Chapter V (33)

"Away from the home!" cried Frau von Albo sorrowfully; "no, no, never! Be merciful, your majesty! I have never plotted against you. The mother's heart commanded itself. I have never cursed you. The calumniation of your dead chancellor ruined me and chased me into banishment, and still I have never cursed you. Therefore show mercy. Do not keep an old woman in doubt. My daughter found her grave in the waves. I cannot seek it out to die on it. The grave-mound of my son is in this land. I cannot leave it again. Keep the gift of your graciousness, sire! Keep the property which was unjustly taken from us. Take my life. Take the last treasure, the legacy of my son; only let me finish my days here where I was born." In the outburst of feeling, the baroness had pulled a letter from her bosom, and with trembling hands handed it to the king. A few withered forget-me-nots, sprinkled with drops of blood, fell out on the floor. The king and queen stood trembling, and "O sanctissima!" sounded anew, blessing and entreating, through the silent grove.

"Whence these wonderfully entrancing tones of home?" asked the king quickly.

"Cremato's daughters it is," answered Prince Julius, "and here stands his mother. Albo's sister was Cremato's wife, and, shortly before his death, perished on a pleasure excursion near the coast. Grief for her loss hastened his death, and his family, to whom your majesty to-day promised your protection, pray for a home in their fatherland. Shall they pray in vain?"

"Cremato the husband of your daughter?" asked the king, astonished. "Riddles multiply."

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"In our humiliation and poverty in a foreign land, the strange man found us," answered the lady. "Less love than the warmest thankfulness which we owed gave him my daughter. God bless the noble man!" "God bless him!" said Julius quickly. "He was nobler than even his family knew. I was his student. To me he disclosed himself. His conscience had compelled him to discover that plot. His feelings tortured him when he discovered that Albo's innocent family had, through calumniation, become entangled in the terrible affair. Unable to disarm the anger of the insulted monarch, he sought untiringly the helpless family; found them, and compelled himself to take the yoke of marriage in order to become the protector of those whom he had undesignedly and unknowingly driven into ruin. The noble man kept his relations secret from the king, and left his court after he had proved that the hatred against the name of Albo was ineradicable. The king had never discovered that Cremato was his countryman. On his death-bed he confided to me his family and that picture which I have never seen. A picture which I finished after Cremato's plan, and had exhibited, attracted the notice of the lord chamberlain, and brought me here more quickly. Cremato's remembrance; that fatherland song that Cremato had taught his children; the sight of this worthy matron, of the noble queen, and your angel daughter's entreaties, shall finally move the heart of the king; and if I see rightly, if these be really tears which fill the eyes of the most noble-hearted monarch, then has my plan succeeded, and this night makes three happy."

The king was silent, struggling with his emotion. All eyes were fixed on him.

"Take up the flowers," said he. Then, deeply moved, to Albo's mother: "I am not able to give you anything more precious, even when I return to you all the property that you have lost. Albo's, Cremato's mother, be greeted! forget as I forget. The few days that remain to you shall be peaceful, and your granddaughters shall be my care."

"Most noble king!" cried Julius, and fell on his breast. Wife and daughter embraced him. The baroness folded her hands and prayed. ... "Oh! see, my Albo, how he redeems the past! Oh! forgive him, the repentant, as I forgive him!"

As the king freed himself from this embrace, two beautiful maidens lay at his feet and moistened his hands with their tears. They were Cremato's daughters. "O sanctissima!" he sighed, and softly left the room to hide his tears.

The monarch kept his word, and peace reigned in his kingdom. But Cremato's picture he ventured not to look upon, and for long years it stood locked behind that curtain. The baroness had long since slept in her grave, and her granddaughters were happy mothers by their own firesides.

A host of blooming grandchildren, Eliza's and Sophia's sons, had made the king himself a grandfather. Then death came upon him slowly, and warned him to quit the stage of life. Joyfully he made himself ready, and willingly allowed the crown, so valueless to the dying, to glide from his hands. Satisfied with life, and resigned to death, he asked calmly to see Cremato's picture. "I am strong," he said to the weeping wife, the only one entrusted with that secret. "Myself in the arms of death, the countenance of the dead will no longer terrify me." The cover fell; courageously the king threw his glance upon the glowing background, and the light of transfiguration came over his face. "It was no ghastly figure of death. A cherub, beaming in heavenly light and glory, nodded from the clouds. Ethereally beautified, Albo's features smiled upon him; the right hand of the angel pointed above, and the left reached out conciliatingly the wreath of forget-me-nots, taken from the golden hair.

The work of the noble painter, a sign of his love for man and his trust in God, transformed the last struggle of the monarch to the gentlest peace.

