only Madonnas and saints, but some wonderfully delicate and realistic
designs of animals and birds. Not much is said in his biographies to
show that he was fond of animals, but that he studied them closely is
evident. It is infinitely sad to pass now through his Loggia at the
Vatican, once glowing with the master’s touch, now faded and in part
defaced. Still, worn as they are, they express Raphael. In the Stanze,
and his other great paintings, we know that his brush worked seriously
in accordance with a plan already conceived. But in the Loggia, with
the bright Italian sun shining in upon him as he worked, he laid aside
all serious intent, and gave himself up to merry play. Under his facile
fingers, the arched ceilings became covered with vines in luxuriant
tangled growth, with interspaces of blue sky, and clusters of grapes
which droop apparently with their own luscious weight, and tempt the
birds on every side.
[Illustration: TWO VENETIAN LADIES AND THEIR PETS.
(_From the painting by Vittore Carpaccio, in the Correo Gallery,
Venice._)]
[Illustration: SECTION OF DOME.
(_From Raphael’s frescoes in the Loggia of the Vatican._)]
In one compartment, the vines cluster so close as to admit but small
glimpses of the sky. On the lowest bar but one of the trellis, sits
a fine fierce hawk, so absorbed in his own reflections that he does
not notice a monkey reaching up from below to pull his tail feathers.
A parrot on the bar above is less indifferent, and looks on with
mischievous amusement. Little birds flit about in the higher branches,
and a squirrel is making his way to one of the finest grape-clusters.
The number of creatures that Raphael carefully studied and depicted,
is wonderful. Lizard, mouse and squirrel; tiny snake and bee and snail;
goldfish swimming in glass vases half-wreathed with swaying water
plants; love-birds cuddling together; long-tailed rats scampering along
the scroll-work; pretty voracious ducks with bulging crops; a motherly
hen hovering her chicks--all these and more, may still be seen, the
work of one masterly hand. Really, the painted scenes appear alive; and
I do not know who can look at them without loving the artist who so
well understood the happy natural life of plant and bird and beast.
[Illustration: DUCKS.
(_From Raphael’s frescoes in the Loggia of the Vatican._)]
As Paolo Uccello loved birds, so Gottfried Mind loved cats and became
their special artist. He was born near the middle of the last century,
in the town of Berne. There he lived, and there, in 1814, he died. Of
poor and mean appearance, crabbed to all human kind, he was keenly
alive to the ways and feelings, the tricks and graces of cat-kind.
Bears, too, he liked, and for a while frequented the bear pit of Berne
to study them. But cats were his first and abiding love, and to them
he returned. Whatever their moods, whether sulky, grave or gay; in
repose or in action, at every age--he reproduced them upon paper; and
with such marvelous fidelity that he seems to have given Pussy a tenth
and immortal life. His favorite cat used to sit for hours together upon
his knee or shoulder, while he--if such were her pleasure--would remain
motionless, so as not to disturb her rest.
[Illustration: FRAGMENT.
(_From Raphael’s frescoes in the Loggia of the Vatican._)]
In our own time, two artists, more than all others, have been famous
for their delineation of animal life; and both of these artists, one is
glad to know, were genuinely fond of the creatures they painted. These
two are, of course, Sir Edwin Landseer and Mlle. Rosa Bonheur.
[Illustration: HENS AND CHICKENS.
(_From Raphael’s frescoes in the Loggia of the Vatican._)]
Landseer studied every animal he saw, but preferred dogs, horses, and
deer, especially dogs. Fuseli, his master, used to speak of him as “my
little dog-boy.” Pet after pet had its features transferred to canvas,
and fine dogs were brought to him to be painted, exactly as their
owners might go to Millais or Watts. They became in his hands something
more than canine types; he saw in them individuals with characters and
stories of their own. There is the Dog in High Life, and the Dog in
Low Life; the tranquil big dog as Dignity, the impetuous little dog as
Impudence.
[Illustration: TWO OF GOTTFRIED MIND’S CATS.
(_Plate II. from “Der Katzen-Raphael.”_)]
Here a fine hound waits for the Countess (this dog, by the
way, belonged to Lady Blessington, and was given to her by the at that
time King of Naples); here, by a plain coffin, a collie waits for the
master who will never return; and here two tiny silken spaniels guard a
plumed hat and pair of gloves. These spaniels, which belonged to Robert
Vernon, had an equally tragic fate--the Blenheim being killed by a fall
from a table, and the King Charles by a fall through the staircase
rails. Their picture is now in the National Gallery of London, where
many a one lingers before it, admiring the great lustrous eyes, silken
coats, and delicate, whimsical physiognomies of “The Cavalier’s Pets.”
