
eries, indentures, not to mention quiddities, quillets,
quirks and quips. Philadelphia lawyers have high
foreheads and many clients. Lawyers are educated
men. looked up to and respected by all — this was the
Abbey idea. Of course, it will be observed that it was
an idea that could be held by people only* who had
306

ABBEY
viewed lawyers from a safe distance. ^ Fortunately for
the Abbeys, they had really no more use for the lawyers
than they had for the two other Learned Professions.
Their idea of a lawyer was gained from seeing one pass
their house every morning at nine forty-five, for ten
years. He wore a high hat, and carried a gold-headed
cane in one hand and a green bag in the other 53 He
lived on Walnut Street, below Ninth in a three-story
house with white marble steps and white shutters, tied
with black strips of bombazine in token of the death
of a brother who passed out in infancy.
Edwin should be a lawyer, and be an honor to the
family name.
But alas! Edwin was small and had a low forehead
and squint eyes. He did n't care for books — all he
would do was draw pictures. Now, all children make
pictures — before they can read, they draw 53 And
before they can draw they get the family shears and
cut the pictures out of " Harper's Weekly." This boy
cut pictures out of " Harper's Weekly " when he wore
dresses, and when George William Curtis first filled the
Easy Chair. Edwin cut out the pictures, not because
they were especially bad, but because he, like all other
children, was an artist in the germ; and the artist
instinct is to detach the thing, lift it out, set it apart,
and then give it away.
All children draw pictures, I said, and this is true,
but most children can be cured of the habit by patience 307

ABBEY
and an occasional box on the ear, judiciously admin
istered. All children are sculptors, too; that is to say,
they want to make things out of mud or dough or
wax or putty; but no mother who sets her heart on
clean guimpes and pinafores can afford for a moment
to indulge in such Inclinations. To give children dough,
putty and the shears would keep your house in a pretty
litter — lawksadaisy !
Mrs. Abbey hid the shears, put the " Harper's " on a
high shelf and took the boy's pencils away, and threw
the putty out into Fourth Street, below Vine. Then
the boy had tantrums, and as a compromise got all his
playthings back.
Yes, this squat, beetle-browed, and bow-legged boy
had his way. Beetle-browed, bow-legged folks usually
do. Caesar and Cromwell had bow-legs, so had Napo
leon, and so have Pierpont Morgan and James J. Hill.
Charles the First was knock-kneed. Knock-knees are a
deformity; bow-legs an accident. Bulldogs have bow
legs; hounds are knock-kneed. Bow-legs mean will plus
— a determination to do — the child insists on walking
before the cartilage has turned to bone 53 Spirit is
stronger than matter — hence the Greek curve.
Little Edwin Abbey ran the Abbey household and drew
because he wanted to — on sidewalks, white steps,
kitchen-wall, or the fly-leaves in books.
Rumor has it that Edwin Abbey did not get along very
well at school — instead of getting his lessons he drew
308

ABBEY
pictures, and thirty years ago such conduct was proof
of total depravity. Like the amateur blacksmith who
started to make a horseshoe and finally contented
himself with a fizzle, the Abbeys gave up theology
and law, and decided that if Edwin became a good
printer it would be enough. And then, how often print
ers became writers — then editors and finally proprie
tors! Edwin might yet own the " Ledger " and have a
collection of four hundred seventy-two clocks.
Through a mutual friend, Mr. Childs was interviewed
and Edwin was set to work in the Typesetting Depart
ment of the " Ledger." Evenings and an hour three
times a week he sketched in the free class at the
Academy of Art.
How long he remained in the newspaper work, 1 do
not know, but there came a day when Mr. Childs and
his minions, having no use for Edwin, gave him a letter
of recommendation to the Art Department of "Harper's
Weekly." 53 53
That George W. Childs had a really firm friendship
for young Abbey, there is no doubt. He followed his
career with fatherly interest, and was the first man, so
far as I know, who had the prophetic vision to see
that he would become a great artist. George W. Childs
was a many-sided man. He had a clear head for business.
was a judge of human nature, a patron of the arts, a
collector of rare and curious things, and wrote with
clearness, force and elegance. Men of such strong
309

ABBEY
personality have decided likings, and they also have
decided aversions. The pet aversion of Childs was
tobacco. All through the " Ledger " office were startling
signs, " No smoking! " It was never, " Please do not
smoke," or " Smoking interferes with Insurance! " Not
these — the order was imperative. And the mutability
of human affairs, as well as life's little ironies, is now
shown in the fact that the name and fame of George W,
Childs is deathless through a wonderful five-cent cigar.
^ Whether the use of tobacco had anything to do with
young Abbey's breaking with his " Ledger " friends.
is a question. Tradition has it that Childs extracted
from the youth a promise, on his going away, that he
would never use the weed. The Union Square records
fail us at times, but it is believed that Abbey kept his
promise for fully three weeks.

310

ABBEY

DWIN ABBEY learned to swim by jumping
into deep water," says Henry James. A young
man in the Art Department of an absurdly
punctual periodical, before the Era of the
Halftone, just had to draw, and that was all there was
about it 53 53
Things were happening uptown, downtown, over in
Boston, and out as far as Buffalo — and the young men
in the Art Department were sent to make pictures. The
experience of a reporter develops facility — ^you have to
do the assignment. To write well and rapidly on any
subject, the position of reporter on an old-time daily
approached the ideal. Even the drone became ani
mated, when the copy must be in inside of two hours.
The way to learn to write is to write. But young men
will not write of their own free will; the literary first-
mate in way of a Managing Editor with a loaded club
of expletives is necessary. Or, stay! there is another
way to stimulate the ganglionic cells and become dex
terous in the cosmic p>otentiality — the Daily Theme
sent to a woman who thinks and feels. That is the
way that Goethe acquired his style. There were love-
letters that crossed each other daily, and after years
of this practise — the sparks a-flying — Goethe found
himself the greatest stylist of his day. Love taught him.
^ To write for a daily paper is a great drill, only you
must not keep at it too long or you will find yourself
bound to the wheel, a part of the roaring machinery. 311

ABBEY
^ Combine the daily paper with the daily love-letter
and you have the ideal condition for forming a literary
style; and should you drop out one, why, cleave to
the second, would be the advice of a theorist.
To draw pictures is simply one way of telling a story.
Abbey told the story, and there was soon evidence in
better work that he was telling it for Some One. Get a
complete file of " Harper's Weekly," say from Eighteen
Hundred Seventy-two to Eighteen Hundred Ninety,
and you can trace the Evolution of the Art of Edwin
Abbey. If any of the Abbey pictures have been removed,
the books are chiefly valuable as junk; but if the set
can be advertised, as I saw one yesterday, " with all
of Abbey's drawings, warranted intact," the set of
books commands a price. People are now wisely col
lecting " Harper's " simply because Abbey was once a
part of the Art Department 53 And the value of the
books will increase with the years, for they trace the
gradual but sure evolution of a great and lofty soul 53