"Cremato! Albo!" stammered he, going smilingly. "Wife! Children! My people! farewell! and thou, my fatherland, Forget me not!"

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"Couture's Book."

Perhaps it would have been more according to rule to have headed this article, "Painting-Room Method and Conversations," which is the title the author gives his work. But as it is invariably spoken of and thought of as "Couture's Book," I have but followed in the wake of others. The fact is, this is no regular book; it is but a series of printed talks, so characteristic, so entirely stamped with the individuality of the writer, that those who know him recognize his peculiar expressions, his eccentricities of manner, and almost seem to see his familiar gestures through its pages. Therefore it seems perfectly natural to call it "Couture's Book."

Couture, as all those well know who are at all familiar with modern French art, is one of those who has done most to raise and invigorate it. His great picture, the Roman Orgie, is in the principal room of the Luxembourg, of which it is one of the greatest ornaments. It is not my province to criticise him as an artist; others, far more capable, have given a favorable verdict long since. My purpose is to speak of his book, and to say something of the author personally, as the best means of understanding it.

In his tenth chapter, M. Couture gives us an interesting glimpse of his early days, and of the gradual development of his powers. All through life, one of his most striking characteristics seems to have been his utter inability to learn by rule; as a child, he was looked upon as almost a dunce, and his elder brother, who, as he expresses it, was "nibbling at Latin," looked down upon him from his height. From his earliest years, however, he had the passion of reproduction. Before he understood the use of pencils, he would cut out, with his mother's scissors, the outlines of all he saw. Later, he became painter-in-ordinary to all the boys of the neighborhood, and, by the help of the little men and women he drew and painted, became rich in tops and marbles. But, when his father, a man of remarkable intelligence for his station in life, placed him with a drawing-master, the "petit Thomas" could do nothing; he did not understand his master's instructions; he could not copy the models placed before him; he longed for nature, and for liberty to imitate just what struck his fancy. The result was, that the drawing-master, after a few months' trial, declared him to be wanting in capacity, and he was taken away!

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The child is father to the man, and all through life, the cause of nearly all his trials and disappointments, and perhaps, too, of his successes, has been this inability to subject himself to established rules. He entered the _atelier_ of Gros, as student, and fell sick with disappointment when, on a certain occasion, spurred on by the master's encouragement and advice, he produced what he calls a most pitiable failure; while, on the other hand, several of his attempts--the unaided works of his own inspiration--excited great admiration, and turned the public attention on the young painter. Finally, he determined to renounce master and rules, to trust to his own instinct, and to turn to public opinion for judgment. He succeeded; the public recognized and appreciated him. Nevertheless, this same disregard for established criterions, for academic dignities, etc., has proved the source of much annoyance to him; and, for some years past, M. Couture has refused to exhibit, or to bring himself forward in any way, as an artist. Abandoning himself to the joys and cares of a happy home-circle, enjoying his modest fortune as only a man who has known poverty, and has fought hard against it for nearly thirty years can, he lets people say what they will of him, and, with sturdy independence, works when he likes, and at what he likes. Of course, all sorts of reports circulate about him, and I have been told more than once, "Oh! as for Couture, he is dead; he can produce nothing more."

Not long ago, an artist, a firm friend of M. Couture, took me to see him. We were told by the _concierge_ that monsieur was at home, _au premier, à droite_. So _au premier, à droite_ we went; rang; the door was opened by a respectable man-servant; but just behind him was an extraordinary looking personage; it was M. Couture himself, who, with the curiosity of a child, wanted to see who was there. Imagine a figure scarcely five feet high, immensely fat--stout is not the word--with a red scarf tied round the huge waist, the shirt-collar open, untrammelled by any vestige of a cravat, and luxuriating in a sort of loose woollen jacket. There he stood, shaking his friend's hand, slapping him on the back, a hearty, kindly, puffing, panting engine of humanity. When I heard him talk, however, I forgot his unpoetic exterior; the flashing eye, the wonderful power of mimickry, the modulating of the voice, fascinated me. I have seen many good actors, but none who possessed the art of bringing scenes, people, expressions, so completely before one, as M. Couture. Everything he touches upon becomes a picture, color and truth everywhere. This is eminently the case with his book; he himself could only be taught through pictures--brought to his mind by the colors of the painter, the words of a writer, or the harmonies of the musician; through pictures he instructs others.

But to return to my visit. We were hospitably dragged into his den; a simple room joining the parlor, with no pretensions of being a studio about it. There was a picture on the easel, casts and drawings scattered around, an admirable portrait of his father, for whom he had an unbounded admiration, and a charming little flower-piece which was the bouquet he presented to his wife on her birthday; a few flowers in a glass, nothing more, but these few flowers, with the dewy softness and fragrance of nature about them, revealed the master's hand to me, as clearly as the more pretentious picture on which he was then working.

