DOI Seite / Zitierlink:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.36582#0027
MEMOIR OF GUSTAVE DO RE.
xxiii
“ When we were at Boulogne together in 1855, to see the disembarkation
of the Queen, Dore intently watched the leading points of the great ceremonial,
and, by way of fixing a few matters of detail in his memory, made some hasty
pencil-marks in a tiny book he carried in his waistcoat pocket. This power
of fixing a scene in the memory correctly belongs to the student who has been
true and constant to nature. Just as Houdin so educated his son’s observation
as to impress every article in a toyshop window upon his memory at a glance,
so the student whose training has the grandest object, that of giving enduring
forms to beauty, acquires the power of eliminating his material from a confused
scene, through which he is fleetly travelling. .... That which distinguishes
Dore, chez hii, is the art atmosphere in which his pleasures take their rise. In
the spacious salon of the Faubourg St. Germain, covered with his work, is a
little world of art. The professor of science, the man of letters, the gifted
songstress, the physician, the composer, the actor, make up the throng; and the
amusements are music and discourse of things which are animating the centres
of intellect. A happier and nobler picture than this handsome square salon,
alive with the artist’s friends, each one specially gifted, and with the painter-
musician in the centre, dreamily talking of some passing incident of scientific
interest, with his fingers wandering listlessly over the strings of his violin,
could not be—of success turned to worthy ends. The painter has been through
a very hard day’s toil. You have only to open a door beyond the salle-a-manger
to light upon a work-room packed with blocks and proofs, pencils and tints
and sketches. A long morning here, followed by a laborious afternoon in the
Rue Bayard, have earned the learned leisure among intellectual kindred upon
this common ground of art, where all bring something to the pic-nic. Frolic
fancy is plentiful. Old friends are greeted with a warmth we formal people
cannot understand. The world-famous man is mon cher Gustave) with proud
motherly eyes beaming upon him, and crowds of the old familiars of childhood
with affectionate hands upon his shoulders. Dinner is accompanied by bright,
wise, unconstrained talk; coffee and cigars in the lofty saloon ; and music and
laughter, the professor parleying with the poet, the song-bird with the man
of science.”
On the 15th of August, 1861, M. Dore was decorated with the Cross of
the Legion of Honour. France has more means of recognising art than
England possesses; and Gustave Dore deserves whatever his country can
bestow on him as the reward of his genius and his toil. Though cosmo-
xxiii
“ When we were at Boulogne together in 1855, to see the disembarkation
of the Queen, Dore intently watched the leading points of the great ceremonial,
and, by way of fixing a few matters of detail in his memory, made some hasty
pencil-marks in a tiny book he carried in his waistcoat pocket. This power
of fixing a scene in the memory correctly belongs to the student who has been
true and constant to nature. Just as Houdin so educated his son’s observation
as to impress every article in a toyshop window upon his memory at a glance,
so the student whose training has the grandest object, that of giving enduring
forms to beauty, acquires the power of eliminating his material from a confused
scene, through which he is fleetly travelling. .... That which distinguishes
Dore, chez hii, is the art atmosphere in which his pleasures take their rise. In
the spacious salon of the Faubourg St. Germain, covered with his work, is a
little world of art. The professor of science, the man of letters, the gifted
songstress, the physician, the composer, the actor, make up the throng; and the
amusements are music and discourse of things which are animating the centres
of intellect. A happier and nobler picture than this handsome square salon,
alive with the artist’s friends, each one specially gifted, and with the painter-
musician in the centre, dreamily talking of some passing incident of scientific
interest, with his fingers wandering listlessly over the strings of his violin,
could not be—of success turned to worthy ends. The painter has been through
a very hard day’s toil. You have only to open a door beyond the salle-a-manger
to light upon a work-room packed with blocks and proofs, pencils and tints
and sketches. A long morning here, followed by a laborious afternoon in the
Rue Bayard, have earned the learned leisure among intellectual kindred upon
this common ground of art, where all bring something to the pic-nic. Frolic
fancy is plentiful. Old friends are greeted with a warmth we formal people
cannot understand. The world-famous man is mon cher Gustave) with proud
motherly eyes beaming upon him, and crowds of the old familiars of childhood
with affectionate hands upon his shoulders. Dinner is accompanied by bright,
wise, unconstrained talk; coffee and cigars in the lofty saloon ; and music and
laughter, the professor parleying with the poet, the song-bird with the man
of science.”
On the 15th of August, 1861, M. Dore was decorated with the Cross of
the Legion of Honour. France has more means of recognising art than
England possesses; and Gustave Dore deserves whatever his country can
bestow on him as the reward of his genius and his toil. Though cosmo-