312

ABBEY

j|DWIN ABBEY was nineteen years old when
he accepted a position — more properly, secured
a job — in the Art Department of Harper's.
The records of the office show his salary was
seven dollars a week — ^but it did not stay at that figure
always. The young man did not get along well at school,
and he was not a success as a printer ; but he could focus
his force at the end of a pencil, and he did. Transplanta
tion often turns a weed into a flower. It seems a hard
saying and a grievous one, but the salvation of many a
soul turns on getting away from one's own family. They
are wise parents that do not prove a handicap to their
children. The good old-fashioned idea was that parents
were wholly responsible for their children's coming
into the world, and that, therefore, they owned them
body and soul until they reached their majority — and
even then the restraint was little removed. " Well, and
what are you going to make of William? " and " To
whom are you going to marry Fanny? " were once
common questions. And all the while the fact remains
that the child is not God's gift to parents. Children are
only God-given tenants. Use them well if you would
have them remain with you as the joy of love and life
and Ught. Give the child love and then more love and
then love and freedom to live his God-given life. Then
all the precepts you would give him for his own good,
he will absorb from you and you need not say a word.
Trying to teach a child by telling him is worthless and
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ABBEY
puts you in a bad light. A child has not lost his heavenly
vision and sees you as you are, not minding what you
say 53 53
At Harper's Abbey came into competition with strong
men. In the office was a young fellow by the name of
Reinhart and another by the name of Alexander —
they used to call him Alexander the Great, and he has
nearly proved his title.
A little later came Howard Pyle, Joseph Pennel and
Alfred Parsons. Young Abbey did his work with much
good-cheer, and sought to place himself with the best.
For a time he drew just like Alexander, then like
Reinhart; next. Parsons was his mentor. Finally he
drifted out on a sea of his own, and this seems to
have been in the year of the Centennial Exhibition.
Harper's sent the young man over to Philadelphia, or
perhaps he went of his own accord ; anjrway , he haunted
the art-rooms at the ELxhibition, and got a lesson there
that spurred his genius as it had never been spurred
before 53 53
He was then twenty-four years old. His salary had
been increased to ten dollars a week, fifteen, twenty-
five: if he wanted money for " expenses " he applied
to the cashier. There is more good honest velvet in
an Expense-Account than in the Stock Exchange,
which true saying has nothing to do with Abbey 53
At the " Centennial " Abbey discovered the Arthurian
Legend — fell over it, just as William Morris fell over
314

ABBEY
the Icelandic Sagas when past fifty. Abbey had been
called the " Stage-Coachman " at Harper's, because
he had developed a faculty for picturing old taverns
at that exciting moment when horses were being
changed and the driver, in a bell-crowned white hat
and wonderful waistcoat, tosses his lines to a fellow
in tight hair-cut and still tighter breeches, and a
woman in big hoops gets out of the stage with many
bandboxes and a birdcage. The way Abbey breathed
into the scene the breath of life was wonderful — just
a touch of comedy, without caricature! "If it is in
Seventeen Hundred Seventy-six, give it to Abbey,"
said the Managing Editor, with a growl — for Managing
Editors, being beasts, always growl.
Abbey and Parsons had walked to Philadelphia and
back, taking two weeks for the trip, sketching on the
way stagecoaches, taverns, tall houses and old wooden
bridges, all pinned together — just these and nothing
else, save Independence Hall. Later, they went to
Boston and did Faneuil Hall, inside and out. King's
Chapel and the State House, and a house or two out
Quincyway, including the Adams cottage, where lived
two Presidents, and where now resides one William
Spear, the only honprary male member of the Daughters
of the Revolution, Mr, Spear dominates the artistic
bailiwick and performs antique antics for Art's sake: it
was Mr. Spear who posed as Tony Lumpkin for Mr.
Abbey 53 53 315

ABBEY
Abbey had done Washington Irving's Knickerbocker
tales and the various " Washington's Headquarters."
He worked exclusively in black and white — crayon,
pencil or pen and ink. His hand had taken on a style
— powdered wigs, spit-curls, hoops, flaring sunbonnets,
cocked hats and the tallyho! These were his properties.
He worked from model plus imagination. He had
exhausted the antique in America — he thirsted to
refresh his imagination in England, The Centennial
Exhibition had done its deadly work — Abbey and
Parsons were dissatisfied — they wanted to see more.
Back of the stagecoach times lay the days of the
castle. Back of the musket was the blunderbuss, and
back of these were the portcullis, the moat, the spear
and coats of mail.
A deluxe edition of " Herrick " was proposed by the
Publishing Department : some say the Art Department
made the suggestion. Anyway, there was a consultation
in the manager's office, and young Abbey was to go to
England to look up the scene and with his pencil bring
the past up to the present.
Abbey was going to England, that is just all there was
about it, and Harper and Brothers did not propose to
lose their hold upon him. Salary was waived, but
expenses were advanced, and the understanding was
that Abbey was Harper's man. This was in Eighteen
Hundred Seventy-eight, with Abbey's twenty-sixth
birthday yet to come. Abbey had gone around and
316

ABBEY
bidden everybody good-by, including his old-time
chum, Alfred Parsons. Parsons was going to the dock
to see him off.
" I wish you were going, too," said Edwin, huskily.
" 1 believe 1 will," said Alfred, swallowing hard. And
he did.
The Managing Editor growled furiously, but to no avail,
for the Cunarder that bore the boys was then well out
toward the Banks.

317

ABBEY

r was an American that discovered Stratford;
and it is the Peter's pence of American tour
ists that now largely support the town. At
Stratford, Washington Irving jostles the
Master for the first place, and when we drink at the
George W. Childs fountain we piously pour a libation
to all three.
Like all bookish and artistic Americans, when Abbey
and Parsons thought of England they thought of
Shakespeare's England — the England that Washington
Irving had made plain.
Washington Irving seemed very close to our young
men — London held them only a few days and then
they started for Stratford. They went afoot, as became
men who carried crayons that scorned the steam-
horse. They took the road for Oxford and stopped at
the tavern where the gossips aver that the author of
" Love's Labor's Lost " made love to the landlord's
wife — a thing I never would believe, e'en though I
knew 't were true. From Oxford the young men made
their way to storied Warwick, where the portcullis is
raised — or lowered, 1 do not remember which — every
evening at sundown to tap of drum. It Is the same old
Warwick Castle that Shakespeare knew; the same
cedars of Lebanon that he saw; the same screaming
peacocks; the same circling rooks and daws, and down
across the lazy Avon over the meadows the same sky
lark vibrates the happy air.
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ABBEY
Young Abbey saw these things, just as Washington
Irving saw them, and he saw them just as the boy
William Shakespeare saw them.
Nine miles from Warwick lies Stratford. But at Strat
ford the tourist is loosed; the picnicker is abroad; the
voice of the pedant is heard in the land, and the
Baconian is upon us. Abbey and Parsons stopped at
the Red Horse Inn and slept in the room that Wash
ington Irving occupied, and they do say now that Irving
occupied every room in the house. Stratford was not to
the liking of our friends. They wanted to be in the
Shakespeare country for six months, that was what the
Managing Editor said — six months, mind you. But
they did not want to study the tourist. They wanted to
be just a little off the beaten track of travel, away from
the screech of the locomotive, where they could listen
and hear the echoes of a tallyho horn, the crack of the
driver's whip, and the clatter of the coming stagecoach.
^ The village of Broadway is twelve miles from Strat
ford, and five miles from the nearest railway-station.
The worst thing about the place for a New-Yorker is
the Incongruity of the name.
In Broadway not a new house has been built for a
century, and several of the buildings date back four
hundred years. Abbey and Parsons found a house they
were told was built in Fifteen Hundred Sixty-three. The
place was furnished complete, done by those who had
been dust a hundred years. The rafters overhead were
319

