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