His kinfolks, though I must say he certainly did have a lot of
mighty homely relatives; and any time there is a first-rate Millet
or Corot or Meissonier in the neighborhood I wish somebody would
drop me a line, giving the address. As for pictures by Tintoretto,
showing Venetian Doges hobnobbing informally with members of the
Holy Family, and Raphael's angels, and Michelangelo's lost souls,
and Guidos, and Murillos, I have had enough to do me for months
and months and months. Nor am I in the market for any of the dead
fish of the Flemish school. Judging by what I have observed,
practically all the Flemish painters were devout churchmen and
painted their pictures on Friday.
There was just one drawback to my complete enjoyment of that part
of our European travels we devoted to art. We would go to an art
gallery, hire a guide and start through. Presently I would come
to a picture that struck me as being distinctly worth while. To
my untutored conceptions it possessed unlimited beauty. There
was, it seemed to me, life in the figures, reality in the colors,
grace in the grouping. And then, just when I was beginning really
to enjoy it, the guide would come and snatch me away.
He would tell me the picture I thought I admired was of no account
whatsoever - that the artist who painted it had not yet been dead
long enough to give his work any permanent value; and he would
drag me off to look at a cracked and crumbling canvas depicting a
collection of saints of lacquered complexions and hardwood
expressions, with cast-iron trees standing up against cotton batting
clouds in the background, and a few extra halos floating round
indiscriminately, like sun dogs on a showery day, and, up above,
the family entrance into heaven hospitably ajar; and he would
command me to bask my soul in this magnificent example of real art
and not waste time on inconsequential and trivial things. Guides
have the same idea of an artist that a Chinaman entertains for an
egg. A fresh egg or a fresh artist will not do. It must have the
perfume of antiquity behind it to make it attractive.
At the Louvre, in Paris, on the first day of the two we spent
there, we had for our guide a tall, educated Prussian, who had an
air about him of being an ex-officer of the army. All over the
Continent you are constantly running into men engaged in all manner
of legitimate and dubious callings, who somehow impress you as
having served in the army of some other country than the one in
which you find them. After this man had been chaperoning us about
for some hours and we had stopped to rest, he told a good story.
It may not have been true - it has been my experience that very few
good stories are true; but it served aptly to illustrate a certain
type of American tourist numerously encountered abroad.
"There were two of them," he said in his excellent English, "a
gentleman and his wife; and from what I saw of them I judged
them to be very wealthy. They were interested in seeing only such
things as had been recommended by the guidebook. The husband would
tell me they desired to see such and such a picture or statue.
I would escort them to it and they would glance at it indifferently,
and the gentleman would take out his lead pencil and check off
that particular object in the book; and then he would say: 'All
right - we've seen that; now let's find out what we want to look
at next.' We still serve a good many people like that - not so many
as formerly, but still a good many.
"Finally I decided to try a little scheme of my own. I wanted to
see whether I could really win their admiration for something. I
picked out a medium-size painting of no particular importance and,
pointing to it, said impressively: 'Here, m'sieur, is a picture
worth a million dollars - without the frame!'
"'What's that?' he demanded excitedly. Then he called to his wife,
who had strayed ahead a few steps. 'Henrietta,' he said, 'come
back here - you're missing something. There's a picture there
that's worth a million dollars - and without the frame, too, mind
you!'
"She came hurrying back and for ten minutes they stood there
drinking in that picture. Every second they discovered new and
subtle beauties in it. I could hardly induce them to go on for
the rest of the tour, and the next day they came back for another
soul-feast in front of it."
Later along, that guide confided to me that in his opinion I had
a keen appreciation of art, much keener than the average lay
tourist. The compliment went straight to my head. It was seeking
the point of least resistance, I suppose. I branched out and
undertook to discuss art matters with him on a more familiar basis.
It was a mistake; but before I realized that it was a mistake I
was out in the undertow sixty yards from shore, going down for the
third time, with a low gurgling cry. He did not put out to save
me, either; he left me to sink in the heaving and abysmal sea of
my own fathomless ignorance. He just stood there and let me drown.
It was a cruel thing, for which I can never forgive him.
In my own defense let me say, however, that this fatal indiscretion
was committed before I had completed my art education.