ABBEY
studded with handmade nails, where used to hang the
flitches of bacon and bunches of dried herbs; the cooking
would have to be performed in the fireplace or in the
Dutch oven ; funny little cupboards were in the corners ;
and out behind the cottage stretched a God's half-acre
of the prettiest flower-garden ever seen, save the one at
Bordentown where lived Abbey's ladylove.
The rent was ten pounds a year. They jumped at it —
and would have taken It just the same had it been
twice as much.
An old woman who lived across the street was hired
as housekeeper, and straightway our artists threw down
their kits and said, like Lincoln, " We have moved." 53
The beauty and serene peace of middle England is
passing words. No wonder the young artists could not
paint for several weeks — they just drank It In.
Finally they settled down to work — ^Seventeenth-Cen
tury models were all around, and a look up the single
street would do for a picture. Parsons painted what he
saw ; Abbey painted what he saw plus what he imagined.
^ Six months went by, and the growls of the Managing
Editor back in New York were quieted with a few
sketches. Parsons had tried water-color with good
results; and Abbey followed with an Arthurian sketch
— a local swain as model.
Several pictures had been sent down to London —
which is up — and London approved. Abbey was elected
a member of " The Aquarellists." just as a little later
320

ABBEY
the Royal Academy was to open its doors, unsolicited,
for him 53 53
Two years had gone, and new arrangements must be
made with Harper's 53 Abbey retumed to America
with a trunkful of sketches — enough good stuff to
illustrate several " Herricks." He remained in New
York eight months, long enough to see the book safely
launched, and to close up his business affairs in Phila
delphia 53 53
And the Shakespeare country heis been his home ever
since 33 33
An artist's work is his life — ^where he can work best
is his home. Patriotism is n't quite so bad as old Ursa
Major said, but the word is not to be found in the
bright lexicon of Art. The artist knows no country.
His home is the world, and those who love the beautiful
are his brethren.
Abbey has remained In England, not that he loves
America less, nor England more, but because the
Shakespeare country has a flavor of antiquity about it
that fits his artistic mood — It is a good place to work 53
An artist's work is his life.
At " Morgan Hall," Fairford, only a few miles from
where Abbey first made his home in England, he now
lives and works. Near by lives Mary Anderson, excel
lent and gentle woman, wife and mother, who used to
storm the one-night stands most successfully. The
place is old, vine-clad, built in sections running over
321

ABBEY
a space of three hundred years. So lost is it amid the
great spreading beeches that you have to look twice
before you see the house from the road.
Happily married to a most worthy woman whose only
thought is to minister to her household, the days
pass. That Mrs. Abbey never doubts her liege is not
only the greatest artist, but the greatest man in all
England, is a most pleasing fact. She believes in him,
and she gives him peace. The Kansas Contingent may
question whether a woman's career is complete who
thus lives within her home, and for her household,
but to me the old-fashioned virtues seem very hard to
improve upon. Industry, truth, trust and abiding loy
alty — ^what a bulwark of defense for a man who has a
message for the world!
There is a goodly brood of little Abbeys — I dare not
say how many. I believe it was nine a year ago, with
an addition since. They run wild and free along the
hedgerows and under the beeches, and if it rains there
are the stables, kennels and the finest attic that ever
was 53 53
Back of the house and attached to it Mr. Abbey has
built a studio forty feet wide by seventy-five long, and
twenty feet high. It is more than a studio — ^it is a
royal workshop such as Michelangelo might have used for
equestrian statues, or cartoons to decorate a palace for
the Pope. Dozens of pictures, large and small, are upon
the easels. Arms, armor, furniture, are all about, while
322

ABBEY
on the shelves are vases and old china enough to fill the
heart of a collector to surfeit. In chests and wardrobes
are velvets, brocades and antique stuffs and costumes,
all labeled, numbered and catalogued, so as to be had
when wanted.
This studio was built especially to accommodate the
paintings for the Boston Public Library. The commis
sion was given in Eighteen Hundred Ninety, and the
last of the decorations has just been put in place, in this
year of grace. Nineteen Hundred One. Abbey's paint
ings in the Boston Public Library cover in all some
thing over a thousand square feet of space, and form
quite the noblest specimen of mural decoration in
America 53 53
Orders were given to John S. Sargent and Puvis de
Chavannes at the same time that contracts were closed
with Abbey. Chavannes was the first man to get his
staging up and the first to get it down. He died two
years ago, so it is hardly meet to draw a moral about
the excellence of doing things with neatness and dis
patch. Sargent's " Prophets " cover scarcely one-tenth
of the space assigned him, and the rest is bare white
walls, patiently awaiting his brush. Recently he was
asked when he would complete the task, and he replied,
" Never, unless 1 learn to paint better than I do
now — Abbey has discouraged me! "
I need not attempt to describe Abbey's work in the
Boston Library — a full account of it can be found in
323

ABBEY
the first magazine you pick up. But it is a significant
fact that Abbey himself is not wholly pleased with it,
" Give me a little time," he says, " and I '11 do some
thing worth while,"
These words were spoken half in jest, but there is no
doubt that the artist, now in the fulness of his powers,
in perfect health, in love with life, sees before him
work to do of such vast worth that all that lies behind
seems but a preparation for that which is yet to come.

324

ABBEY

HE question is sometimes asked. " What
becomes of all the Valedictorians and Class-
Day Poets? " I can give information as to
two parties for whom inquiry is made: the
Valedictorian of my Class is now a worthy Floor
walker in Siegel, Cooper and Company's ; and 1 was the
Class-Day Poet, Both of us had our eyes on the Goal.
We stood on the threshold and looked out upon the
World preparatory to going forth, seizing it by the tail
and snapping its head off for our own delectation.
We had our eyes fixed on the Goal — it might better
have been the Gaol.
It was a very absurd thing for us to fix our eyes on the
Goal. It strained our vision and took our attention from
our work.
To think of the Goal Is to travel the distance over and
over in your mind and dwell on how awfully far off it
is. We have so little mind — doing business on such" a
small capital of intellect — that to wear it threadbare
looking for a far-off thing is to get hopelessly stranded
in Siegel, Cooper and Company's.
Siegel, Cooper and Company's is all right, too, but the
point is this — it was n't the Goal!
A goodly dash of indifference is a requisite in the for
mula for doing a great work.
Nobody knows what the Goal is — we are sailing under
sealed orders. Do your work today, doing it the best
you can, and live one day at a time. The man that
325

ABBEY
does this is conserving his God-given energy, and not
spinning it out into tenuous spider-threads that Fate
will probably brush away.
To do your work well today is the surest preparation
for something better tomorrow — the past is gone, the
future we can not reach, the present only is ours.
Each day's work is a preparation for the next.
Live in the present — the Day is here, the time is Now.
^ Edwin A. Abbey seems to be the perfect type of man.
who by doing all his work well, with no vaulting
ambitions, has placed himself right in the line of evo
lution. He is evolving into something better, stronger
and nobler all the time. That is the only thing worth
praying for — to be in the line of evolution.