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"You have read my book, they tell me?"

"Yes, M. Couture, and I admire it; for it is so simple, so easy to be understood."

This seemed to please him.

But I find I have allowed myself to gossip on, and have not given you as yet any of those foretastes of the book which I promised myself should be the staple of this article. I want, by these foretastes, to interest Americans in this work which, by the simple wisdom of its maxims, the result of thirty years' work and experience, is eminently fitted to be a guide to young artists. Then, too, it is dedicated to America. M. Couture has a real sympathy and admiration for our vigorous, ever-growing country. Some of his favorite pupils were Americans, and of late years, most of the pictures which have left his easel have been purchased by our wealthy countrymen. I cannot resist the temptation of telling you an anecdote _à propos_, which I heard from a reliable source, and which is very characteristic:

A New York amateur went to M. Couture, and bespoke a picture. But the artist was probably in a lazy mood, and the picture lagged. Some friends of the New York gentleman warned him that it was often years before Couture would finish a commission, as he never worked unless the fancy took him.

"But," added one of them, "he is a strictly honorable man; attack him from that point, and you will have your picture."

So the amateur, writing a very polite note to the artist, enclosed the sum agreed upon as the price of the picture.

Before long, panting and puffing from the unusual exertion, Couture rushed to the gentleman's apartments, exclaiming, as soon as he could get breath:

"But you other Americans, you are a people of very singular customs! Here; what for you send me the pay before you get the picture?"

"O M. Couture! I have such perfect faith in your honor."

The artist stopped, seemed to think it over a few moments, then exclaimed:

"You shall have it, your picture!"

Accordingly, shortly after, the picture was finished and delivered.

In his original and clever introduction he says:

"I am an unlearned man; I know nothing; having had no instruction, I feel that I can inspire sympathy, only by a profound sincerity. Can a man, owing what he has only to his battle of life, his observations, and the shreds of knowledge and glimpses of books which came to him like real godsends, inspire interest? I doubt it, and I am even pretty sure that many people will find it preposterous that one should dare to write a book without having gone though the necessary studies. To these persons I will answer by my book itself wherein I try to prove that in everything a simple, sincere expression of sentiment is preferable to a learned expression thereof; for this plain reason, that men, getting their instruction through books are apt to forget, in the multiplicity of documents which absorb them, the good and true road--nature; to such I will say, 'You have the university on your side; well, as for me, I have my God, and do not fear you.' ...

"It would be well, I think, to reassure the humble. Therefore, I say, have faith in your soul; follow your God who is within you, express what he inspires, and do not fear to oppose your divine lights to the horrible Chinese lanterns of the university. Enlighten and guide in your turn those who would restrain you by ridicule.

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"If you are a farmer, speak of the products of the earth; if you are a business man, speak of that business which you understand; if you are an artist, speak of your art. Do not fear the inelegance of your language; it will always be excellent. Whatever you may say, you who understand that of which you speak, you can never express yourself more foolishly than those who make an art of words. ...

"I compare myself, in my literary mishaps, to a man surprised in a storm. He seeks a refuge to save the brightness of his boots; but the hour of rendezvous is close at hand, and it still pours. He makes a dash, keeping close to the houses; the rain redoubles its fury, and he is glad to find shelter under a _porte-cochère_. There he stoops and examines himself; his boots have lost their lustre, his pantaloons are covered with mud; a porter, companion of his misfortune, has wiped the load of vegetables he carried, on his back. The irreproachableness of his attire is gone; he need no longer protect it; he accepts his fate bravely, and ceases to concern himself. He starts with a firm, grave step, and, as a first success, obtains the admiration of others less brave. Encouraged in his new resolution, he walks on unheeding the water which rises above the ankle; he comes to a torrent; he throws himself in without hesitation, and swimming, reaches the other side; another step, and he pulls the doorbell. The door opens. What a triumph! Misfortune has crowned him with her poetic charms. He is surrounded, cared for, and soon finds himself clad in comfortable clothes, with his feet in the host's slippers; he enlivens the guests with the recital of his Odyssey.

"This is my portrait, dear reader; all bespattered with ink, I come to ask you to take me in.

...

"Let us return now to that which has given me courage to write.

"I received my second lesson from the greatest writer of the age. Madame George Sand was good enough to give me a seat in her box, to hear the _Champi_. You know that in this charming play, a young lover wants to speak too well to her he loves; he has prepared his discourse with such care, and has so many fine things to say, that, when the decisive moment comes, all his ideas get inextricably mixed; the lover soon perceives that he is talking very badly and that his defeat is owing to his unlucky head; fortunately for him, however, his heart is on fire, and will be heard; then he speaks as he feels, and you know if he speaks well!"

