The artistic tastes of the Princess, the lofty range of her
understanding, her liberality, and the sterling benevolence of
her mind all combined to engender a coldness and lack of sympathy
between herself and the persons composing the Court.
In the heart of the Princess dwelt a deep religious faith, such
as becomes a noble, womanly heart. Nevertheless, her ardent mind
sought to penetrate every mystery, so she was often accused of
being a doubter--when the reverse was really true.
--_Ary Scheffer to His Brother Arnola_
[Illustration: ARY SCHEFFER]
The artistic evolution of Ary Scheffer was brought about mainly through
the influence of three women. In the love of these women he was bathed,
nourished and refreshed; their approbation gave direction to his efforts;
for them he lived and worked; while a fourth woman, by her inability to
comprehend the necessities of such a genius, clipped his wings, so that
he fell to earth and his feet mired in the clay.
The first factor in the evolution of Scheffer, in point of both time and
importance, was his mother. She was the flint upon which he tried his
steel: his teacher, adviser, critic, friend. She was a singularly strong
and capable woman, seemingly slight and fragile, but with a deal of
whipcord, sinewy strength in both her physical and mental fiber.
No one can study the lives of eminent artists without being impressed
with the fact that the artist is essentially the child of his mother. The
sympathy demanded to hold a clear, mental conception--the imagination
that sees the whole, even when the first straight line is made--is the
gift of mother to son. She gives him of her spirit, and he is heir to her
love of color, her desire for harmony and her hunger for sympathy. These,
plus his masculine strength, may allow him to accomplish that which was
to her only a dream.
If a mother is satisfied with her surroundings, happy in her environment,
and therefore without "a noble discontent," her children will probably be
quite willing to have a good time on the "unearned increment" that is
their material portion. Her virtue and passive excellence die with her,
and she leaves a brood of mediocrities.
Were this miraculous scheme of adjustment lacking in the Eternal Plan,
wealth, achievement and talent could be passed along in a direct line and
the good things of earth be corraled by a single family.
But Nature knows no law of entail; she does, however, have her Law of
Compensation, and this is the law which holds in order the balance of
things. If a man accumulates a vast fortune, he probably also breeds
spendthrifts who speedily distribute his riches; if he has great talent,
the talent dies with him, for he only inspires those who are not of his
blood; and if a woman is deprived of the environment for which her soul
yearns, quite often her children adjust the average by working out an
answer to her prayer.
When twenty-eight years of age we find Madame Scheffer a widow, with
three sons: by name, Ariel, Henri and Arnold.
Madame Scheffer had a little money--not much, but enough to afford her a
small, living income.
She might have married again, or she could have kept her little "dot"
intact and added interest to principal by going and living with kinsmen
who were quite willing to care for her and adopt her children.
But no; she decided to leave the sleepy little Dutch village where they
lived in Holland, and go down to Paris.
And so she thrust her frail bark boldly out upon the tide, hoping and
expecting that somewhere and sometime the Friendly Islands would be
reached. She would spend her last sou in educating her boys, and she
knew, she said, that when that was gone, God would give them the power
and inclination to care for her and provide for themselves. In short, she
tumbled her whole basket of bread upon the waters, fully confident that
it would come back buttered. Her object in moving to Paris was that her
boys could acquire French, the language of learning, and also that they
might be taught art.
And so they moved to the great, strange world of Paris--Paris the gay,
Paris the magnificent, Paris that laughs and leers and sees men and women
go down to death, and still laughs on.
They lived, away up and up in a tenement-house, in two little rooms.
There was no servant, and the boys took hold cheerfully to do the
housekeeping, for the mother wasn't so very strong.
The first thing was to acquire the French language, and if you live in
Paris the task is easy. You just have to--that's all.
Madame Scheffer was an artist of some little local repute in the village
where they had lived, and she taught her boys the rudiments of drawing.
Ariel was always called Ary. When he grew to manhood he adopted this pet
name his mother had playfully given him. He used to call her "Little
Mother." Shortly after reaching Paris, Ary was placed in the studio of M.
Guerin. Arnold showed a liking for the Oriental languages, and was
therefore allowed to follow the bent of his mind. Henry waxed fat on the
crumbs of learning that Ary brought home.