326

WHISTLER

Art happens — no hovel is safe from it, no Prince may
depend upon it, the vastest intelligence can not bring
it about, and puny efforts to make it universal end in
quaint comedy, and coarse farce.
— The "Ten-o'Clock" Lecture

WHISTLER

HE Eternal Paradox of Things Is
revealed in the fact that the men
who have toiled most for peace,
beauty and harmony have usually
lived out their days in discord, and
in several instances died a male
factor's death. Just how much dis
cord is required in God's formula
for a successful life, no one knows, but it must have a
use, for it is always there.
Seen from a distance, out of the range of the wordy
shrapnel, the literary scrimmage is amusing. " Gulliver's
Travels " made many a heart ache, but it only gladdens
ours. Pope's " Dunciad " sent shivers of fear down the
spine of all artistic England, but we read it for the
rhyme, and insomnia, Byron's " English Bards and
Scotch Reviewers " gave back to the critics what they
had given out — to their great surprise and indignation,
and our amusement, Keats died from the stab of a pen,
they say, and whether 't was true or not we know that
now a suit of Cheviot is sufficient shield, " We love him
for the enemies he has made " — to have friends is a great
gain, but to achieve an enemy is distinction,
Ruskin's " Modern Painters " is a reply to the con
tumely that sought to smother Turner under an ava
lanche of abuse; but since the enemy inspired it, and
329

WHISTLER

it made the name and fame of both Ruskin and Turner,
why should they not hunt out the rogues in Elysium
and purchase ambrosia?
Whistler's " The Gentle Art of Making Enemies " is a
bit of sharpshooter sniping at the man who was brave
enough to come to the rescue of Turner, and who
afterward proved his humanity by adopting the tactics
of the enemy, working the literary stinkpot to repel
impressionistic boarders.
No friend could have done for Whistler what Ruskin
did. Before Ruskin threw an ink-bottle at him, as
Martin Luther did at the Devil, he was one of several ;
after the bout he was as one set apart.
When we think of Whistler, if we listen closely we
can hear the echo of shrill calls of recrimination.
muffled reveilles of alarm — ^pamphlet answering unto
pamphlet across seas of misunderstanding — vitupera
tions manifold, and recurring themes of rabid ribaldry
— all forming a lurid Symphony in Red.

330

WHISTLER

OHN DAVIDSON has dedicated a book to
his enemy, thus:
" Unwilling Friend, let not thy spite abate:
help me with scorn, and strengthen me
with hate." 53 53
The general tendency to berate the man of superior
talent would seem to indicate, as before suggested, that
disparagement has some sort of compensation in it.
Possibly it is the govemor that keeps things from going
too fast — the opposition of forces that holds the balance
true. But almost everything can be overdone; and the
fact remains that without encouragement and faith
from without, the stoutest heart will in time grow faint
and doubt itself. It hears the yelping of the pack, and
there creeps in the question, " What if they are right? "
Then come the longing and the necessity for the word
of praise, the clasp of a kindly hand, and the look that
reassures 53 53
Occasionally the undisceming make remarks, slightly
tinged with muriatic acid, concerning the ancient
and honorable cult known as the Mutual Admiration
Society. My firm belief is. that no man ever did or
can do a great work alone — he must be backed up by
the Mutual Admiration Society. It may be a very
small Society — in truth, 1 have known Chapters where
there were only two members, but there was such trust.
such faith, such a mutual uplift, that an atmosphere
was formed wherein great work was done. 331

WHISTLER

In Galilee even the Son of God could do no great work,
on account of the unbelief of the people, " Fellowship is
heaven and lack of fellowship is hell," said William
Morris. And he had known both.
Some One must believe in you. And through touching
finger-tips with this Some One, we may get in the
circuit, and thus reach out to all, Self-Reliance is
very excellent, but as for independence, there is no
such thing. We are a part of the great Universal Life;
and as one must win approval from himself, so he
must receive corroboration from others: having this
approval from the Elect Few, the opinions of the many
matter little.
How little we know of the aspirations that wither
unexpressed, and of the hopes that perish for want of
the right word spoken at the right time! Out in the
orchard, as I write, 1 see thousands and thousands of
beautiful blossoms that will never become fruit for lack
of vitalization — they die because they are alone.
Thoughts materialize into deeds only when Some One
vitalizes by approval. Every good thing is loved into life,
^ Great men have ever come in groups, and the Mutual
Admiration Society always figures largely. To enu
merate instances would be to inflict good folks with
triteness and truism, I do not wish to rob my reader
of his rights — think it out for yourself, beginning with
Concord and Cambridge, working backward adown
the centuries, 332

WHISTLER

HERE are two Whistlers, One tender as a
woman, sensitive as a child — thirsting for
love, friendship and appreciation — a dreamer
of dreams, seeing visions and mounting to the
heavens on the wings of his soaring fancy. This is the
real Whistler. And there has always been a small
Mutual Admiration Society that has appreciated,
applauded and loved this Whistler; to them he has
always been " Jimmy."
The other Whistler is the jaunty little man in the
funny, straight-brimmed high hat — cousin to the hat
John D. Long wore for twenty years. This man in the
long black coat, carrying a bamboo wand, who adjusts
his monocle and throws off an epigram, who confounds
the critics, befogs the lawyers, affronts millionaires
from Colorado, and plays pitch and toss with words,
is the Whistler known to newspaperdom. And Grub
Street calls him " Jimmy," too, but the voice of Grub
Street is guttural and in it Is no tender cadence — it is
tone that tells, not the mere word : I have been addressed
with an endearing phrase when the words stabbed 53
Grub Street sees only the one man and goes straight
way after him with a snickersnee. To use the language
of Judge Gaynor, " This artistic Jacques of the second
part protects the great and tender soul of the party of
the first part."
That is it — his name is Jacques: Whistler Is a fool.
The fools were the wisest men at court. Shakespeare, 333

WHISTLER

who dearly loved a fool, belonging to the breed him
self, placed his wisest sayings into the mouths of men
who wore the motley. When he adorned a man with
cap and bells, it was as though he had given bonds for
both that man's humanity and intelligence.
Neither Shakespeare nor any other writer of good books
ever dared depart so violently from truth as to picture
a fool whose heart was filled with pretense and perfidy.
The fool is not malicious. Stupid people may think
he is. because his language is charged with the light
ning's flash; but these be the people who do not know
the difference between an incubator and an eggplant.
^ Touchstone, with unfailing loyalty, follows his master
with quip and quirk into exile. When all, even his
daughters, had forsaken King Lear, the fool bares him
self to the storm and covers the shaking old man with
his own cloak; and when in our day we meet the avatars
of Trinculo, Costard, Mercutio and Jacques, we find
they are men of tender susceptibilities, generous hearts
and lavish souls.
Whistler shakes his cap, flourishes his bauble, tosses
that fine head, and with tongue in cheek, asks questions
and propounds conundrums that pedantry can never
answer. Hence the ink-bottle, with its mark on the walls
at Eisenach, and at Coniston.

