What no one could yet appreciate, other perhaps than Washburne himself, was the additional, immeasurable value of the diary he had kept day after day through the entire ordeal, recording so much that he witnessed and had taken part in, writing often at great length late at the end of an exhausting, horrible day, aware constantly of the self-imposed duty he felt to keep such an account. He could very well have done nothing of the sort. Or the daily entries might have been abbreviated notes only, telegraphic in style, something to be “worked up later” as a memoir. But Washburne was not so constituted. He had to set it down there and then, and the wonder is that what he wrote was not only substantial in quantity,
but that he wrote so extremely well, with clarity, insight, and such great empathy for the human drama at hand.
Numbers of his famous American predecessors in diplomatic roles in Paris had written perceptively, often eloquently of their experiences and observations while there, beginning with Benjamin Franklin, John Adams, and Thomas Jefferson. Still greater numbers of American authors of high reputation—Cooper, Longfellow, Emerson, Hawthorne, Mark Twain, Harriet Beecher Stowe—had written of their Paris days before Washburne ever arrived, and many more would take their turns in years to come. But no one ever, before or after, wrote anything like Washburne’s Paris diary, and if his decision to stay and face whatever was to come had resulted only in the diary, he would have made an enormous, singular contribution.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
PARIS AGAIN
I began to live.
—MARY CASSATT
I
“I have never seen Paris so charming as on this last Christmas day,” wrote Henry James, Jr., in the fourth of his “letters” to the New York Tribune. “The sky was radiant and the air was soft and pure. … It was a day to spend in the streets and all the world did so.”
He had first seen Paris as a boy of twelve while touring Europe with his family. He had returned now, twenty years later, to work on a novel. To help meet expenses, he was doing two letters a month for the Tribune, for which he received the sizable sum of ten gold dollars a week.
In the first of his letters, dated November 22, 1875, he stressed that any American who had been to Paris before found on return that his “sense of Parisian things becomes supremely acute.” He wrote of Charles Garnier’s new opera house, finished at last and “the most obvious architectural phenomenon in Paris,” and a new play by the son of Alexandre Dumas in rehearsal at the Théâtre Français.
In the fourth letter he extolled the “amazing elasticity” of France:
Beaten and humiliated on a scale without precedent, despoiled, dishonored, bled to death financially—all this but yesterday—Paris is today in outward aspect as radiant, as prosperous, as instinct with her own peculiar genius as if her sky had never known a cloud.
Highly knowledgeable about art, no less than music and theater, James wrote admiringly of several paintings hanging in the Théâtre Français, and particularly a portrait of a lady pulling off her glove by Carolus-Duran, who, of all the modern emulators of the seventeenth-century Spanish master Diego Velázquez, James declared “decidedly the most suc cessful.”
At age twelve, James had spent hours in the Louvre with his older brother, William, where they “looked and looked again” at paintings, all the time wondering what he would make of his life. But now, at thirty-two, his career was well established. He had published dozens of reviews, travel sketches, and more than twenty-four short stories. A first novel, Roderick Hudson, was about to be published. The second was his reason for being back in Paris. Called The American, it began in the Louvre, with its protagonist, Christopher Newman, reclined on a “commodious” divan in the Salon Carré, contemplating Murillo’s Immaculate Conception.
That James was in Europe to stay seems not yet to have entered his mind. After an uneventful crossing of the Atlantic and a brief stopover in London to freshen his wardrobe, he had had little trouble finding a suitable apartment—two bedrooms, parlor, and kitchen—on the rue de Luxembourg (now the rue Cambon), a block from the Place Vendôme. The street was relatively quiet and his windows, facing south, caught the full sunlight. “If you were to see me, I think you would pronounce me well off,” he wrote to his father, in Cambridge, Massachusetts, who had inherited his wealth and took great interest in how the family money was spent. “Considering how nice it is, it isn’t dear,” Henry assured him.