And so they lived and worked and studied; very happy, with only now and
then twinges of fear for the future, for it would look a little black at
times, do all they could to laugh away the clouds. It was a little
democracy of four, with high hopes and lofty ideals. Mutual tasks and
mutual hardships bound them together in a love that was as strong as it
was tender and sweet.
Two years of Paris life had gone by, and the little fund that had not
been augmented by a single franc in way of income had dwindled sadly.
In six months it was gone.
They were penniless.
The mother sold her wedding-ring and the brooch her husband had given her
before they were married.
Then the furniture went to the pawnbroker's, piece by piece.
One day Ary came bounding up the stairs, three steps at a time. He burst
into the room and tossed into his mother's lap fifty francs.
When he got his breath he explained that he had sold his first picture.
Ary, the elder boy, was eighteen; Henri, the younger, was thirteen. "It
was just like a play, you see," said Ary Scheffer, long years afterward.
"When things get desperate enough they have to mend--they must. The
pictures I painted were pretty bad, but I really believe they were equal
to many that commanded large prices, and I succeeded in bringing a few
buyers around to my views. Genius may starve in a garret, if alone; but
the genius that would let its best friends starve, too, being too modest
to press its claims, is a little lacking somewhere."
Young Scheffer worked away at any subject he thought would sell. He
painted just as his teacher, Guerin, told him, and Guerin painted just
like his idol, David, or as nearly as he could.
Art had gotten into a fixed groove; laws had been laid down as to what
was classic and what not. Conservatism was at the helm.
Art, literature, philosophy, science, even religion, have their periods
of infancy, youth, manhood and decay. And there comes a time to every
school, and every sect, when it ceases to progress. When it says, "There
now, this is perfection, and he who seeks to improve on it is anathema,"
it is dead, and should be buried. But schools and sects and creeds die
hard. Creeds never can be changed: they simply become obsolete and are
forgotten; they turn to dust and are blown away on the free winds of
heaven.
The art of the great David had passed into the hands of imitators. It had
become a thing of metes and bounds and measurements and geometric
theorems. Its colors were made by mixing this with that according to
certain fixed formulas.
About this time a young playwright by the name of Victor Hugo was making
much din, and the classics as a consequence were making mighty dole and
endeavoring to hiss him down. The Censor had forbidden a certain drama of
Hugo's to be played until it had been cut and trimmed and filed and
polished, and made just like all other plays.
Victor Hugo was the acknowledged leader of the spirit of protest; in
lyric music Rossini led; and Delacroix raised the standard of revolt in
painting. With this new school, which called itself "Romanticism," Madame
Scheffer and her sons sincerely sympathized. The term "Romanticism" of
itself means little, or nothing, or everything, but the thing itself is
the eternal plea for the right of the individual--a cry for the privilege
to live your own life and express the truth as you feel it, all in your
own way. It is a revolution that has come a thousand times, and must and
will come again and again. When custom gets greater than man it must be
broken. The ankylosis of artistic smugness is no new thing. In heart and
taste and ambition Ary and the Little Mother were one. Madame Scheffer
rejoiced in the revolt she saw in the air against the old and outgrown.
She was a Republican in all her opinions and ideals; and these feelings
she shared with her boys. They discussed politics and art and religion
over the teacups; and this brave and gentle woman kept intellectual pace
with her sons, who in merry frolic often carried her about in their arms.
Only yesterday, it seemed to her, she had carried them, and felt upon her
face the soft caress of baby hands. And now one of these sons stood a
foot higher than she.
Ary Scheffer was tall, slender, with a thoughtful, handsome face. The
habit of close study, and the early realization of responsibilities had
hastened his maturity. Necessity had sharpened his business sense and
given a practical side to his nature, so he deferred enough to the old
world to secure from it the living that is every man's due.
His pictures sold--sold for all they were worth. The prices were not
large, but there was enough money so that the gaunt wolf that once
scratched and sniffed at the door was no longer to be seen nor heard.
They had all they needed. The Little Mother was the banker, and we may
safely guess that nothing was wasted.