So much for the introduction; now let us turn to the real object of his book--artistic instruction. I am sure all those who have felt the difficulties to be undergone by all beginners in art, will feel grateful to M. Couture for the simple, concise way in which he explains what the experience of many years has taught him. They will observe how carefully he avoids any fine phrases which seem to say much, and which in reality merely serve to bewilder the student. Listen to what he says of

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Elementary Drawing.

"What is to be done in order to draw well?

"Place yourself in front of the object to be represented; have good tools, which must be kept neat and clean; look at what you see with much greater attention than at your own reproduction of it; keep--pardon my arithmetic--three quarters of an eye for the model, and one quarter for the drawing.

"Commence your drawing from a first distance, compare those which follow, making them subservient to the first.

"Establish either an imaginary or a real horizontal and perpendicular line before the objects to be represented; this means is an excellent guide which should always be adhered to.

"When, by slight indications, you have determined, established your places, look at nature with your eyes half closed. This manner of looking simplifies objects; details disappear; you then perceive nothing but the great divisions of light and shade. Then establish your masses; when these are correctly placed, open your eyes completely, and add the details, but with great moderation.

"Establish what I call dominants for your lights and shades. Look at your model attentively, and ask yourself which is its strongest light, and place it on your drawing there, where it is in nature; as, by this means you establish a dominant, you must of course, not exceed it; all other lights must be subordinate to it. The same thing must be said, the same calculation must be made, for the shadows; rub in your strongest vigor, your most intense black; then use it as a guide, a diapason, in order to find the value of your different shadows and half-tints."

Nothing can be more to the point, more simple than this, and surely M. Couture exemplifies what he says in his introduction: that what is felt strongly, and understood clearly, will be expressed with equal strength and clearness. He goes on to say with regard to

Elementary Principles Of
Drawing From Nature.

"You will only be able to copy the mobile objects of nature, when you are very certain of finding your places with rapidity; the means are always the same, but their application is more difficult. Therefore constant practice is necessary. A musician would say to you, Scales, more scales! and I say to you, Draw, draw incessantly! Draw from morning to night, in order to exercise your eye, and to acquire a steady hand."

The practical part of his book, M. Couture enlivens and illustrates by anecdotes taken from his own experience; these are the pictures by which, principally, he seeks to convey instruction. I will translate one of them for you:

"A young German entered my _atelier_ to perfect himself, as he said, in his art; he made, as a beginning, a drawing which showed much technical ability.

"I complimented him on his cleverness, but at the same time told him that he had not copied his model faithfully, and that it would give me great pleasure to see his talent dedicated to the service of nature.

"'But indeed, sir,' said the young man, 'I assure you that I copied with the greatest exactitude.'

"'You think so; did you look at your model very attentively?'

"'Yes, sir, I did.'

"'It may be so,' and while talking, I turned his drawing around. 'With whom did you study in Germany?'

"The conversation continued--then looking at the model who was standing, I said to him:

"'That is a superb model of yours; beautiful form, fine color, is it not so, what think you?'

"'Yes, sir.'

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"'See now, how the light inundates the chest; evidently that is the most luminous part of the body.'

"'Yes, sir.'

"'Are you certain of it?'

"'Yes, sir.'

"'Then show me.'

"'See,' said he showing me the part where the light struck most forcibly; 'it is evidently there, that the most brilliant spot is found.'

"'I am willing to believe, and perceive with pleasure, that to a skilful hand you join a sound judgment. Decidedly you have a delicate perception of the value of light and shade; you will be able to render me great services. Let us see now, which is the most luminous point in your drawing.'

"Not seeing my purpose, he replied with great _naivete_ that it was found on the knee.

"'It is not possible.'

"'Yes, sir; permit me to observe to you that if one were to compare that light to the other lights of the drawing, this one would be found to be decidedly the brightest.'

"'Very well, then; why is your light not placed as it is in nature? You see very clearly that it is found on the chest, and you put it on the knee; why not on the heel? And you will tell me that you copy your model faithfully! You will allow me to tell you that you have paid no attention to your differences of light. ... Very well; one may easily make mistakes;' and I once more turned his drawing around. 'You have great painters in Germany. Overbeck, Cornelius, Kaulbach, all have talent of a high order. ... Oh! just see how, at this moment, the model is well lighted; what brightness; what vigor in the shadows! See that hair; it is like velvet, and the shadows of the head, how transparent and strong; it reminds one of Titian; do you not think so? the crisping hair, matted; the blood rising to the head and the throat; all this is splendid in color, and is of far greater importance than all the rest. What think you? Suppose we turn your drawing to see if you have rendered the effect we have just been admiring. Let us see! Why, it is singular; you have forgotten that too!'

