The Columbia herald. [volume] (Columbia, Tenn.) 1850-1873, 1873-05-16
WITH GUSTAVE DoRE.

Little did l think, when entered the
Cafe Dufour, the other day ut four
o'clock in the afternoon, that j should
have Gustave Dore as a companion at
the small table on which / took my din
ner We had been old acquaintance
in times gone by, when the young artist
was still poor, and when he had to draw
his wonderful sketches in n small room
in the Rue Bernardin. He then looked
the very picture of health, gayety, and
intelligence, and / believe never saw
him at that time without a smile on his
lips, which lent peculiar charm to his
handsome face. In fact, of all the ri
sing, struggling talents of that period
in Paris, young Dore seemed to look
forward to the future with the most
sanguine expectations, and the firmest
belief in his own destiny. Everybody
liked him, everybody sympathized with
him, and everybody seemed to rejoice
in his triumphs as much and as heartily
as he did himself.
Having been abroad since 1868, / had
not seen Dore since that time, and when
he took seat opposite to mine at the
table in the cafe, did not recognize
him at first for iii those five brief years
his appearance had undergone a very
marked change-so marked, indeed,
that, when he held out his hand to me,
with a smile, and said, "Do you not
know me any more, my friend? / am
Dore," felt inclined almost TO question
his word. What Young in years, yet
Gustave Dore had grown old. His face
was deeply furrowed. His voice had
grown husky. His smile was sad, and
an air of depression and melancholy
seemed to have permanently settled
upon his countenance.
He noticed my surprise, and, as we
were shaking hands he, asked:
Am /, then, so greatly changedY
"Pardon me-" / replied "you look
as if you had been very sick, or as if
you had undergone much trouble"
"My wife," he said, smiling, "tells
me the same thing"
His wife! Sure enough; he had been
married, during my absence from France
to a very charming and highly-accom
plisheG daughter of our country.
I offered my congratulations, adding!
II am sure you are happy"
"Why should not ?" he said, "Nor
have 1 been sick, and yet feel restless
and gloomy"
l.
have overworked himself.
He replied that he had never produc-
ed as little at any period of his artistic
career as in the past two years. His
work, he said, did not please him any
more as well as in former years. Critics,
he added, had always. been very kind to
him. The time was when he did not
care for what they wrote about him.
,f IaA H. 1o1 Lnaarsan al
bidly sensitive in regard to this matter.
"The other day." he said to me, quite
seriously, 81 was greatly mortified by
an article on me in the .feuillton Of the
Journal dcs Debats. Will you believe
it, passed sleepless night in conse-
quence? And yet the writer of the ar
ticle had treated me kindly and consid-
erately."
He paused moment, slipping his
claret. / must confess / was deeply
interested in what the great artist tSld
me. Could it be that, as Jules Janin
predicted years ago, in his case, over
production had exhausted the sources
of his genius, and that the vague con
seriousness of this fact had led TO the
singular psychological phenomena which
he related?
"And then," he added, gravcly, "I
am getting tired of Paris. That is sin
gular, too, for, if anybody ever loved
Paris, it was /. Everything binds me
to Paris, and still / long to get away
from it.
"What hindsrs you from travsllingY
I ventured to remark, with smile.
Nothing special, indeed, he replied,
"but cannot make up my mind wmth-
er to CO."
"Bahr' I laughed, "the world is
wide, and to you everywhere beautiful,
The truth then leaked out-that NJ.
Dore. for some time past, had been
thinking of undertaking a voyage round
the world. 80.
"A splendid ideap' exclaimed, wish
inc to cheer him up, "French art can
only gain thereby"
GBut." he said, "what want to do
is to travel in a sailing-vessel. want
to see the Arctic Sea, and l want to go
to Australia. / am bound to see all
that is grand in North America; and all
that, you know, will take years, which
may not have to spare.
The last few words he uttered in so
sombre a tone that they sounded like a
prediction of his own premature death.
Anxious to change the subject, told
him about my own travels on the west
ern coast of Africa. From the mono
syllable manner in which he answered
me every now and then, saw plainly
that he took but little interest in what
related to him.
"You see," said, gayly, "I had to
rough it; for my means were quite
limited but rich man like you"