He wrote faithfully week after week—to father, mother, sister Alice, brother William—in an effort to portray the new life he had embarked upon and especially his excitement over the French writers he had already met, including Edmond de Goncourt, Émile Zola, Gustave Flaubert, and the Russian Ivan Turgenev, whom he liked best. He had also, he reported to his mother, knowing how it would please her, “taken a desperate plunge” into the American circle by attending two balls and a dinner party. But he had no relish for such company.
He missed his family dreadfully. “I am waiting anxiously for the letter from William who was to write to me on the Sunday after yours,” he wrote to his father. “But make mother write too. I have heard from her but once since I left home. It seems an age.” “Love to all in superabundance,” he would end a long letter to his mother.
He was in Paris to work, and Paris was “an excellent place to work,” he assured his editor at the Atlantic, William Dean Howells, who would be publishing the new novel in installments.
Quite unlike James himself, the novel’s main character, Newman, who was new to Paris, had come solely to be amused: “I want the biggest kind of entertainment a man can get. People, places, art, nature, everything.” James portrayed him as tall, lean, and muscular, a veteran of the Civil War, a success in business with money aplenty and ready to spend, awkward still in French but decidedly interested in the company of attractive women—none of which applied to the author himself. A graduate of Harvard Law School, James had been exempted from military service because of a physical infirmity. He had never worked in business, not even a day, and was neither tall nor muscular, nor, it seemed, much interested in women beyond spirited conversation, at which he excelled. But as it was with his main character, the longer he stayed in the great French capital, the greater its appeal.
“What shall I tell you?” he began a letter to Howells one April morning. “My windows are open, the spring is becoming serious, and the soft hum of good old Paris comes into my sunny rooms. …”
“The spring is now quite settled and very lovely,” he told brother William a few weeks later. “It makes me feel extremely fond of Paris and confirms my feeling of being at home here. … I scribble along with a good deal of regularity. …” And that, as he knew William understood, was the point.
Since the brutal catastrophes of 1870–71, the numbers of Americans coming to Paris had been growing steadily. In a single week in September 1872, the Grand Hôtel, always popular with Americans (including James’s fictional Christopher Newman), had to refuse accommodations to two hundred people. Many, like James, were back for a second or third time. Among them was Senator Charles Sumner, who, at sixty-two, had returned once more in need, his physicians said, of rest and relaxation. And as before in Paris, he was “the recipient of much attention from all quarters.”
In a city focused on swift revival, Americans were welcome as never before. The economic effect of their presence was phenomenal, as confirmed by Galignani’s Messenger:
It is generally acknowledged that the trade of Paris is now mainly sustained by American visitors who spend more money among the shopkeepers than all the rest put together. … we only wish there were more of them, for this is about the best and most effective way in which Uncle Sam can aid the new French Republic.
But an appreciable number of the French looked to America for more than monetary sustenance only. For those whose faith in the ideal of a republican form of government held firm, America remained the shining example. Indeed, one group of the faithful had conceived the idea of creating an unprecedente
d gift from France to the United States, to coincide with the approaching centennial of American independence in 1876.
It was to be a colossal monument called Liberty Lighting the World. A French sculptor chosen for the design, Frédéric-Auguste Bartholdi, had already been to America to see something of the country and meet with numerous Americans who shared an appreciation for the bonds between their country and France. He had returned with a plan to build an immense statue at the entrance to New York Harbor. The new Franco-American Union, established in Paris to promote the project, included several prominent Americans among its honorary members, one of whom was Minister Elihu Washburne.
As in times past, the great majority of the talented and aspiring Americans coming to the city to study were young and altogether unfamiliar with France, its language and ways. Many would one day rank among the eminent American artists and architects of their time. James Carroll Beckwith, J. Alden Weir, Theodore Robinson, Thomas Dewing, George de Forest Brush, Abbot Thayer, Will Low, and architect Louis Sullivan were among those who arrived in Paris in the 1870s and, like so many before, their excitement was such as they would never forget. Will Low, an art student, expressed perfectly how it felt “to wake up in Paris” for the first time. “I was not yet twenty. I was quite alone. I did not speak a word of French … but I was in Paris and the world was before me.”