[Illustration: THE CAVALIER’S PETS.
(_From the etching by Leon Richeton, after Sir Edwin Landseer, R. A._)]
Very near them hangs a painting called “The Sleeping Bloodhound.”
The beautiful animal rests so easily that few would imagine her repose
to be the sleep of death--yet so it is. Countess, as they named her,
belonged to an old friend of Landseer, and running too eagerly one
night to meet him, fell from a height and was killed. The next day he
carried her to the studio; and the fine picture, now so familiar to
all, commemorates both her own beauty and her master’s love.
[Illustration: THE DUSTMAN’S DOG.
(_Drawn by Landseer when a child._)]
Brutus, Vixen and Boxer--all pets of the artist--appear in “The
Ratcatchers;” Paul Pry, another intimate, figures as “A Member of
the Humane Society.” As thoroughly appreciative of dog character in
the extremes of poverty and ease, are two other pictures called “The
Dustman’s Dog,” and “The Critics.” One is a mere sketch (drawn when Sir
Edwin was as yet the child Eddie) of a faithful, homely, hard-worked
cur; the other is a portrait of himself at work, with a noble canine
friend at each shoulder, inspecting the result of his toil.
[Illustration: COUNTESS, THE SLEEPING BLOODHOUND.
(_After Landseer’s painting._)]
He had a liking--as what painter of animals has not?--for lions; and
those in Trafalgar Square which guard the Nelson Monument, prove how
well he understood them.
“They are not bumptious,” he said, “nor do they swagger; but look (I
hope) as though they might be trusted ... and are all gentleness and
tranquillity till Nelson gives the word.”
There is no doubt that Landseer’s memory will live. As man and
artist his claims are great. He deserves to be counted among the
world’s benefactors for the impulse his work has given to the right
appreciation and treatment of the dog. If as great and widely known an
artist had patronized Pussy, we should find her better treated to-day,
and certainly better understood. Mind painted her with wonderful
fidelity, but he lacked the dramatic instinct of Landseer. Pussy was
Pussy to him--he never imagined in other situations than those he saw.
It was not in him to create a feline Diogenes and Alexander.
[Illustration: THE CRITICS.
(_Landseer’s portrait of himself._)]
Sir Edwin has passed from us, but Rosa Bonheur still lives, and
still occupies her serene life with the art she loves. There is a
well-known and charming picture of her earlier self, with the dark
hair tossed back from a bright, courageous face, and one arm resting
in calm assurance of mutual good-will on the neck of a shaggy steer.
This indicates a preference both personal and artistic. She has always
delighted in painting cattle; and the patient oxen of the Nivernais, no
less than the picturesque, long-haired cattle of the Scotch Highlands,
attest her loving study of their ways. Deer, too, she enjoys painting,
and horses; while Wasp, the terrier, will hold his own even beside
Landseer’s canine portraits.
[Illustration: PAUL PRY, A MEMBER OF THE HUMANE SOCIETY.
(_After Landseer’s painting._)]
Mlle. Bonheur’s home at Fontainebleau is fairly alive with pets; sheep,
horses, goats and dogs; creatures with pedigree and without it;
creatures famous for their beauty or remarkable for their rarity. Not
only does she entertain peaceable, home-loving animals, but also such
fierce inmates as lions and tigers. From one of the former was painted
her magnificent “Old Monarch,” which fronts squarely the spectator
like one “every inch a king.” Her “Tiger” is the faithful likeness of
a pet brought to her as a cub from the jungles of Bengal. Nero was
his well-bestowed name--a name appropriate to the latent power and
ferocity which might become terribly apparent should he ever have the
chance or wish to exert them. But this has never happened. Temptations
to naughtiness are carefully removed from his path, his will is rarely
crossed, his tastes are consulted. Roomily lodged, amply fed, he is
probably the most civilized tiger in existence.
Mlle. Bonheur is convinced of his affection, but it is doubtless as
fortunate for the world as for herself that she never entered his cage.
This superb favorite cost about three thousand dollars, and as His
Majesty’s meat diet is also very expensive, he may be accounted in more
ways than one a dear pet.