Pupils now came to Ary Scheffer--dull fellows from the schools, who
wished to be coached. Sitters in search of good portraits, cheap for
cash, occasionally climbed the stairway. The Little Mother dusted about
and fixed up the studio so as to make it look prosperous.
One fine lady came in a carriage to sit for her portrait. She gave her
wraps into the keeping of the Little Mother at the door, with an
admonitory, "Take care of these, mind you, or I'll report you to your
master."
The Little Mother bowed low and promised.
That night when she told at the supper-table how the fine lady had
mistaken her for a servant, Henri said, "Well, just charge the fine lady
fifty francs extra in the bill for that."
But Ary would not consent to let the blunder go so cheaply. When the fine
lady came for her next sitting, the Little Mother was called and advised
with at length as to pose and color-scheme.
Neither was the advising sham, for Ary deferred to his mother's judgment
in many ways, and no important step was taken without her approval. They
were more like lovers than mother and son. His treatment of her was more
than affectionate--it was courteous and deferential, after the manner of
men who had ancestors who were knights of the olden time.
The desire to sit on a divan and be waited upon is the distinguishing
feature of the heartless mistress of fortune. Like the jeweled necklace
and bands of gold at wrist and waist, which symbol a time when slavery
was rife and these gauds had a practical meaning, so does the woman who
in bringing men to her feet by beck and nod tell of animality too coarse
for speech.
But the woman with the great, tender and loving heart gives her all and
asks no idolatrous homage. Her delight is in serving, and willingly and
more than willingly, for without thought she breaks the vase of precious
ointment and wipes the feet of the beloved with the hairs of her head.
Madame Scheffer sought in all ways to serve her sons, and so we find
there was always a gentle rivalry between Ary and his mother as to who
could love most.
She kept his studio in order, cleaned his brushes and prepared the
canvas. In the middle of the forenoon she would enter his workroom with
tea and toast or other little delicacies that he liked, and putting the
tray down, would kiss the forehead of the busy worker and gently tiptoe
out.
When the day's work was done she intelligently criticized and encouraged;
and often she would copy the picture herself and show how it could be
changed for the better here or there.
And all this fine, frank, loving companionship so filled Ary's heart that
he put far behind him all thought of a love for another with its closer
tie. He lived and worked for the Little Mother. They were very happy, for
they were succeeding. They had met the great, cruel world, the world of
Paris that romps and dances and laughs, and sees struggling and sad-eyed
women and men go down to their death, and still laughs on; they had met
the world in fair fight and they had won.
The Little Mother had given all for Ary; on his genius and ability she
had staked her fortune and her life.
And now, although he was not twenty-one, she saw all that she had given
in perfect faith, coming back with interest ten times compounded.
The art world of Paris had both recognized and acknowledged the genius of
her boy--with that she was content.
* * * * *
In the year Eighteen Hundred Eighteen, we find General Lafayette writing
to Lady Morgan in reference to a proposed visit to the Chateau de la
Grange. He says: "I do not think you will find it dull here. Among others
of our household is a talented young painter by the name of Scheffer."
Later, Lady Morgan writes to friends in England from La Grange, "Ary
Scheffer, a talented artist, is a member of our company here at the
chateau. He is quite young, but is already a person of note. He is making
a portrait of the General, and giving lessons to the young ladies in
drawing, and I, too, am availing myself of his tutorship."
Through his strong Republican tendencies Scheffer had very naturally
drifted into the company of those who knew Lafayette. The artist knew the
history of the great man and was familiar with his American career.
Scheffer was interested in America, for the radicals with whom he
associated were well aware that there might come a time when they would
have to seek hastily some hospitable clime where to think was not a
crime. And indeed, it is but natural that those with a penchant for
heresy should locate a friendly shore, just as professional criminals
study the extradition laws.
Lafayette, Franklin and Washington had long been to Scheffer a trinity of
familiar names, and when an opportunity came to be introduced to the
great Franco-American patriot he gladly took advantage of it.
Lafayette was sixty-one; Scheffer was twenty-three, but there at once
sprang up a warm friendship between them. Not long after their first
meeting Scheffer was invited to come to La Grange and make it his home as
long as he cared to.
The Little Mother urged the acceptance of such an invitation. To
associate for a time with the aristocratic world would give the young man
an insight into society and broaden his horizon.