Those not new to the city felt much the same. Like Henry James, they had returned because for them Paris was the best of all places to get on with their work. Of particular note were painters George P. A. Healy, returning again at age fifty-nine, nearly forty years after his first arrival, Mary Cassatt of Philadelphia, and John Singer Sargent, who was young enough to have been Healy’s grandson and an American prodigy such as had not been seen in Paris since the days of Louis Moreau Gottschalk, who, as it happened, was one of the young man’s favorite composers.
Unlike all but a few of their American counterparts, each of these four spoke fluent French, and, with the exception of James, they were there in Paris with their families.
George Healy, with his wife, Louisa, several daughters and a son, took up residence in 1872 in an ample eighteenth-century “hôtel” on the heights near Montmartre, in what was known as the painters’ quarter, at 64 rue de la Rochefoucauld, which had an enormous studio next door. Healy was an American success story of a kind the French greatly respected, and both the house and the workspace befitted a figure of renown. There were numerous spacious rooms with numerous French windows, tall mirrors, white-and-gold woodwork, as well as a small conservatory and lovely walled garden with a rococo grotto. “We can give garden parties here!” exclaimed the youngest daughter, Kathleen, who was fourteen.
The Healys had been among the thousands dealt a devastating blow by the catastrophic Chicago Fire of 1871. None of the family was injured—all were away at the time—but their home on Wabash Avenue had been completely destroyed and everything in it, including much of Healy’s work, correspondence, journals, account books, and other papers of record.
Healy had thought at first of relocating in Italy. They must think carefully and choose “exactly the right place,” he told the family, “for this is really and truly our last move.” The choice was Paris, “the only logical conclusion.”
Commissions came steadily. “Healy is strong in portraits,” reported Thomas Gold Appleton to Henry Longfellow, Appleton having by then resumed his annual visits to Paris. As once Healy had painted the protagonists of the Civil War—Lincoln, Beauregard, Sherman, Grant—so now, in relatively little time, he would paint those of the Franco-Prussian War—Adolphe Thiers, Léon Gambetta, Otto von Bismarck, all three at the request of Elihu Washburne.
As a kind of postscript to his Civil War portraits, he produced a posthumous Robert E. Lee, for which Lee’s son Custis, the president of Washington and Lee College, posed in the studio on the rue de la Rochefoucauld.
Working as industriously as ever, Healy painted a full-length portrait of Emma Thursby, an American concert singer acclaimed on both sides of the Atlantic, standing with a musical score in hand and wearing a magnificent blue silk and lace gown. In 1879, Nathan Appleton, half-brother of Thomas Gold Appleton and one of the American backers of a French plan to build a Panama canal, brought the celebrated leader of the project, Ferdinand de Lesseps, “The Hero of Suez,” to Healy’s studio for a portrait. “This will be an historical picture,” Healy wrote in his diary the day he completed a first sketch showing de Lesseps pointing to the place on the map where the canal was to go.
Between commissions he painted his own portrait and one of Louisa, then another of Louisa and daughter Edith sitting in the garden, Edith knitting while Louisa read aloud to her. Healy, too, loved to listen to Louisa read from Dickens, Balzac, or George Sand while he worked. If she were away or for some other reason unable to read, he would turn gloomy. “I go every morning and read … to Papa, but … that is not what Mama’s reading is, so he looks rather glum,” Edith wrote in her diary.
Healy could not have felt better about his work and the whole change in the life of the family. One daughter, Mary, would marry a French writer and professor, Charles Bigot. Another, Emily, chose to become a nun and took her vows in the great house at Conflans-Sainte-Honorine. Son George decided to study architecture in Paris rather than return to college in the United States. For the genial Healy himself much of the pleasure of Paris came from providing generous hospitality to young American artists who had come to “study hard,” as once he had, and to give them encouragement.