334

WHISTLER

VERY man of worth is two men — sometimes
many. In fact, Doctor George Vincent, the
psychologist, says, " We never treat two per
sons in exactly the same manner." If this is
so. and I suspect it is, the person we are with dictates
our mental process and thus controls our manners — he
calls out the man he wishes to see. Certain sides of our
nature are revealed only to certain persons. And 1 can
understand, too, how there can be a Holy of Holies,
closed and barred forever against all except the One.
And in the absence of this One, I can also understand
how the person can go through life, and father, mother,
brothers, sisters, friends and companions never guess
the latent excellence that lies concealed. We defend
and protect this Holy of Holies from the vulgar gaze.
^ There are two ways to guard and keep alive the
sacred fires; one is to flee to convent, monastery or
mountain and there live alone with God; the other is
to mix and mingle with men and wear a coat of mail in
way of manner.
Women whose hearts are well-nigh bursting with grief
will often be the gayest of the gay; men whose souls are
corroding with care — ^weighted down with sorrow too
great for speech — are often those who set the table in
a roar 53 53
The assumed manner, continued, evolves Into a pose.
Pose means position, and the pose is usually a position
of defense. All great people are poseurs. 335

WHISTLER

Men pose so as to keep the mob back while they can
do their work. Without the pose, the garden of a p>oet's
fancy would look like McKinley's front yard at Canton
in the fall of Ninety-six. That is to say, without the
pose the poet would have no garden, no fancy, no
nothing — and there would be no poet. Yet I am quite
willing to admit that a man might assume a pose and
yet have nothing to protect; but I stoutly maintain
that pose in such a one is transparent to every one
as the poles that support a scarecrow, simply because
the pose never becomes habitual.
With the great man pose becomes a habit — ^and then
it is not a pose. When a man lies and admits he lies.
he tells the truth.
Whistler has been called the greatest poseur of his day;
and yet he is the most sincere and truthful of men —
the very antithesis of hypocrisy and sham. No man
ever hated pretense more.
Whistler is an artist, and the soul of the man is revealed
in his work — not in his hat, nor yet his bamboo cane,
nor his long black coat, much less the language which
he uses, Talleyrand-like, to conceal his thought. Art has
been his wife, his children and his religion. Art has
said to him, " Thou shalt have no other gods before
me," and he has obeyed the mandate.
That picture of his mother in the Luxembourg is the
most serious thing in the whole collection — so gentle,
so modest, so appealing, so charged with tenderness.
336

WHISTLER

It is cleissed by the most competent critics of today
along with the greatest works of the old meisters. We
find upon the official roster of the fine arts of France
this tribute opposite the name of Whistler, " Portrait of
the mother of the author, a mEisterpiece destined for the
eternal admiration of future generations, combining
in its tone-power and magnificence the qualities of a
Rembrandt, a Titian, a Velasquez." The picture does
not challenge you — ^you have to hunt it out, and you
have to bring something to it, else 't will not reveal
itself. There is no decrepitude in the woman's face
and form, but someway you read into the picture the
story of a great and tender love and a long life of use
ful effort. And now as the evening shadows gather,
about to fade off into gloom, the old mother sits there
alone, poised, serene: husband gone, children gone —
her work is done. Twilight comes. She thinks of the
past in gratitude, and gazes wistfully out into the
future, unafraid. It is the tribute that every well-born
son would like to pay to the mother who loved him
into being, whose body nourished him, whose loving
arms sustained him, whose unfaltering faith and
appreciation encouraged him to do and to become. She
was his wisest critic, his best friend — his mother! 53

337

WHISTLER

HE father of Whistler the artist. Major
George Washington Whistler, weis a graduate
of West Point, and a member of the United
States Corps of Engineers. He weis an active,
practical and useful man — a skilful draftsman and
mathematician, and a man of affairs who could under
take a difficult task and carry it through to completion.
^ Such men are always needed, in the army and out of
it. Responsibility gravitates to the mem who can
shoulder it. Such men as Major Whistler are not tied
to a post — they go where they are needed.
When George Weishington Whistler weis a cadet at
West Point, there came to visit the place Doctor Swift
and his beautiful young daughter, Mary. She took the
Military School by storm; at least, she held captive the
hearts of all the young men there — so they said. And
in very truth the heart of one young man weis prisoner,
for Major Whistler married Miss Swift soon after.
To them were bom Deborah, the Major's only daughter,
who married Doctor Ses^nour Hayden of London, a
famous surgeon and still more feimous etcher: George,
who became an engineer and railway manager; emd two
years later, Joseph.
And when Joe was two years old, this beautiful wife,
aged twenty-three, peissed away, emd young Major
Whistler and his three babies were left alone.
At West Point Whistler had a friend neuned McNeill,
son of Doctor C. D. McNeill, of Wilmington, North
338

WHISTLER

Carolina — a classmate — with whom he had been closely
associated since graduation. McNeill had a sister, Anna
Matilda, a great soul, serious and strong. At length
Whistler took his motherless brood — including him
self — to her and she accepted them all. 1 bow my
head to the stepmother who loves into manhood and
womanhood children whom another has loved into
life. She must have a great heart already expanded
by love to do this. Naturally the mother-love grows
with the child — that is what children are for. to enlarge
the souls of the parents. But at the beginning of
womanhood, Anna Matilda McNeill was great enough
to enfold in her heart and arms the children of the man
she loved and make them hers.
In the year Eighteen Hundred Thirty-four, Major
Whistler and his wife were living in Lowell, Massa
chusetts, where the Major was superintending the con
struction of the first of those wonderful waterways that
tirelessly turn ten thousand spindles.
And Fate would have it so, that here at Lowell, in a
little house on Worthing Street, was bom the first of
the five sons of Major Whistler and his wife, Anna
Matilda. And they called the name of the child James
Abbott McNeill Whistler — an awful big name for a
very small baby.
About the time this peevish little pigmy was put into
short dresses, his father resigned his position in the
United States Army to accept a like position with the
339