In the family of Lafayette, Scheffer mingled on an equality with the
guests. His conversation was earnest, serious and elevated; and his
manner so gracious and courtly that he won the respect of all he met.
Lady Morgan intimates that his simplicity of manner tempted the young
ladies who were members of his class in drawing to cut various innocent
capers in his presence, and indulge in sly jokes which never would have
been perpetrated had the tutor been more of a man of the world.
It has happened more than once that men of the highest spirituality have
had small respect for religion, as it is popularly manifested. The
machinery of religion and religion itself are things that are often
widely separated; and Ary Scheffer was too high-minded and noble to
worship the letter and relinquish the spirit that maketh alive. He was of
that type that often goes through the world scourged by a yearning for
peace, and like the dove sent out from the Ark finding no place to rest.
All about he beheld greed, selfishness, hypocrisy and pretense. He longed
for simplicity and absolute honesty, and was met by craft and diplomacy.
He asked for religion, and was given a creed.
And so into the hearts of such as he there comes creeping a spirit of
revolt. Instead of accepting this topsy-turvy old world and making the
best of it, their eyes are fixed upon an ideal that Heaven alone can
realize.
The home of Lafayette was the rendezvous of the discontented. Art,
literature, politics and religion were all represented in the parlors of
La Grange. Where Franklin had discoursed Poor Richard philosophy, there
now gathered each Sunday night a company in which "the greatest of the
Americans" would have delighted. For this company, no question was too
sacred for frank and free discussion.
It was at the home of Lafayette that Scheffer met Augustin Thierry, and
between these two there grew a friendship that only death was to divide.
But there was one other person Scheffer met at La Grange who was to
exercise a profound influence on his life: this was the Duchess of
Orleans. The quiet manliness of the young artist impressed the future
Queen of France, and he was invited to Neuilly to copy certain portraits.
In the year Eighteen Hundred Twenty-six, we find Scheffer regularly
established in the household of the Duke and Duchess of Orleans, with
commissions to paint portraits of all the members of the family, and
incidentally to give lessons in drawing and mathematics to the Princess
Marie.
The Princess had been a sore trial to her parents, in that she had failed
to fit into the conventional ways of polite society. Once she had shocked
all Neuilly by donning man's attire and riding horseback astride. A
worthy priest who had been her tutor had found her tongue too sharp for
his comfort, and had resigned his post in dismay. The Princess argued
religion with the Bishop and discussed politics with visitors in such a
radical way that her father often turned pale. For the diversions of
society she had a profound contempt that did not fail to manifest itself
in sharp sallies against the smug hypocrisy of the times. She had read
widely, knew history, was familiar with the poets, and had dived into the
classics to a degree equaled by few women in France. So keen was her wit
that, when pompous dignitaries dined at Neuilly, her father and mother
perspired freely, not knowing what was coming next. In her character were
traits that surely did not belie her Louis Quatorze ancestry.
And yet this father and mother had a certain secret pride in the
accomplishments of their daughter. Parents always do. Her independence
sort of kept them vibrating between ecstasies of joy and chills of fear.
The Princess was plain in feature but finely formed, and had attracted
the favorable attention of various worthy young men, but no man had ever
dared to make love to her except by post or proxy. Several lovers had
pressed their claims, making appeal through her father; but the Duke of
Orleans, strong as he was, never had cared to intimate to his daughter a
suggestion as to whom she should wed. Love to her was a high and holy
sacrament, and a marriage of convenience or diplomacy was to the mind of
the Princess immoral and abhorrent.
The father knew her views and respected them.
But happiness is not a matter of intellect. And in spite of her
brilliant, daring mind the Princess of Orleans was fretting her soul out
against the bars of environment: she lacked employment; she longed to do,
to act, to be.
She had ambitions in the line of art, and believed she had talent that
was worth cultivating.
And so it was that Ary Scheffer, the acknowledged man of talent, was
invited to Neuilly.
He came.
He was twenty-nine years of age; the Princess was twenty-five.
The ennui of unused powers and corroding heart-hunger had made the
Princess old before her time. Scheffer's fight with adversity had long
before robbed him of his youth.
