Daily globe. [volume] (St. Paul, Minn.) 1878-1884, 1879-08-31
UNKNOWN ARTISTS.
The ROmances Of Men Who Missed Their
Calling. -...

ONNVO w IN An 12OlO.
The Romances Of Men Who Missed Their
Calling. .-..
This is story which passed current
among the Partisan rapins almost thirty
years ago. 1 heard it in Coutures atelier
in 1849, long before anyone took hold of
the facts and wove them into romance.
"Once there was poor painter, (there
is nothing about poverty but this paint
er was much worse of than poor in peck
ct, for he was abject in art. He might
have made passable house-painter, a
fair kalsoniner, bnt nothing more. Such
miserable pictures as he produced of good
pictures were caricatures Of design and
color. Of course, he starved. The man
had vices without end; he was given to
drink, was envious, quarrelsome and
cheeky. It happened that in some haunt
OF low pleasure he met beautiful girl.
By one Of those strange freaks Of chance
she had the face of an angel and the heart
Of iend. The painter fell madly in
loye with her. But he had not money
enough to cater to her caprices. Even
had his pockets been we'll lined, he was
so ugly and dirty that she repealed his
advances with scorn. The man raved
over the perfection of her profile, the
clear outline Of her face. The pouting
lips, the delicate curl of her nostril, the
arch of her brow, the folded .convolutions
Of her ear, the rounded proportion of her
neck, even the way the hair waved on the
temples and then swept down on her dim
pied shoulders, were craven in his men,
Dry. He became quite crazed with love.
He would have her picture, at least
some semblance Of the woman to console
him. He daubed canvas after canvas,
then tore them to pieces in disgust. At
last the scales dropped from his eyes,
when, for the first time, he felt sure that
he had mistaken his vocation. French
like, there came up in his mind ideas Of
suicide. Still, the face Of that frail bit of
womanhood haunted him. His last SOU
had been expended in canvas and colors.
The walls Of his moldy garnet he scraped
and scratched until he whitened them,
and with bits of charcoal he tried to out
line the face. For days he toiled and
starved, One morning, wandering list
lessly through the suburbs Of Paris, he
watched the digging Of cellar. A thick
clay was being pitched into carts; it was
an unctuous blue mud An idea seized
him. He took off his necktie-he had no
handkerchief stuffed 1t full of this
clay; he even filled his pockets to bullying
With it; and, faint and weary, reeled home
to his garnet with his load. On ricket-
ty wash-stand he threw his heap of soft
clay, and stepping his tattered rag of a
shirt in water, he threw it over the shape
less mass of dirt. There were some bits
of lathing protruding, like ribs on skel-
eton, from the gaunt walls. Frenzied
with fever, with clutched fingers and
bleeding nails he tore the bits of wood
and solintered them into fragments.
Rudely fashioned some tools, and COM
menced the task Of modelling the mud.
The outlines Of head came out. All day
he labored, until the form of the
woman he loved was indis-
tinctly visible. 1t was shutdown when he
gave over, and then, exhausted, he threw
himself at the foot of the bust, and burned
with a hot fever through wild dreams
during the long night. Atdawn, though
fasting, weak and trembling, he csntin-
ued his task No! task it was not: it
was delight, a pleasure; the work was
so easy. There was nothing to do over.
It was not an improvision. He was not
giving bi: of himself away. His own
miraculous ease in catching every detail,
the unerring certainty of his hand, would
have, perhaps, had he been perfectly
sane, appalled, him. Every delicate
lineament was there. The nostrils had
their culver, the hair absolutely curled,
the pulsations Of the bosom were visible,
almost the breathing was audible, in that
lump Of dirt. The consciousness, the
certainty, came to him that it was work
of art. He had found his calling. He
would be the great sculptor OF Pals.
Fortune, fame, honor would be his. But
he must show his work. Herushed into the
streets, and by chance met sordid wretch
"a picture vampire-for whom he had
toiled and starved. He clutched him by
the sleeve and dragged him to his garnet
and showed the bust. There stood the
work-his creation. 1t was as beautiful,
as august, as proud in bearing, as Venus
of Milo.
lis that your work2''
ssIt Isl
"'Then you are the great coming artist
of Paris, and will be the fashion. 1t is
simply divine. In painting you were
worse than cook whose art consists in
cut carrots around bit of boiled
beef; in modelling you are Thorwaldsen,
Canova, Pradier; whomesoever you please.
See here, my boy, it is a pity you did not
use the right kind of clay, for just as
soon as she dries, she will crumble. You
can't, you know, always keep moist
cloth over the bust, for, in time, it defaces
the purity Of the outlines. She is pref
ty enough to have special damp cham
Der built to keep her in. Now, see you
here those old crusts you used to toast,
those egg and-spinach- things, those foil
age on tree all made up with number 3's,
were, you must acknowledge waste of
the raw material; as fre-screens the green
est provincial buyer got sick of them,
but here, scre non,' you have struck your
California. It is Pactolus for you and
for me. am the Columbus of your new
world, and as discoverer l plant my
flag or bury my bag of gold in the new
ground. Give me the monopoly of these
things. Turn me out only two month,
twenty year, even dozen would suffice
: that is not much-and we will say
1000 francs month. I will man
age exhibitions advertisements. Don't
look so stupid. Come down