Several wild horses were at one time added to the studio “properties”;
and lately a Russian nobleman presented Mlle. Bonheur with a couple of
magnificent Russian bears, to which she is said to be much attached.
Paris is a city dear to artists, and almost every nationality is
represented in its salons. Henry Bacon, for instance, is American;
and among the paintings and sketches that fill his studio, are many
reminiscences of his far-off home. In no way, moreover, is he so
genuinely American as in his devotion to pets. It is a pity that in
many cases their beautiful portraits are all of themselves that remain
to him. Most notable among them, and perhaps also best beloved, was
Glen, a black-and-tan collie from Aberdeenshire, born in 1879, whose
parents, Jock and Miss, had both obtained prize medals.
[Illustration: AN OLD MONARCH.
(_After the painting by Rosa Bonheur._)]
Miss made a rather careless mother--often allowing her puppies to
wander out of sight; but this was pure absent-mindedness--for when
in their rovings beyond the kennel they came to grief, she appeared
conscious of her maternal short-comings, and employed all her
intelligence to serve her little ones.
[Illustration: WASP, ROSA BONHEUR’S PET TERRIER.
(_After Rosa Bonheur’s painting._)]
The farmer who had charge of the kennels, stepped out of his cottage
one morning into the first snow of the season, to be met by Miss in
a state of terrible excitement. She jumped upon him, pulled at his
coat, and neither caress nor threat could quiet her. At last, having
thoroughly attracted his attention, she made a dash down the avenue,
looking back over her shoulder as she ran. The farmer, being versed in
“canese,” understood that he was expected to follow--and followed!
Without diverging to right or left, or running in curves, as is the
habit of shepherd dogs, Miss preceded him through the fresh-fallen
snow down the avenue and across a field, stopped at the edge of a large
post-hole, and after looking down rushed back to hurry up the help she
was bringing. Her favorite pup, Glen, had gone out on an early morning
voyage of discovery, had fallen into this hole, and would have perished
there but for this timely aid.
Nor does the story end here. After Glen was pulled out, and on his way
home under the farmer’s great-coat--for he was only a little thing,
not yet a month old--Miss staid behind, and with much scratching
and barking filled in the hole, being of opinion, probably, that
post-holes, like barn doors, should be closed after an accident has
happened.
[Illustration: THE HORSE FAIR.
(_After the painting by Rosa Bonheur._)]
A few months later Glen went to live in Tunbridge Wells, England, with
his brother Jock, and if they had not quarreled, would still be, in all
likelihood, a British subject; but owing to their many disputes, Glen
was sent abroad. The next summer, and indeed each summer of his life,
has been passed on the Normandy coast at Etretât. From what he knows
of Glen’s character, Mr. Bacon does not think him entirely to blame in
these family quarrels. Besides, his brother Jock’s short life was not
exemplary, for it was reported that he bit a child; and although the
child recovered from the bite, “it was the dog that died.”
[Illustration: THE LION AT HOME.
(_After the painting by Rosa Bonheur._)]
Glen, being a shepherd dog, is delighted when he encounters upon the
downs a flock of sheep, and if not called off, will instantly herd
them into a compact, frightened mass, much to the distress of their
guardian and his dog. When he cannot find sheep, he will amuse himself
by gathering together the hens and chickens he finds in an orchard;
and once, in default of these, while his master was sketching on the
sands of Mont-Saint-Michel, he herded the fishermen’s children who were
playing at low tide beyond the town. Unheeded by his master, he had
made a wide circle round the children, frightening them together like a
flock of sheep; and when discovered, he was capering round the group as
though the task had been set him of keeping them together.
Glen is well remembered at Mont-Saint-Michel, for besides this
performance, and besides leaping from the battlements when in his hurry
he could not find the stairway--he showed what seems to be his only
ambition--that of whipping a dog of twice his own size. After several
days’ premeditation, he attacked a big fellow brought from Newfoundland
by one of the fishermen, and--as usual--was unsuccessful, although he
evidently thought he might have succeeded if he had not been pulled off.
[Illustration: GLEN AND HIS MASTER AT ETRETAT.]
Glen is as fond of the water as any spaniel, and will bathe in the
breakers, leaping clear of the surf on the crest of the waves, and has
been very useful in shipwrecks of toy boats--rescuing and bringing them
safe to land to the great joy of their youthful owners.