"'Yes, sir. I see it now.'

"'You see your head is colorless, and gives the idea, of papier-mache; you have the same fault in your shadows as in your lights. ... In your work you compared nothing; absorbed by details, you saw them only; drawing small parts, you forgot the rest, and went on blindly.'

......

Occupations Of A Young Artist
Outside Of His Art.

"'You know it now; you are to draw morning, noon, and night; you have to bedaub a great many canvases, to use up a great many colors, and that for a long time. These exercises, these gymnastics not being very fatiguing, you can make good use of this period, to improve your mind with reading good books; the old classics, and our French classics too, it is well to study. But for you, artist, there are certain authors which I wish to point out to you, and which you will find of great use. Homer, Virgil, Shakespeare, Molière, Cervantes, Rousseau, Bernardin de Sainte Pierre.

"In the first three, you will find grand lessons, useful to your art. Homer gives us primitive simplicity; Virgil, rhythm; Shakespeare, passion. Molière, too, will make you understand how you may ally fine language, beauty of form, to the expression of truth.

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"Read a great deal; absorb much; you are young, you will find digestion easy.

"Keep good company, and frequent especially the society of young men already advanced in art.

"Above all, beware of wanting to appear more than you really are; beware especially of using the sentiments of others, instead of your own; there is ruin; there, is darkness. Dare to be yourself: there is light. Be truly Christian; soften your heart; above all, be humble; in the art of painting, humility is your greatest strength.

......

"Being prepared by excellent reading, give your studies a good direction. Be careful to avoid ugliness.

"You should always carry about with you a small sketch-book, and dash in, with a few lines, the beauties which impress you; any striking effects, natural poses, etc. Do not forget to make yourself ant, bee; work indefatigably, and make for yourself, as soon as possible, a treasure-house of abundance. Exercise yourself early in composition, but always with elements gathered from your own experience.

"Form the habit of absolute truth." ....

Notice how in the foregoing admirable passages, the author inculcates the spirit of truth, as the fundamental principle of all art. This has proved the secret of his own success; his honest, child-like faith in nature, and his simple earnestness in copying it, are noticeable in all his works. It would be well if our young artists took this lesson to heart. We have talent in our country, great talent even; but it has no stamp of individuality; it imitates, it is half afraid of being original, therefore it stops short of greatness. This perhaps is the case with other things beside painting, and plausible excuses are to be found for it; we are a young nation, composed of heterogeneous elements; this is true, but we shall not thoroughly command the respect of the nations, and take our proper place among them, until, as they say of young folks, our character is more formed. Then we shall see more earnest truthfulness in everything. Art will take shape and consistency, and we shall hear people talk of the American school as an established fact, like those of France, Belgium, England, etc. This exposition year has naturally been one of comparison. It is a grand thought to have all the schools brought together, to compete for superiority. Our place in the huge building is a small one, and though there are clever pictures in the American art department, yet we shall have to make immense progress, before we conquer a place by the side of the French and Belgians. But our time will come, I feel confident.

But I must interrupt my patriotic prophecies, and let you enjoy, as I did, this anecdote of Béranger. I select it from others, for I thought it would be interesting, both as giving an insight into the artist's theory, and as affording a life-like glimpse of a great poet. Couture relates it _à propos_ to his remarks on portrait-painting; of the necessity under which the artist labors, of being two men in one; of amusing, enlivening his sitter, of bringing out his best expression, so that the light of the inner man may shine through the features; and at the same time of being the artist, watchful, eager, earnest, with his mind intent on his work; catching the gleams of intelligence he evokes, and transfixing them to the canvas.

There are but few who possess this quality.

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Béranger.

"I was urged to paint a portrait of Béranger. This I did not care to do. I had a great admiration for his talent and for his character; I feared that seeing him, becoming acquainted with his person, might lower the ideal I had formed of him. ...

"At last a charming letter from Madame Sand, which was to serve as an introduction, decides me; I start, and soon find myself in Rue d'Enfer.

"I ask the _concierge_ for M. Béranger. 'The right-hand staircase, there, in the court.' I direct my steps toward said staircase, ascend; before long I am stopped by a door; I. knock. Shuffling steps are heard, an old man appears, wrapped in a gray dressing-gown made of some common stuff.

"'M. Béranger?'

"'I am he.'

"While answering, he held his door tight, leaving but a small opening.

"'What do you want?'

"It would have been easy to present my letter of introduction; but I had had the evil thought to keep it. It was a precious autograph, signed with a very celebrated name. In it, it is true, I was judged in terms far too flattering, but one willingly abides by such kindly exagerations. In it too, my favorite poet was spoken of--the temptation was too strong to be resisted. I began to expiate my fault; I stammered a few words; I showed the paper and crayon which I had brought with which to make my drawing, for it was necessary to add action to words, so hostile was the aspect of the great man ... alas! my defeat was complete, the door was closing. ...