WHISTLER

Czar of Russia. The first railroad constructed in Russia,
from Moscow to Saint Petersburg, was built under
the sup)erintendence of Major Whistler, who also
designed various bridges, viaducts, tunnels and other
engineering feats for Adam Zad, who walks like a man,
and who paid him princely sums for his services.
Americans not only fill the teeth of royalty, but we
furnish the Old World machinery, ideas and men.
For every twenty-five thousand men they supply us,
we send them back one, and the one we send them is
worth more than the twenty-five thousand they send
us. Schenectady is today furnishing the engines and
supplying engineers to teach engineers for the trans
continental Siberian railway. When you take " The
Flying Scotchman " from London to Edinburgh you
ride in a Pullman car, with all the appurtenances, even
to a Gould coupler, a Westinghouse air-brake, and a
dusky George from North Carolina, who will hit you
three times with the butt of a brush-broom and expect
a bob as recompense. You feel quite at home.
Then when you see that the Metropolitan Railway of
London is managed by a man from Chicago, and that
all trains of " the underground " are being equipped with
the Edison incandescent light; and you note further
that a New York man has morganized the transatlantic
steamship-lines, you agree with William T. Stead that,
"America may be raw and crude, but she is producing a
race of men — men of power, who can think and act." 53
340

WHISTLER

Coupled with the Englishman's remarkable book, " The
Americanization of the World." there is an art criticism
by Bernard Shaw, who comes from a race that will not
pay rent, strangely enough living in London, content,
with no political aspirations, who says, " The three
greatest painters of the time are of American parentage
— Abbey, Sargent and Whistler; and of these. Whistler
has had greater influence on the artists of today than
any other man of his time."
But let us swing back and take a look at the Whistlers
in Russia. Little Jimmy never had a childhood: the
nearest he came to it was when his parents camped
one Summer with the " construction gang." That
Summer with the workers and toilers, among the
horses, living out of doors — eating at the campfire
and sleeping under the sky — ^was the boy's one glimpse
of paradise. " My ambition then was to be the foreman
of a construction gang — and it is yet," said the artist
in describing that brief, happy time to a friend.
The child of well-to-do parents, but homeless, living
in hotels and boarding-houses, is awfully handicapped.
Children are only little animals, and travel is their bane
and scourge. They belong on the ground, among the
leaves and flowers and tall grass — in the trees or digging
in sand piles. Hotel hallways, table-d'hote dinners and
the clash of travel, are all terrible perversions of Nature's
intent 53 53
Yet the boy survived — eager, nervous, energetic. He
341

WHISTLER

acquired the Russian language, of course, and then
he learned to speak French, as all good Russians must.
" He speaks French like a Russ," is the highest com
pliment a Parisian can pay you.
The boy's mother was his tutor, companion, playmate.
They read together, drew pictures together, and played
the piano, four hands.
Honors came to the hard-working engineer — decora
tions, ribbons, medals, money — and more work. The
poor man was worked to death. The Czar paid every
honor to the living and dead that royalty can give.
When the family left Saint Petersburg with the body of
their loved one. His Imperial Majesty ordered his pri
vate carriage to be placed at their disposal. And honors
awaited the dead here. A monument in the cemetery at
Stonington, Connecticut, erected by the Society of
American Engineers, marks the spot where he sleeps.
The stricken mother was back in America, and James
was duly entered at West Point. The mother's ideal
was her husband — in his life she had lived and moved —
and that James should do what he had done, become
the manly man that he had become, was her highest
wish 53 53
The boy was already an acceptable draftsman, and
under the tutelage of Professor Robert Weir he made
progress. West Point does not teach such a soft and
feminine thing as picture-painting — it draws plans of
redoubts and fortifications, makes maps, and figures
342

WHISTLER

on the desirability of tunnels, p>ontoons and hidden
mines 53 Robert Weir taught all these things, and on
Saturdays painted pictures for his own amusement. In
the rotunda of the Capitol at Washington is a taste of
his quality — the large panel entitled, " The Departure
of the Pilgrims."
Tradition has it that young Whistler assisted his teacher
on this work.
Weir succeeded in getting his pupil heartily sick of
the idea of grim-visaged war as a business. He hated
the thought of doing things on order, especially killing
men when told. " The soldier's profession is only one
remove from the business of Jack Ketch, who hangs
men and then salves his conscience with the plea that
some one told him to do it," said Whistler. If he
remained at West Point he would become an army officer
and Uncle Sam or the Czar would own him and order
him to do things.
Weir declared he was absurd, but the Post Surgeon
said he was nervous and needed a change. In truth.
West Point disliked Jimmy as much as he disliked
West Point, and he was recommended for discharge.
Mother and son sailed away for London, intending to
come back in time for the next term.
The young man took one souvenir from West Point
that was to stand by him. In a sham battle, during a
charge, his horse went down, and the cavalcade behind
went right over horse and rider. When picked up and
343

WHISTLER

carried out of the scrimmage, Cadet Whistler was
unconscious, and the doctors said his skull was fractured.
However, his whipcord vitality showed itself in a quick
recovery; but a white lock of hair soon appeared to
mark the injured spot, to be a badge of distinction and
a delight to the caricaturist forever. In London the
mother and son found lodgings out towards Chelsea,
No doubt the literary traditions attracted them. Only
a few squares away lived Rossetti, with a wonderful
collection of blue china, giving lessons in painting. There
were weekly receptions at his house, where came Burne-
Jones, William Morris, Madox Brown and many other
excellent people. Down a narrow street near by, lived
a grumpy Scotchman, by the neime of Carlyle, whose
portrait Whistler was later to paint, and although
Carlyle had no use for Rossetti, yet Mrs. Whistler and
her boy liked them both. It came time to return to
America if the young man was to graduate at West
Point. But they decided to go over to Paris so James
could study art for a few months.
They never came back to America.

344

WHISTLER

HISTLER, the coxcomb, had Ruskin haled
before the tribunal and demanded a thousand
pounds as salve for his injured feelings because
the author of " Stones of Venice " was color
blind, lacking in imagination, and possessed of a small
magazine wherein he briskly told of men, women and
things he did not especially admire.
The case was tried, and the jury decided for Whistler,
giving him one farthing damages. But this was success —
it threw the costs on Ruskin, and called the attention
of the world to the absurdity of condemning things that
are, at the last, a mere matter of individual taste.
Whistler was once asked by a fellow artist to criticize
a wondrous chromatic combination that the man had
thrown off in an idle hour. Jimmy adjusted his monocle
and gEized long. "And what do you think of it? " asked
the painter standing by. " Oh, just a little more green,
a little more green [pause and slight cough] but that
is your affair."
Whistler painted the " Nocturne," and that was his
affair. If Ruskin did not think it beautiful, that was
his affair; but when Ruskin went one step further and
accused the painter of trying to hoodwink the world
for a matter of guineas, attacking the man's motives,
he exceeded the legitimate limits of criticism, and his
public rebuke was deserved. In matter of strictest
justice, however, it may be as well to say that Whistler
was quite as blind to the beauty of Ruskin's efforts for
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WHISTLER