These two eyed each other curiously.
The gentle, mild-voiced artist knew his place and did not presume on
terms of equality with the Princess who traced a direct pedigree to Louis
the Great. He thought to wait and allow her gradually to show her
quality.
She tried her caustic wit upon him, and he looked at her out of mild blue
eyes and made no reply. He had no intention of competing with her on her
own preserve; and he had a pride in his profession that equaled her pride
of birth.
He looked at her--just looked at her in silence. And this spoilt child,
before whom all others quailed, turned scarlet, stammered and made
apology.
In good sooth, she had played tierce and thrust with every man she had
met, and had come off without a scar; but here was a man of pride and
poise, and yet far beneath her in a social way, and he had rebuked her
haughty spirit by a simple look.
A London lawyer has recently put in a defense for wife-beating, on the
grounds that there are women who should be chastised for their own good.
I do not go quite this far, but from the time Scheffer rebuked the
Princess of Orleans by refusing to reply to her saucy tongue there was a
perfect understanding between them. The young woman listened respectfully
if he spoke, and when he painted followed his work with eager eyes.
At last she had met one who was not intent on truckling for place and
pelf. His ideals were as high and excellent as her own--his mind more
sincere. Life was more to him than to her, because he was working his
energies up into art, and she was only allowing her powers to rust.
She followed him dumbly, devotedly.
He wished to treat her as an honored pupil and with the deference that
was her due, but she insisted that they should study and work as equals.
Instead of giving the young woman lessons to learn, they studied
together. Her task as pupil was to read to him two hours daily as he
worked, and things she did not fully understand he explained.
The Princess made small progress as a painter, probably because her
teacher was so much beyond her that she was discouraged at thought of
equaling him; and feeling that in so many other ways they were equals,
she lost heart in trying to follow him in this.
At length, weary of attempts at indifferent drawing, the Princess begged
her tutor to suggest some occupation for her where they could start
afresh and work out problems together. Scheffer suggested modeling in
clay, and the subject was taken up with avidity.
The Princess developed a regular passion for the work, and group after
group was done. Among other figures she attempted was an equestrian
statue of Joan of Arc.
This work was cast in bronze and now occupies an honored place at
Versailles.
So thoroughly did the young woman enter into the spirit of sculpture that
she soon surpassed Scheffer in this particular line; but to him she gave
all credit.
Her success was a delight to her parents, who saw with relief that the
carping spirit of cynicism was gone from her mind, and instead had come a
kindly graciousness that won all hearts.
In the ability to think and act with independence there was something
decidedly masculine in the spirit of the Princess Marie; and, as I have
shown, Scheffer possessed a sympathy and gentleness that was essentially
feminine (which is quite a different thing from being effeminate). These
two souls complemented each other, and their thoughts being fixed on
similar ideals, how can we wonder that a very firm affection blossomed
into being?
But the secret of their love has never been written, and base would be
the pen that would attempt to picture it in detail.
Take off thy shoes, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground.
The Duke and Duchess admired Scheffer, but never quite forgot that he was
in their employ, and all their attempts to treat him as an equal revealed
the effort. It was as though they had said: "You are lowly bred, and work
with your hands, and receive a weekly wage, but these things are nothing
to us. We will not think less of you, for see, do we not invite you to
our board?"
The aristocracy of birth is very seldom willing to acknowledge the
aristocracy of brain. And the man of brains, if lowly born, has a
mild indifference, at least, for all the gilt and gaud of royalty. The
Prince of Wales does not recognize the nobility of Israel Zangwill; and
Israel Zangwill asks in bored indifference, "Who--who is this man you
call H. R. H.?"
But love is greater than man-made titles, and when was there ever a
difference in station able to separate hearts that throbbed only for each
other?
Possibly even the stern old Duke might have relented and given his
blessing were it not that events of mighty importance came seething
across the face of France, and duties to his country outweighed the
duties to his daughter.
On the Thirtieth day of July, Eighteen Hundred Thirty, Ary Scheffer was
at the house of his mother in Paris. A hurried knock came at the door,
and Ary answered it in person. There on the threshold stood M. Thiers.