[Illustration: Glen
Born in Aberdeenshire
Oct. 29 1879]
Every evening before he and his master retire for the night, they take
a walk. It often happens that his master has a friend spending the
evening with him, who, in Glen’s opinion, stays later than he should
stay. In this case, when the clock has struck the half-hour after ten,
Glen becomes uneasy, rises from his rug before the fire, stretches
himself, looks around, and, creeping up to the visitor, gives him a
gentle poke under the elbow. Of course he is ordered to lie down by
his master; but if the visitor is not acquainted with the ways of the
household, he is charmed with the dog’s attention, gives him a friendly
pat, and declares that Glen does not bother him. Shortly afterwards,
the guest is surprised to find the dog again beside him, sitting up on
his haunches, and gently scratching his sleeve with his paw; and he
does not discontinue his impolite hints so long as the visitor stays.
If the visitor is an _habitué_, when Glen begins his caresses he looks
at his watch, and in spite of his host’s apologies, promises Glen
that he will go in a few minutes. Often, when alone, the master will
be occupied in the evening with book or pen until, feeling a gentle
nudge at his elbow, he looks up to find the large brown eyes of his dog
fixed upon him. This is a friendly hint as to the hour, and one which
certainly prevents unduly late hours for both master and dog.
A well-known artist in New York, Mr. F. S. Church, makes frequent and
delightful studies of animals and birds--although not so much for their
own sake, perhaps, as for that of some thought to which they are the
fit accessories. Now it is a maiden wandering in desert places, alone,
save for the savage beasts her innocence has tamed. Now it is an Alpine
shrine where rain and snow have beaten against the patient Christ upon
the cross. But still the pent-roof of the shrine affords some shelter;
and beneath it, along the outstretched arms, or nestling close to
the thorn-crowned head, is a flock of birds. The storm-beaten little
wanderers have found refuge where many a one has come before--with the
Christ, at the cross.
[Illustration: MR. CHASE AND KAT-TE.]
Here a group of feathered mourners singing a dirge for the last rose of
summer; there a witch’s daughter in mystic converse with an owl.
Decidedly more realistic is the sketch called “At Rest,” of a monkey
extended in that hopeless rigidity which can never be mistaken for
life. There is something curiously touching in the stiffened form--a
look of almost human protest against fate--as though death had arrested
him at the very moment when he was about to become a man.
Another sketch represents a stray cat which thrust its head into the
studio one day, and stared for a moment at its occupant, with great,
astonished, yellow eyes. From mingled motives of humanity and art he
tried to detain her, but in vain. As silently as she had come she
vanished, although--like the grin of the cat in Wonderland--her stare
remained after her head had disappeared, thus enabling the artist to
transfer it to paper.
[Illustration: _Lilla Cruikshank’s little dog._]
It will be guessed from all these possible pets that Mr. Church had no
actual ones. Such is the case, and a great pity it is that this petless
master and a few masterless pets cannot meet! His loss, however, is
somewhat balanced by the gain in a neighboring studio, which belongs
to Mr. William M. Chase. It is rich in artistic bric-à-brac and
paintings, but the special decoration when I saw it, was a Russian
deer-hound named Kat-te. The magnificent, snow-white fellow lay upon a
Turkish rug, whose rich tints set off to perfection his own Northern
fairness. He rose, at his master’s request, to shake hands and exhibit
his beautiful form in its height and length. He even condescended to
lay upon my palm for a moment his clean-cut, delicate muzzle, but soon
wearied of exhibition, and went back to his _dolce far niente_ on the
rug.
Kat-te was found by Mr. Chase in Harlaem, and, at that time, spoke
Dutch, as a dog may. It required some time to teach him English;
nevertheless, he now understands that language also. And yet more, when
he met a party of Russians on the street one day, and was addressed by
them in their own language, he showed the greatest delight and emotion.
He tried to follow them home, he was restless, he was excited, and thus
evinced in canine fashion, not only his philological attainments, but
also his faithful Russian heart. Some idea of his noble proportions may
be gained from the accompanying picture.
The caricaturist Cham had a dog called Azor, as well-known as himself;
and Du Maurier’s Chang, a very beautiful, sagacious dog, figured, while
living, in many of his master’s sketches, and by his death grieved all
who knew him.