the betterment of humanity as Ruskin was to the excel
lence of Whistler's pictures. And if Ruskin had been in
the humor for litigation he might have sued Whistler
and got a shilling damages because Whistler once
averred: " The Society of Saint George is a scheme for
badgering the unfortunate, and should be put down by
the police. God knows the poor suffer enough without
being patronized! "
Mr. Whistler was once summoned as a witness in a
certain suit where the purchaser of a picture had refused
to pay for it. The cross-examination ran something like
this:" You are a painter of pictures? "
" Yes."
" And know the value of pictures? "
"Oh, no!"
" At least you have your own ideas about values? "
" Certainly!"
" And you recommended the defendant to buy this
picture for two hundred pounds? "
" I did."
" Mr. Whistler, it is reported that you received a
goodly sum for this recommendation — is there anything
in that? "
" Oh, nothing, I assure you [yawning] — nothing but
the indelicacy of the suggestion."
The critics found much joy, several years ago, in tracing
out the fact that Whistler spent a year at Madrid
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WHISTLER

copying Velasquez. That he, like Sargent, has been
benefited and inspired by the sublime art of the Span
iard there is no doubt, but there is nothing in the
charge that he is an imitator of Velasquez, save the
indelicacy of the suggestion.
It was a comparison of Velasquez and Whistler, and a
warm assurance that his name would live with that of
the great Spaniard, that led Whistler to launch that
little question, now a classic, " Why drag in Velasquez ? "
^ The great lesson that Whistler has taught the world
is to observe; and this he got from the Japanese.
Lafcadio Hearn has said that the average citizen of
Japan detects tints and shades that are absolutely
unseen by Western eyes. Livingston found tribes in
Africa that had never seen pictures of any kind, and
he had great difficulty in making them perceive that
the figure of a man, drawn on a piece of paper a foot
square, really was designed for a man,
" Man big — ^paper little — no good! " was the criticism
of a chief. The chief wanted to hear the voice of the
man before he would believe it was meant for a man.
This savage chief was a great person, no doubt, in
his own bailiwick, but he lacked imagination to bridge
the gap between a real man and the repeated strokes
of a pencil on a bit of paper.
The Japanese — any Japanese — would have been de
lighted by Whistler's " Nocturne." Ruskin was n't.
He had never seen the night, and therefore he declared 347

WHISTLER

that Whistler had " flung a pot of paint in the face of
the public."
That men should dogmatize concerning things where
the senses alone supply the evidence, is only another
proof of man's limitations. We live in a peewee world
which our senses create and declare that outside of
what we see, smell, taste and hear there is nothing 53
It is twenty-five thousand miles around the earth —
stellar space is not computable ; and man can walk in
a day about thirty miles. Above the ground he can
jump about four feet. In a city his unaided ear can
hear his friend call about two hundred feet. As for
smell, he really has almost lost the sense; and taste,
through the use of stimulants and condiments, has
likewise nearly gone. Man can see and recognize another
man a quarter of a mile away, but at the same distance
is practically color-blind.
Yet we were all quite willing to set ourselves up as
standards until science came with spectroscope, tele
phone, microscope and Roentgen ray to force upon us
the fact that we are tiny, undeveloped and insignificant
creatures, with sense quite unreliable and totally unfit
for final decisions.
Whistler sees more than other men. He has taught us
to observe, and he has taught the art world to select.
*! Oratory does not consist in telling it all — you select
the truth you wish to drive home; in literature, in
order to make your point, you must leave things out;
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WHISTLER

and in painting you must omit. Selection is the vital
thing 53 53
The Japanese see one single lily-stalk swaying in the
breeze and the hazy, luminous gray of the atmosphere
in which it is bathed — ^just these two things. They
give us these, and we are amazed and delighted.
Whistler has given us the night — not the black, inky,
meaningless void which has always stood for evil: not
the darkness, the mere absence of light, the prophet
had in mind when he said, "And there shall be no night
there " — not that. The prophet thought the night was
objectionable, but we know that the continual glare of
the sun would quickly destroy all animal or vegetable
life. In fact, without the night there would be no animal
or vegetable life, and no prophet would have existed to
suggest the abolition of night as a betterment. In the
night there are flowers that shed their finest perfume,
lifting up their hearts in gladness, and all nature is
renewed for the work of the coming day. We need the
night for rest, for dreams, for forgetfulness. Whistler
saw the night — this great, transparent, dark-blue fold
that tucks us in for one-half our time. The jaded, the
weary and the heavy-laden at last find peace — the day
is done, the grateful night is here.
Turner said you could not paint a picture and leave
man out. Whistler very seldom leaves man out, although
1 believe there is one " Nocturne " wherein only the
stars and the faint rim of the silver moon keep guard.
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WHISTLER

But usually we see the dim suggestion of the bridge's
arch, the ghostly steeples, lights lost in the enfolding fog,
vague purple barges on the river, and ships rocking
solemnly in the offing — all strangely mellow with peace,
and subtle thoughts of stillness, rest, dreams and sleep.

350

WHISTLER

HE critics have all shied their missiles at
Whistler, and he has gathered up the most
curious and placed them on exhibition in a
catalog entitled, " Etching and Dry Points."
This docvunent gives a list of fifty-one of his best-known
productions, and beneath each item is a testimonial or
two from certain worthies who thought the thing rubbish
and said so.
If you want to see a copy of the catalog you can
examine it in the " treasure-room " of most any of the
big public libraries; or should you wish to own one, a
chance collector in need of funds might be willing to
disengage himself from a copy for some such trifle as
twenty-five dollars or so.
Whistler's book, " The Gentle Art," contains just one
good thing, although the touch of genius is revealed
in the title, which is as follows: " The Gentle Art of
Making Enemies, as pleasingly exemplified in many
instances wherein the serious ones of this earth,k:care-
fuUy exasperated, have been prettily spurred on to
unseemliness and indiscretion, while overcome by an
undue sense of right."
The dedication runs thus: " To the rare Few who early
in life have rid themselves of the Friendship of the
Many, these pathetic papers are inscribed."
The one excellent thing in the book is the " Ten
o'clock " lecture. It is a classic, revealing such a dis
tinct literary style that one is quite sure its author
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WHISTLER

could have evolved sjonphonies in words, as well as color,
had he chosen. However, this lecture is a sequence.
leaping hot from the heart, and would not have been
written had the author not been " carefully exasperated
and prettily spurred on, while overcome by an undue
sense of right," Let us all give thanks to the enemy who
exasperated him. There is a great temptation to pro
duce the lecture entire, but this would be to invite a
lawsuit, so we will have to be content with a few
scrapings from the palette:
Listen ! There never was an artistic period.
There never was an Art-Loving Nation.
In the beginning, men went forth each day — ^some to
do battle, some to the chase; others, again, to dig and
to delve in the field — all that they might gain and
live, or lose and die. Until there was found among
them one, differing from the rest, whose pursuits
attracted him not, and so he stayed by the tents with
the women, and traced strange devices with a burnt
stick upon a gourd.
This man, who took no joy in the way of his brethren
— who cared not for conquest, and fretted in the field
— this designer of quaint patterns — this deviser of the
beautiful — who perceived in Nature about him curious
curvings, as faces are seen in the fire — this dreamer
apart was the first artist.
And when, from the field and afar, there came back the
people, they took the gourd — and drank from out of it,
^ And presently there came to this man another — and,
in time, others — of like nature, chosen by the gods —
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WHISTLER