"Oh, Scheffer! it is you, how fortunate! you are a member of the
household of Orleans, and I have a most important message for the Duke.
You must go with me and deliver it to him."
"I see," said Scheffer; "the Convention has named the Duke as King of
France, and we are to notify him."
"Exactly so," said Thiers.
Horses were at the door: they mounted and rode away. The streets were
barricaded, so carriages were out of the question, but Scheffer and
Thiers leaped the barricades, and after several minor mishaps found
themselves safely out of Paris.
The call was not entirely unexpected on the part of the Duke. Scheffer
addressed him as "Le Roi," and this told all.
The Duke hesitated, but finally decided to accept the mission, fraught
with such mighty import. He started in disguise for Paris that night on
foot.
At the back entrance of the Palais Royal stood Ary Scheffer, and saw
Louis Philippe mingle with the crowd, unrecognized--then pass into the
palace--this palace that was his birthplace.
The next day Louis appeared with Lafayette on a balcony of the Hotel de
Ville, and these two embraced each other in sight of the multitude.
It is not for me to write a history of those troublous times, but suffice
it to say that the "Citizen King" ruled France probably as well as any
other man could have done. His task was a most difficult one, for he had
to be both king and citizen--to please Royalist and Populist alike.
This sudden turn of the political kaleidoscope was a pivotal point in the
life of Ary Scheffer. So long as the Duke of Orleans was a simple country
gentleman, Scheffer was the intimate friend of the family, but how could
the King of France admit into his family circle a mere low-born painter?
Certainly not they who are descended from kings!
Orders were issued by the government to Scheffer to paint certain
pictures, and vouchers reached him from official sources, but he was
made to understand that friendship with the household of a king was not
for him. Possibly he had been too much mixed up with the people in a
political way! The favor of the populace is a thing monarchs jealously
note, as mariners on a lee shore watch the wind.
The father of Louis Philippe was descended from a brother of Louis the
Great, while on his mother's side he was a direct descendant of the great
monarch and Madame de Montespan. Such an inbred claim to royalty was
something of which to boast, but at the same time Louis Philippe was
painfully sensitive as to the blot on the 'scutcheon.
The Princess Marie knew the slender tenure by which her father held his
place, and although her heart was wrung by the separation from her lover,
she was loyal to duty as she saw it, and made no sign that might
embarrass the Citizen King.
Arnold and Henri Scheffer were each married, and working out careers. Ary
and his mother lived together, loving and devoted. And into the keeping
of this mother had come a grandchild--a beautiful girl-baby. They called
her name Cornelie. About the mother of Cornelie the grandmother was not
curious. It was enough to know that the child was the child of her son,
and upon the babe she lavished all the loving tenderness of her great,
welling, mother heart. She had no words but those of gentleness and love
for the son that had brought this charge to her. And did she guess that
this child would be the sustaining prop for her son when she, herself,
was gone?
All this time the poor Princess Marie was practically a prisoner in the
great palace, wearing out her heart, a slave to what she considered duty.
She grew ill, and all efforts of her physicians to arouse her from her
melancholy were in vain.
Her death was a severe shock to poor Scheffer. For some months friends
feared for his sanity, for he would only busy his brush with scenes from
Faust, or religious subjects that bordered on morbidity. Again and again
he painted "Marguerite in Prison," "Marguerite Waiting," "Marguerite in
Paradise" and "Mignon." Into all of his work he infused that depth of
tenderness which has given the critics their cue for accusing him of
"sentimentality gone mad." And in fact no one can look upon any of the
works of Scheffer, done after Eighteen Hundred Thirty, without being
profoundly impressed with the brooding sadness that covers all as with a
garment.
From the time he met the Princess of Orleans there came a decided
evolution in his art; but it was not until she had passed away that one
could pick out an unsigned canvas and say positively, "This is
Scheffer's!"
In all his work you see that look of soul, and in his best you behold a
use of the blue background that rivals the blue of heaven. No other
painter that I can recall has gotten such effects from colors so simple.
But Scheffer's life was not all sadness. For even when the Little Mother
had passed away, Ary Scheffer wrote calmly to his friend August Thierry:
"I yet have my daughter Cornelie, and were it not for her I fear my work
would be a thing of the past; but with her I still feel that God exists.