"'No sir,' he said, 'it is disagreeable to me; there are many portraits of me: among the number some are excellent; make use of these portraits, and leave me in peace.'

"Once more the door seemed on the point of being shut; all was lost.

"'Well, M. Béranger, I only get what I deserve, for I have been guilty of a bad action; I was to have given you a letter; I kept it. I thought, so great was my vanity, that I could present myself without its aid, and commit this petty theft. I am punished, and it is but just.'

"I turned to go, covered with confusion and shame; the door opens.

"'What is your name?'

"I turned to answer him.

"'My name is Couture.'

"'You are not Couture who painted the _Décadence des Romains!_'

"'Yes, sir.'

"I felt myself seized by my waistcoat, pulled in violently, then I heard the terrible door close but this time I was inside, pushed up against the wall of the entry.

"'You Couture? is it possible? you so young; why, what was I about to do--I was going to shut the door in your face!'

"'It was already done, M. Béranger.'

"'But don't you know that I adore you? don't you know that it is one of the dreams of my old age to have my portrait by you? do I consent to sit? why, I am entirely at your disposition!'

"Then, taking me by the hand, he presented me to his venerable wife, saying:

"'This is Couture, and I was on the point of sending him about his business.'

"I was deeply touched by this reception. When we were both somewhat calmed, I told him that I could make the drawing at his house, that I had brought all that was necessary, and that I should be happy to spare him the trouble of coming to me. {661} He would listen to nothing, put himself entirely at my service, insisted that I should name my own day and hour; and at the appointed day and hour, he was at my room.

"It was no small affair, for an old man to come all the way from the Rue d'Enfer to the Barrière Blanche, where I then resided. He was very tired, and said to me with a benevolent smile:

"'Dear child, for any other but you. ... But come, where shall I place myself? what if I were to take a little nap?--for I have come a very long way.'

"I pulled up an arm-chair; he sat down, and soon fell asleep. ...

"I walked about my painting-room on tiptoe, for fear of waking him; then I came near him to examine him as he slept. He had a vast brain; by its size, by its form, it was easy to guess the greatness of the mind. The lower part of the face, however, seemed out of harmony with the upper. ...

"My task was becoming difficult; to remain true to simple reality, to give to the public the image of an intelligence in its decline, was not what I wished. What should I do? I was making these reflections when he woke. I looked at him for some time fixedly, and I saw his eyelids lift themselves one after the other, and then fall again over his eyes. ...

"However, let us not despair; let us try; ... this was my method.

"'Monsieur de Béranger, are you acquainted with that new air composed for your _Vieux Caporal_?'

"'No,' said he, 'some fellows came to sing it to me; there were several of them; they said they had brought a piano in a carriage. As I chose my airs myself, and I doubt whether others can choose better than I, I do not wish to encourage these encroachments on my work. Therefore I refused to receive them.'

"'Oh! I know how you refuse like favors! Well, allow me to tell you that you were in the wrong, for the air composed for the thing seems to me more dramatic than the one you chose; since circumstances are favorable to it, and that it need not disturb you, I will sing you the _Vieux Caporal.'_ And I sang.

"'Yes, you are right, it is very well; sing me the second verse. ... Why, it is charming; sing it all to me; I like to hear you sing.'

"At the end of the song, his face had changed its character; his eyelids were sustained, and let me see his bright eyes, which seemed to be the light of that fine mind. I kept him in this atmosphere which made him young again; I made him live in the past; I spoke to him of Manuel, his friend. Ah! then, it was a veritable resurrection. We were then in 1850, but through the enchantment of memory, he returned to the struggles of the Restoration of 1820, thirty years' difference; well, I saw them disappear as by magic. I saw this genius revive! He would get up, walk about, come back to his seat, speaking of them, of the two hundred and twenty-one, as though they were still there; the arrows of Charles X., the aim reached, the plaudits of the crowds--he seemed to hear it all. Béranger was before me. All I had to do was to copy. ...

"I have not been able to resist the temptation of relating an anecdote, doubtless too flattering for me; but on reflection, I have been so tormented by fools, that it is excusable in me to take comfort in the praises of a great mind."

Now let us turn once more to some of his practical instructions. Of color he speaks thus:

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"It must not be thought that he who reproduces color exactly is a colorist.

"Like the true draughtsman, the true colorist purifies, embellishes.

"If he is a true artist, he will bring in his coloring all the laws of art: Discrimination, development, idealization.