and so they worked together; and soon they fashioned.
from the moistened earth, forms resembling the gourd.
And with the power of creation, the heirloom of the
artist, presently they went beyond the slovenly sug
gestion of Nature, and the first vase was born, in
beautiful proportion.
And the Amateur was unknown — and the Dilettante
undreamed of.
And history wrote on, and conquest accompanied
civilization, and Art spread, or rather its products
were carried by the victors among the vanquished
from one country to another. And the customs of cul
tivation covered the face of the earth, so that all peoples
continued to use what the artist alone produced.
And centuries passed in this using, and the world
was flooded with all that was beautiful, until there
arose a new class, who discovered the cheap, and
foresaw a fortune in the facture of the sham.
Then sprang into existence the tawdry, the common,
the gewgaw.
The taste of the tradesman supplanted the science of
the artist, and what was born of the million went
back to them, and charmed them, for it was after
their own heart; and the great and the small, the
statesman and the slave, took to themselves the
abomination that was tendered, and preferred it — and
have lived with it ever since.
And the artist's occupation was gone, and the manu
facturer and the huckster took his place.
And now the heroes filled from the jugs and drank from
the bowls — with understanding — noting the glare of
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WHISTLER

their new bravery, and taking pride in its worth,
^ And the people — this time — had much to say in the
matter — and all were satisfied. And Birmingham and
Manchester arose in their might, and Art was relegated
to the curiosity-shop.
Nature contains the elements, in color and form, of
all pictures, as the keyboard contains the notes of all
music.
The artist is born to pick, and choose, and group with
science these elements, that the result may be beau
tiful — as the musician gathers his notes, and forms
his chords, until he bring forth from chaos glorious
harmony.
To say to the painter, that Nature Is to be taken as
she is, is to say to the player, that he may sit on the
piano.That Nature is always right, is an assertion, artistic
ally, as untrue, as it is one whose truth is universally
taken for granted. Nature is very rarely right, to such
an extent even, that it might almost be said that
Nature is usually wrong: that is to say, the condition
of things that shall bring about the perfection of har
mony worthy a picture is rare, and not common at all.
The sun blares, the wind blows from the east, the sky
is bereft of cloud, and without, all is of iron. The win
dows of the Crystal Palace are seen from all points of
London. The holiday-maker rejoices in the glorious
day, and the painter turns aside to shut his eyes.
How little this is understood, and how dutifully the
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WHISTLER

casual in Nature is accepted as sublime, may be gath
ered from the unlimited admiration daily produced by
a very foolish sunset.
The dignity of the snow-capped mountain is lost in
distinctness, but the joy of the tourist is to recognize
the traveler on the top. The desire to see. for the
sake of seeing, is, with the mass alone, the one to be
gratified, hence the delight in detail.
But when the evening mist clothes the riverside with
poetry, as with a veil, and the poor buildings lose
themselves in the dim sky, and the tall chimneys
become campanili, and the warehouses are palaces in
the night, and the whole city hangs in the heavens,
and fairyland is before us — then the wayfarer hastens
home; the workingman and the cultured one, the wise
man and the one of pleasure, cease to understand, as
they have ceased to see, and Nature, who for once
has sung in tune, sings her exquisite song to the artist
alone — her son and her master — her son in that he
loves her, her master in that he knows her.
To him her secrets are unfolded, to him her lessons
have become gradually clear. He looks at the flower,
not with the enlarging lens, that he may gather facts
for the botanist, but with the light of the one who
sees in her choice selection of brilliant tones and del
icate tints, suggestions of infinite harmonies.
He does not confine himself to purposeless copying,
without thought, each blade of grass, as commended
by the inconsequent, but in the long curve of the nar
row leaf, corrected by the straight, tall stem, he learns
how grace is wedded to dignity, how strength enhances
sweetness, that elegance shall be the result, 355

WHISTLER

In the citron wing of the pale butterfly, with its dainty
spots of orange, he sees before him the stately halls of
fair gold, with their slender saffron pillars, and is taught
how the delicate drawing high upon the walls shall be
traced in tender tones of orpiment, and repeated by
the base in notes of graver hue.
In all that is dainty and lovable he finds hints for his
own combinations, and thus is Nature ever his resource
and always at his service, and to him is naught refused.
^Through his brain, as through the last alembic, is
distilled the refined essence of that thought which began
with the Gods, and which they left him to carry out.
^ Set apart by them to complete their works, he pro
duces that wondrous thing called the masterpiece,
which surpasses in perfection all that they have con
trived in what is called Nature; and the Gods stand
by and marvel, and perceive how far away more beau
tiful is the Venus of Melos than was their own Eve.
And now from their midst the Dilettante stalks abroad.
The Amateur is loosed. The voice of the y^sthete is
heard in the land, and catastrophe is upon us.
Where the Artist is, there Art appears, and remains
with him — loving and fruitful — turning never aside in
moments of hope deferred — of insult — and of ribald
misunderstanding; and when he dies she sadly takes
her flight: though loitering yet in the land, from fond
association, but refusing to be consoled.
With the man, then, and not with the multitude, are
her intimacies; and in the book of her life the names
inscribed are few — scant, indeed, the list of those
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WHISTLER

who have helped to write her story of love and beauty.
^ From the sunny morning, when, with her glorious
Greek relenting, she yielded up the secret of repeated
line, as with his hand in hers together they marked
in marble, the measured rhyme of lovely limb and
draperies flowing in unison, to the day when she
dipped the Spaniard's brush in light and air, and made
his people live within their frames, that all nobility,
and sweetness, and tenderness, and magnificence should
be theirs by right, ages had gone by, and few had been
her choice.
Therefore have we cause to be merry! — and to cast
away all care — resolved that all is well — as it ever
was — and that it is not meet that we should be cried
at, and urged to take measures.
Enough have we endured of dulness! Surely are we
weary of weeping, and our tears have been cozened
from us falsely, for they have called us woe! when
there was no grief — and where all is fair !
We have then but to wait — until, with the mark of
the Gods upon him — there come among us again the
chosen — ^who shall continue what has gone before.
Satisfied that, even were he never to appear, the story
of the beautiful is already complete — hewn in the
marbles of the Parthenon, and broidered. with the
birds, upon the fan of Hokusai, at the foot of Fujiyama.

357

so HERE ENDETH "LITTLE JOURNEYS TO THE HOMES
OF EMINENT ARTISTS." BEING VOLUME SIX OF THE
SERIES. AS WRITTEN BY ELBERT HUBBARD: EDITED
AND ARRANGED BY JOHN T. HOYLE; TYPOGRAPHY
BY CHARLES J. ROSEN AND AXEL EDWARD SAHUN;
PRESSWORK BY JOHN HALL AND PETER ZIMMER;
BORDERS AND INITIALS BY ROYCROFT ARTISTS. AND
BINDING BY CHARLES YOUNGERS ^ PRODUCED BY
THE ROYCROFTERS. THEIR SHOPS. WHICH ARE IN
EAST AURORA. ERIE COUNTY. NEW YORK. MCMXVI.

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