My life is filled with love and light."
* * * * *
It was a curious circumstance that Ary Scheffer, who conducted the
Citizen King to Paris, was to lead him away.
Scheffer was a Captain in the National Guard, and when the stormy times
of Eighteen Hundred Forty-eight came, he put away his brushes, locked his
studio, and joined his regiment.
Louis Philippe had begun as a "citizen"--one of the people--and following
the usual course had developed into a monarch with a monarch's
indifference to the good of the individual.
The people clamored for a republic, and agitation soon developed into
revolution. On the morning of the Twenty-fourth of February, Eighteen
Hundred Forty-eight, Scheffer met the son of Lafayette, who was also an
officer in the National Guard.
"How curious," said Lafayette, "that we should be protecting a King for
whom we have so little respect!"
"Still, we will do our duty," answered Scheffer.
They made their way to the Tuileries, and posted themselves on the
terrace beneath the windows of the King's private apartments. As they sat
on the steps in the wan light of breaking day. Scheffer heard some one
softly calling his name. He listened and the call was repeated.
"Who wants me?" answered Scheffer.
"'Tis I, the Queen!" came the answer.
Scheffer looked up and at the lattice of the window saw the white face of
the woman he had known so well and intimately for a full score of years.
The terror of the occasion did away with all courtly etiquette.
"Who is with you?" asked the Queen.
"Only Lafayette," was the answer.
"Come in at once, both of you. The King has abdicated and you must
conduct us to a place of safety."
Scheffer and his companion ran up the steps, the Queen unbolted the door
with her own hands, and they entered. Inside the hallway they found Louis
Philippe dressed as for a journey, with no sign of kingly trappings. With
them were their sons and several grandchildren.
They filed out of the palace, through the garden, and into the Place de
la Concorde--that spot of ghastly memories.
The King looked about nervously. Some of the mob recognized him.
Scheffer concluded that a bold way was the best, and stepping ahead of
Louis Philippe, called in a voice of authority, "Make way--make way for
the King!"
The crowd parted dumb with incredulity at the strange sight.
By the fountain in the square stood a public carriage, and into this
shabby vehicle of the night the royal passengers were packed.
Dumas, who had followed the procession, mounted the box.
Scheffer gave a quick whispered order to the driver, closed the door with
a slam, lifted his hat, and the vehicle rumbled away towards the Quai.
When Scheffer got back to the Tuileries the mob had broken in the iron
gates at the front of the gardens, and was surging through the palace in
wild disorder.
Scheffer hastened home to tell Cornelie the news of the night.
* * * * *
When the Little Mother died, a daughter of Henri Scheffer came to join
the household of Ary Scheffer. The name of this niece was also Cornelie.
The fact of there being two young women in the house by one name has led
to confusion among the biographers. And thus it happens that at least
four encyclopedias record that Ernest Renan married the daughter of Ary
Scheffer. Renan married the niece, and the fact that they named their
first child Ary helped, possibly, to confirm the error of the
biographers.
Scheffer's life was devoted to providing for and educating these young
women. He himself gave them lessons in the languages, in music, painting
and sculpture. The daughter was a handsome girl; and in point of
intellect kept her artist-father very busy to keep one lesson in advance.
Together they painted and modeled in clay, and the happiness that came to
Scheffer as he saw her powers unfold was the sweetest experience he had
ever known.
The coldness between himself and the King had increased. But Louis
Philippe did not forget him, for commissions came, one after another, for
work to cover the walls of the palace at Versailles. With the Queen his
relations were friendly--even intimate. Several times she came to his
house. Her interest in Cornelie was tender and strong, and when Scheffer
painted a "Mignon" and took Cornelie for a model, the Queen insisted on
having the picture and paying her own price--a figure quite beyond what
the artist asked.
This picture, which represents so vividly the profound pathos and depth
of soul which Ary Scheffer could put upon a canvas, can now be seen in
the Louvre. But the best collection of Scheffer's portraits and
historical pictures is at Versailles.
In the gentle companionship of his beloved daughter, Scheffer found the
meed of joy that was his due. With her he lived over the days that had
gone forever, and those other days that might have been.