"I cannot help thinking of our critics who, in their innocence, always make sharply defined divisions of colorists and draughtsmen; being persuaded that a draughtsman cannot be a colorist, and that a colorist can never be a draughtsman. They carry this so far that when a picture seems to them detestable in color, they feel compelled to find great qualities of drawing in it; but if, on the contrary, a work is presented, with incontestable beauties of drawing, it is necessary, and you will never be able to convince them of the contrary, that the picture should be wanting in color.

"They do not know that all is in all, and that the value of execution in a picture is in just proportion with its conception.

"With great artists, there is a certain choice, an impulse toward a particular beauty which captivates them; like real lovers, they sacrifice every thing to their passion; but, understand it well; sacrifice is not abandonment.

"With great masters, such as Raphael, Poussin, the absence of coloring is a voluntary surrender; besides, they have a coloring peculiar to themselves, and of a superior order. ...

"Now, let us turn toward the colorists. Rubens presents himself as their king; but king though he be, he is not the equal of Raphael, who is a veritable angel."

In their compositions, Couture would have his disciples follow nature, and the instincts of their own hearts. He wages war against what he calls dead art, as seen in the works of certain French artists who tried to imitate the Greeks exclusively. As he strongly expresses it, they disinterred a dead body, and galvanized it to give it the appearance of life. He would have the pleasing scenes of common life represented and spiritualized; nature, in her dewy, morning aspect, studied and loved. He says to them: "Be French, be patriotic, be of your own times; create a strong, healthy, modern school; do not imitate the Greeks; become their equals." It must not be thought from this that the antique is not appreciated; on the contrary, the young artist is urged, after he has become comparatively skilled in drawing--not before--to study the antique very seriously, and to take it as the invariable basis of all his works. But what Couture urges principally is originality and truthfulness. While pressing the earnest study of nature, he says:

"Love, that is the great secret; love enlightens. We are often surprised at the tenderness of parents for their children, and at the qualities which they see in them. We think they are mistaken, whereas it is we who are mistaken. ...

"Read a book with but little attention; look over the first few pages; skip twenty pages, then forty; hasten to the conclusion at once. What pleasure will you find in such reading? You would certainly not have the audacity to judge of that work; you would surely wait until you were more familiar with it. But now, when, with a good will, you read page by page, the work captivates you, and you leave it only when it is finished; then you say this work is admirable!

"It will be the same with nature, if you read it page by page.

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"I do not think I am mistaken when I say that we are on the eve of seeing French high art spring into life. I see guarantees of it in the return of our young artists to nature; they are, if I may so express myself, at the first stage of that road which leads to the highest beauties."

Somewhere about the middle of his book, our original author stops for a familiar chat, "between the acts," as he calls it but, after a few pages, the conversation gets more serious again, and he gives a critique, or perhaps, more properly speaking, an essay, on various artists. After wandering in the sixteenth century with Jean Goujon--through the medium of a marvellously learned coachman--he comes back to modern times, and speaks of Ingres, Delacroix, and Decamps. It is not my province to question his opinion of these artists; my task is to give you a correct idea of his manner of doing so; therefore, leaving the critic to be criticised by his brother artists, which is pretty sure to happen, I choose his essay on the last named, Decamps, for translation. It gives a good idea of his style, and in it he has put away his severity, and indulges in genuine admiration, which is certainly pleasanter to listen to.

Decamps.

"Let us now turn toward the light, toward the sunshine; let us speak of Decamps--that abridgment of all picturesque qualities.

"In the grasp of his genius, he comprises everything; he makes himself the echo of all.

"His pictures speak to me of Salvator, Teniers, Poussin, Titian, Rembrandt, Phidias .... they tell the story of our world: infancy, old age, poverty, sumptuous wealth, war in all its horrors, smiling hills and dales, shady villas. Here, the intimacy of the home-circle, there the tempests of the imagination. The Shakespeare of painters, he translates everything into an adorable language of his own; he reminds one of the masters, without copying them; he sings of nature and exalts it; everything with him becomes lovable, charming, or terrible; a mere nothing, a simple knife on a table, painted by this marvellous genius, will awaken in one's mind, a whole poem; less still, a simple line, a dash of his pencil, is enchanting.

"I had the happiness of seeing this great artist; he was very simple. Living principally in the country, his dress was that of a somewhat careless sportsman; he was rather below the medium height; his head had great delicacy of outline, and was of rather a nervous character; he was fair; our sous stamped with the effigy of Napoleon III., when somewhat worn, remind one strikingly of Decamps. He was usually supposed to be a great sportsman; but I, who knew him, and observed him with the attention which my admiration of him inspired, noticed that his hunting was a mere pretext. I would often see him stop in a plain, lift his gun, take aim; one expected an explosion; not at all; after a short pause, he would replace the gun on his shoulder, and go on his way, to recommence the same game a little later. He nearly always returned with an empty game-bag to the inn of the 'Great Conqueror,' in the little village of Verberie; there he would take an old account-book, which he used as an album, and with whatever he happened to find, he would retrace the effects which he had observed during his pauses. I had several of these precious pages in my possession, but, unfortunately for me, they were stolen.