George Cruikshank’s Lilla was a docile, affectionate little creature,
and, like most studio pets, figures occasionally in his master’s
work. The drawing given here is from the original in Madame Tussaud’s
exhibition. It is well stuffed and mounted, and purports to be the
veritable Lilla; but although its history was inquired into both by the
artist who sketched it, and myself, we failed to get even the smallest
crumb of information. Its identity, therefore, must be left an open
question.
Dante Rossetti had a collection of pets which, in its whimsical
variety, can only be likened to that of the naturalist Buckland.
Armadillos and wombats were included, but decidedly the most notable
was the zebu. One of the artist’s biographers gives an amusing account
of the creature. It was an intractable subject for petting, and put
an end to all attempts in that direction by one day tearing up by the
roots the little tree to which it was tethered, and chasing its owner
all round the garden. After this exploit, it was given away; Mr. Knight
says that Rossetti, when discussing his pets, past and present, was not
much given to talk of the zebu.
[Illustration: LADY TANKERVILLE, WHO HID HER KITTENS IN THE HEAD OF
STORY’S STATUE OF PEABODY.]
Roman studios are as well supplied with live “properties” as American
or English ones. Will the visitor who has once seen it ever forget that
charming staircase, vine-wreathed, flowery and musical, which, although
in the busy Piazza di Termini, still keeps an air of forest seclusion?
It is the passage to a studio equally retired, fashioned like a nest in
the ruined baths of Diocletian. Paintings, bits of tapestry, etc., form
a background for various marble inmates, whose serenity is interfered
with neither by cat nor dog. It is the staircase, covered with wire
netting, that holds the favorites. Pigeons inhabit the upper part,
and keep up a continual flutter at the latticed window, their wings
gleaming silver in the sunshine. Lower down are musical blackbirds; I
remember especially among the latter one beautiful fellow, who shrank
back, mute, at the approach of our party, but answered his master’s
call at once, and perched, lightly as thistledown, upon his arm.
This master, the sculptor Ezekiel, like most bird-lovers, does not
allow cats in his home. He might possibly train Pussy into tolerance,
and so have a happy family--only--he does not like cats! which, to
a cat lover, seems queer. However, even if unconsciously, he must
have some secret understanding of their nature; for in his studio is
a marble Judith with arm raised to strike, who, in her magnificent
fierceness, recalls, far from ignobly, the feline race.
Elihu Vedder’s pets might be expected to wear a rather tragic and noble
air, appropriate to the illustrations of the Rubaiyat; but on the
contrary, they have a commonplace appearance of well-being. The studio
pet one year was an asthmatic small dog, who had thrown himself upon
the artist’s compassion--a grateful, subdued, unassuming object, which,
after each spasm of coughing, would look around with a deprecatory
expression, as if to apologize for the disturbance. Some intelligent
cats, and another small dog, in this instance possessed of vivacious
health and spirits, keep the artist’s home lively, and compete with one
another for his favor.
A third studio in Rome is that of the sculptor Story. Many famous
statues have here been “born in clay and resurrected in marble”--among
them that of George Peabody. The marble is now in London, but a
colossal plaster-cast remains in the studio.
The philanthropist is seated--a position which allows various
projections, or ledges, within the hollow cast--of which a high-minded
cat once took advantage.
[Illustration: ENTRANCE AND WINDOW OF THE SCULPTOR EZEKIEL’S STUDIO IN
ROME.]
Before reading further, look at her picture. Is she not very much like
some dainty young lady in ball-dress? See how deftly she has disposed
her train, how fastidiously she glances over her shoulder! A cat of
distinction--that is evident at the first glance! She came originally
from Walton-on-Thames, in England, was a present to Mrs. Story, and, in
memory of the donor, named Lady Tankerville. Having an artistic bias,
she chose the studio in preference to boudoir life, and was oftenest to
be found there.
After a while she was known to be the proud mother of kittens, but
where she kept them remained a mystery until several weeks later,
when they were found in--of all places!--the head of George Peabody.
It was a delightfully retired situation, and probably there never were
happier kittens. As an instance of post-mortem philanthropy, it is, I
am convinced, unequalled.
[Illustration: BIMBO, ONE OF THE SCULPTOR STORY’S PETS.]
A fine pug called Bimbo must be added to the favorites that have gone
before. A spoiled but intelligent darling, he sits up for his picture
on a velvet chair, with an air of snug contentment quite irresistible.
His mistress holds him in loving memory; and, since his death, contents
herself with a bisque “puggery,” whose inmates, if liable to breakage,
are nevertheless more easily replaced.