And when the inevitable came and this daughter loved a worthy and
suitable young man, Scheffer bowed his head, and fighting hard to keep
back the tears gave the pair his blessing.
The marriage of Doctor Marjolin and Cornelie Scheffer was a happy mating;
and both honored the gifted father and ministered to him in every kindly
way.
But so susceptible was Scheffer's nature that when his daughter had given
her whole heart to another, the fine edge of his art was dulled and
blunted. He painted through habit, and the work had merit, but only at
rare intervals was there in it that undefinable something which all can
recognize, but none analyze, that stamps the product as great art.
* * * * *
When, in the year Eighteen Hundred Fifty, Scheffer married, it was the
death of his art.
The artist does business on a very small margin of inspiration. Do you
understand me? The man of genius is not a genius all the time. Usually he
is only a very ordinary individual. There may be days or weeks that are
fallow, and sometimes even years that are years of famine. He can not
conquer the mood of depression that is holding him to earth.
But some day the clouds suddenly clear away, the sun bursts out, and the
soul of the man is alive with divine fervor. Sublime thoughts crowd upon
him, great waves of emotion sweep over his soul, and as Webster said of
his Hayne speech, "The air was full of reasons, and all I had to do was
to reach up and seize them."
All great music and all deathless poems are written in a fever of
ecstasy; all paintings that move men to tears are painted in tears.
But it is easy to break in upon the sublime mood and drag the genius back
to earth. Certain country cousins who occasionally visited the family of
Ralph Waldo Emerson cut all mental work off short; the philosopher laid
down his pen when the cousins came a-cousining and literally took to the
woods. An uncongenial caller would instantly unhorse Carlyle, and
Tennyson had a hatred of all lion-hunters--not merely because they were
lion-hunters, but because they broke in upon his paradise and snapped the
thread of inspiration.
Mrs. Grote tells us that Scheffer's wife was intelligent and devoted--in
fact, she was too devoted. She would bring her sewing and watch the
artist at his work. If the great man grew oblivious of her presence she
gently chided him for it; she was jealous of his brothers, jealous of his
daughter, even jealous of his art. She insisted not only that he should
love her, but demanded that he should love nothing else. And yet all the
time she was putting forth violent efforts to make him happy. As a result
she put him in a mood where he loved nothing and nobody. She clipped his
wings, and instead of a soaring genius we find a whimsical, commonplace
man with occupation gone.
Wives demand the society of their husbands as their lawful right, and I
suppose it is expecting too much to suppose that any woman, short of a
saint, could fit into the bachelor ways of a dreamer of dreams, aged
fifty-five.
Before he met the widow of General Beaudrand, Scheffer was happy, with a
sweet, sad happiness in the memories of the love of his youth--the love
that was lost, and being lost still lived and filled his heart.
But the society of the widow was agreeable, her conversation vivacious.
He decided that this being so it might be better still to have her by him
all the time. And this was what the lady desired, for it was she who did
the courting.
Oliver Wendell Holmes once said, "Because I like an occasional pinch of
salt is no reason why you should immerse me in brine," but Ary Scheffer,
the mild, gentle and guileless, did not reason quite so far.
The vivacious Sophie took him captive, and he was shorn of his strength.
And no doubt the ex-widow was as much disappointed as he; there really
was no good reason why he should not paint better than ever, when here he
wouldn't work at all! Lawks-a-daisy!
His spirit beat itself out against the bars, health declined, and
although he occasionally made groggy efforts to shake himself back into
form, his heart was not in his work.
Seven years went dragging by, and one morning there came word from London
that the Duchess of Orleans, the mother of the beloved Marie, was dying.
Scheffer was ill, but he braced himself for the effort, and hastily
started away alone, leaving a note for Cornelie.
He arrived in England in time to attend the funeral of his lifelong
friend, and then he himself was seized with a deadly illness.
His daughter was sent for, and when she came the sick man's longing
desire was to get back to France. If he was to die, he wanted to die at
home. "To die at home at last," is the prayer of every wanderer. Ary
Scheffer's prayer was answered. He expired in the arms of his beloved
daughter on June Fifteenth, Eighteen Hundred Fifty-eight, aged
sixty-three years.