Mary Cassatt, too, had been hard hit by the Chicago Fire, and her loss, though nothing like what happened to the Healy family, had also led to her return to Paris.
Like Henry James, she had spent a good part of her childhood in Paris in the company of a well-traveled, well-to-do family and was said to have shown her earliest interest in art there at age seven. In 1866, at twenty-one, traveling with another young Philadelphia painter, Eliza Haldeman, she had returned to Europe to study and paint, much of the time in Paris, where she entered the studio of a distinguished portrait painter, Charles Chaplin, one of the few French masters who held classes especially for women. She made copies of masterworks at the Louvre, painted in the nearby countryside, worked hard and steadily.
I think she has a great deal of talent and industry [Eliza Haldeman wrote in a letter to her mother]. One requires that latter living in France, the people study so hard and the results are wonderful. … The difference between Americans and French is that the former work for money and the latter for fame, and then the public appreciate things so much here.
In an atelier at Villiers-le-Bel, Mary studied with George Healy’s old friend Thomas Couture. Later, in 1868, she was in Paris when one of her paintings, A Mandolin Player, which showed clearly the influence of Couture’s spirited, unacademic style, was accepted and hung in the Salon. She exhibited the work under her middle name, Mary Stevenson. “It is much pleasanter,” Eliza Haldeman explained, “when one is a girl as it avoids publicity.”
For Mary her time in France had determined she would be a professional, not merely “a woman who paints,” as was the expression. Commenting in a letter on just such an acquaintance, she was scathing: “She is only an amateur and you must know we professionals despise amateurs. …”
With the outbreak of the Prussian war during the summer of 1870, she had headed home to Philadelphia, where she kept painting but felt so deprived of the presence of great art at hand, so downhearted, that she was nearly ready to give up. Thinking Chicago might be a better market for her work, she went west to investigate, traveling with two of her cousins. And thus she was there when the city burned. Neither she nor any of her party suffered any injury, but two of her paintings on display at a jewelry store were destroyed.
Returning to Philadelphia, she resolved to change her life. “Oh how wild I am to get to work, my fingers fairly itch and my eyes water to see fine paintings again,” she wrote to another Philadelphia friend and fellow paint
er, Emily Sartain. By December the two were on their way to Europe.
They found Paris bitterly cold and smothered in fog. It had been less than a year since the final agonies of the siege, only six months since the Bloody Week. “The Hôtel de Ville seems like a Roman ruin. … the fog was so thick everything was lost at fifty feet off,” wrote Emily. “I could scarcely see the pictures in the Louvre, it was so dark.”
She and Mary soon moved on, this time to Parma, in Italy, to work with a teacher, Carlo Raimondi, who told Mary, “Don’t be disheartened— remember you can do anything you want to.”
The following spring Emily left Mary at Parma to join her family in Paris. On one excursion out of the city, they passed the site where one of the great battles had been fought between the French and the Germans and where the dead, they were told, were buried in eight enormous pits. A putrid smell still hung in the air.
At Parma, Mary worked on, concentrating especially on paintings by Correggio, and making such progress that she began to draw attention. In Paris in the spring of 1872, Galignani’s Messenger carried an article from the Gazzetta di Parma in which a distinguished Italian art critic, Parmetto Bettoli, wrote of seeing a copy of the Correggio masterpiece L’Incoronata, done by a young American:
I must candidly confess that when I am called to criticize feminine essays in the Fine Arts or Belles-Lettres, my eulogisms are generally qualified by the restriction embraced in the phrase, “It is not bad for a woman.” But as regards this picture I find myself in a very different position. The copy of this great work, executed by Miss Cassatt, betrays such a surprising knowledge of art that a male artist, no matter how great his experience, might feel honored at having the authorship of this work attributed to him.
The Greater Journey Page 37
