These facts have been communicated to me from a perfectly reliable
source. As an American, and a republican, I cannot but take pleasure
in them. I mention them because it is often supposed, from the
destructive effects which attend the first advent of democratic
principles where they have to explode their way into existence through
masses of ancient rubbish, that popular liberty is unfavorable to art.
It never could be so in France, because the whole body of the people
are more thoroughly artistic in their tastes and feelings than in most
countries. They are almost slaves to the outwardly beautiful, taken
captive by the eye and the ear, and only the long association of
beauty with tyranny, with suffering, want, and degradation to
themselves, could ever have inspired any of them with even a momentary
bitterness against it.
JOURNAL - (CONTINUED.)
Monday, June 13. Went this morning with H. and Mrs. C. to the studio
of M. Belloc. Found a general assembly of heads, arms, legs, and every
species of nude and other humanity pertaining to a studio; also an
agreeable jumble of old pictures and new, picture frames, canvas,
brushes, boxes, unfinished sketches, easels, palettes, a sofa, some
cushions, a chair or two, bottles, papers, a stove rusty and fireless,
and all things most charmingly innocent of any profane "clarin' up
times" whatsoever.
The first question which M. Belloc proposed, with a genuine French
air, was the question of "_pose_" or position. It was concluded
that as other pictures had taken H. looking at the spectator, this
should take her looking away. M. Belloc remarked, that M. Charpentier
said H. appeared always with the air of an observer - was always
looking around on every thing. Hence M. Belloc would take her "_en
observatrice, mais pas en curieuse_" - with the air of observation,
but not of curiosity.
At it he went. I stood behind and enjoyed. Rapid creative sketching in
chalk and charcoal. Then a chaos of colors and clouds, put on now with
brushes, now with fingers. "God began with chaos," said he, quoting
Prudhon. "We cannot expect to do better than God."
With intensest enjoyment I watched the chaotic clouds forming on the
canvas round a certain nucleus, gradually resolving themselves into
shape, and lightening up with tints and touches, until a head seemed
slowly emerging from amidst the shadows.
Meanwhile, an animated conversation was proceeding. M. Belloc, in his
rich, glorious French, rolling out like music from an organ, discussed
the problems of his art; while we ever and anon excited him by our
speculations, our theories, our heresies. H. talked in English, and
Mrs. C. translated, and I put in a French phrase sidewise every now
and then.
By and by, M. Charpentier came in, who is more voluble, more _ore
rotundo, grandiose_, than M. Belloc. He began panegyrizing Uncle
Tom; and this led to a discussion of the ground of its unprecedented
success. In his thirty-five years' experience as a bookseller, he had
known nothing like it. It surpassed all modern writers. At first he
would not read it; his taste was for old masters of a century or two
ago. "Like M. Belloc in painting," said I. At length, he found his
friend, M. Alfred de Musee, the first intelligence of the age, reading
it.
"What, you too?" said he.
"Ah, ah!" said De Musee; "say nothing about this book! There is
nothing like it. This leaves us all behind - all, all, miles behind!"
M. Belloc said the reason was because there was in it more _genuine
faith_ than in any book. And we branched off into florid eloquence
touching paganism, Christianity, and art.
"Christianity," M. Belloc said, "has ennobled man, but not made him
happier. The Christian is not so happy as the old Greek. The old Greek
mythology is full of images of joy, of lightness, and vivacity; nymphs
and fauns, dryads and hamadryads, and all sportive creations. The arts
that grow up out of Christianity are all tinged with sorrow."
"This is true in part," replied H., "because the more you enlarge a
person's general capacity of feeling, and his quantity of being, the
more you enlarge his capacity of suffering. A man can suffer more than
an oyster. Christianity, by enlarging the scope of man's heart, and
dignifying his nature, has deepened his sorrow."
M. Belloc referred to the paintings of Eustache le Soeur, in the
Louvre, in illustration of his idea - a series based on the experience
of St. Bruno, and representing the effects of maceration and ghostly
penance with revolting horrors.
"This," H. replied, "is not my idea of Christianity. Religion is not
asceticism, but a principle of love to God that beautifies and exalts
common life, and fills it with joy."
M. Belloc ended with a splendid panegyric upon the ancient Greeks, the
eloquence of which I will not mar by attempting to repeat.
Ever and anon H. was amused at the pathetic air, at once genuinely
French and thoroughly sincere, with which the master assured her, that
he was "_desole_" to put her to so much trouble.
As to Christianity not making men happier, methinks M. Belloc forgets
that the old Greek tragedies are filled with despair and gloom, as
their prevailing characteristic, and that nearly all the music of the
world before Christ was in the minor scale, as since Christ it has
come to be in the major. The whole creation has, indeed, groaned and
travailed in pain together until now; but the mighty anthem has
modulated since the cross, and the requiem of Jesus has been the
world's birthsong of approaching jubilee.