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"I remember also, that when we were conversing, after the evening repast, he would roll little balls of bread in his fingers, then, with pieces of matches, which he added to his paste, kneaded in a peculiar manner, he would fashion charming little figures. I remember, in particular, a hunter followed by his dog; the man seemed weighed down by the game he carried; the tired dog followed his master with drooping ears. It was charming: this extraordinary artist gave life to everything he touched.

"He was fond of painting in the studios of his brother artists. It was at the room of a mutual friend that I saw him make the preparation of his beautiful picture, Cheveaux de Hallage, which is now at the Louvre. His sketch was reddish, solidly massed in; he used a great deal of brown, red, and burnt sienna in his preparations.

"He made a drawing before me, one day. The most adorable ass's head sprang into life from under his fingers. As soon as one of the creature's ears was abandoned by the artist, it seemed to quiver with impatience at having been restrained; all appeared by degrees, progressively and completely formed. I saw in their order of succession, a real head, a real neck, a real body covered with its roughened hair; the good creature seemed to have a name, a real character; one might have written its history.

"I have been talking of his amusements; but when he attempted higher productions, when, for example, he created his 'Bataille des Cimbres'--I speak of the large drawing, that in which an enormous chariot is dragged by oxen--what energy! what grandeur! Those men live; one shares their ardor, or their fears; one wants to help, to push, to save the women and children. See them yonder: they come, they crush everything that comes in their way. What a formidable mass! clouds of dust arise from under their horses' hoofs, and go to join the clouds in the heavens, which are numerous, and armed for combat, like the soldiers that cover the earth. And up yonder, do you see? No. Where? There; no, still higher ... that cloud of ravens ... they await the end of the day of slaughter.

"It is no longer a drawing; it is no longer a painting; it is an animated world which appears as by magic, transformed into wondrous marble, gilded by the sun of Greece. One looks, admires; one comes back to it many times, without ever tiring; one leaves so beautiful a thing with regret, to dream of it at night!

"I should like to be able to talk to you of his Joseph, of Sampson, of the Café Turc, of the Singes Cuisiniers, of the Supplice des Crochets, and of all his other wonders; but that would lead me too far; so, regretfully, I stop.

"Decamps was of an organization rare in the art of painting; he had the power of giving the qualities of greatness to small pictures. One might cite the small works of Rubens and Rembrandt, and even of the great Italian painters; but all these geniuses seemed to grow less in proportion to the restricted dimensions of their canvases. But Decamps is as great in his small pictures as in his more important works.

"I might hesitate to pronounce myself for or against certain artists. But, as for this one, I maintain that he will always keep a high place in the art of painting."

......

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In the foregoing selections I have endeavored to give some idea of the author's manner; of his vigor, his clearness, his originality. With all its irregularity, this book is, I feel sure, destined to take an important place in art-literature. As a handbook of painting, it is most useful, and I trust soon to see a clear, truthful translation make it familiar to our American public. I should like it to be in the hands of every art-student.

Good advice, critiques on various artists, critiques on the schools, familiar chit-chat, occasional reveries on nature, full of poetry, anecdotes--all thrown together with a certain picturesque confusion, warm from the author's heart and brain: such is this book. It is a mirror of the man. Couture talks as he writes, and writes as he talks; if other merits are denied it, it certainly has that of perfect sincerity, and surely, in these days of artificiality, that is a great charm; so great a charm indeed, that many beside artists would find pleasure in reading it. And now, trusting that I have said enough to arouse some curiosity and interest in this work, I will let the author say his

Farewell!

"I have animated your courage; your sympathy, I feel, increases my strength; I have within me what it is well to possess--hope. Shall I live to see true French art born into this world? ... I see it coming. Ah! how happy you are to be young! "Everything announces it to me, this art of which I dreamed; the indifference of the public for that which exists is a good sign; why, indeed, should it, so full of life, feel an interest in this painting, issued from the grave?

"Look around you, and produce pictures. As for me, I have followed the order of nature; I have planted in you the good seed of truth; I doubt not but that it will germinate. By simplifying the means, by shielding yourself from the embarrassment of complications, you will do a useful underground burrowing. When the young shoot springs from the earth, cover it with a protecting mantle; this shelter, this protection, this tutor, must be your instinct. Grow, become strong, cover yourself with leaves and fruits, and give refreshment and shade."

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Magas; or, Long Ago.

A Tale Of The Early Times.