The Paris Letters of Thomas Eakins 9781400831791, 9780691138084, 2008050128

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The Paris Letters of Thomas Eakins

The Paris Letters of

Thomas Eakins

EDITED BY

William Innes Homer

Princeton University Press Princeton and Oxford

Copyright

©

2009 by Princeton University Press

Published by Princeton University Press, 41 William Street, Princeton, New Jersey 08540 In the United Kingdom: Princeton University Press, 6 Oxford Street, Woodstock, Oxfordshire OX20 1TW All Rights Reserved isbn 978-0-691-13808-4 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data



Eakins, Thomas, 1844–1916. The Paris letters of  Thomas Eakins/edited by William Innes Homer. p.    cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-691-13808-4 (hardcover : alk. paper) 1. Eakins, Thomas, 1844–1916—Correspondence. 2. Artists—United States—Correspondence. I. Homer, William Innes. II. Title. N6537.E3A3 2009 759.13—dc22 [B] 2008050128 British Library Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available

Publication of this book has been aided by The Wyeth Foundation for American Art Publication Grant of the College Art Association This book has been composed in Perpetua with Archer display Printed on acid-free paper. ∞ frontispiece. Photographer unknown (attributed to Frederick Gutekunst), Thomas Eakins at about the Age Twenty-Two, ca. 1866. Albumen carte de visite. Courtesy of the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, Philadelphia. Purchased with funds donated by the Pennsylvania Academy Women’s Committee. press.princeton.edu Printed in the United States of America 1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Dedicated in Memory of

ANDREW NEWELL WYETH and in Honor of

BETSY JAMES WYETH

With personal thanks for their establishment of the Wyeth Foundation for American Art supporting Americanists’ scholarship, research, publication, conservation, fellowships, lectures, public gatherings, and exhibitions

Contents

Acknowledgments

ix

Introduction Thomas Eakins: The Artist and His Letters

1

Chapter 1

1866

9

Chapter 2

1867

79

Chapter 3

1868

187

Chapter 4

1869

237

Chapter 5

1870

293

Chapter 6

The Spanish Notebook (1870)

299

Chapter 7

Letters & Theories after 1870: A Summary 309

Collection Code Key

321

List of Owners of Thomas Eakins Letters

323

Selected Bibliography

331

Index

333

Letter Credits and Permissions

341

Acknowledgments

A publication such as this one does not develop in isolation. Many individuals have contributed to its fulfillment. Preeminent among them is the late Lloyd Goodrich (1897–1987). As a pioneering Eakins scholar in the early 1930s (Goodrich wrote the first book on the artist in 1933), he carefully explored all kinds of relevant material, including letters that were then in the hands of Thomas Eakins’s widow, Susan (1851–1938). Acting in the spirit of a protective wife, she frequently abbreviated and otherwise edited this material before giving Goodrich access to it. When I began to write about Eakins in the 1960s, Goodrich graciously shared with me his photocopies of these documents. I was impressed with the content of the letters and decided that someday I would prepare them for publication. With that in mind, Goodrich generously gave me permission to use his material as I saw fit. Although some of the letters escaped his attention, and many were unavailable or unknown to him, his record of the artist’s correspondence was nonetheless remarkably complete. Every Eakins scholar writing during or after 1985 cannot help but be indebted to Charles Bregler’s Thomas Eakins Collection at Philadelphia’s Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts. Bregler was a student of Eakins who had gathered a significant trove of memorabilia, which was purchased from Bregler’s widow, Mary, by the academy in that year. It is a fascinating archive of paintings, drawings, photographs, and letters by and relating to Eakins. Much of this material was unknown to scholars and the public. The letters, in particular, shed new light on the artist and his work. The 1985 discovery of the entire Bregler collection enabled art historians to correct the secondhand copies just mentioned as well as providing a great deal of fresh new material. I am especially indebted to two staff members of the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, Kathy Foster (now of the Philadelphia Museum of Art) and Cheryl Leibold, who were responsible for cataloging and tran-

Acknowledgments

scribing all the Bregler material. They generously made available photocopies and transcriptions of the letters that form the backbone of this edition. Leibold answered my many queries on Eakins’s academy connections, and Foster made several suggestions that improved the content of the book. I am indebted as well to those individuals who, after having heard about my project, gave me useful tips about where to find other Eakins letters. Some of these letters are in private hands and were unknown to me. Betsy Wyeth and Helen Crowell deserve special thanks for helping me track down the Eakins-Crowell letters, now missing but known through photocopies. Helen and her husband, Richard S. Crowell, did not know that the original letters written by Eakins were missing until after the February 25, 1978, death of Mary Shelmire Crowell, wife of Thomas Eakins Crowell. Other letters came to light in various institutions such as the Archives of American Art and the Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden, and these, too, have enriched the content of this book. The following individuals also deserve specific recognition for their help during the course of my research on Eakins’s correspondence: Gordon Hendricks, Garnett McCoy, Lily Milroy, Doug Paschall, Phyllis Rosenzweig, David Sellin, Darrel Sewell, Amy Werbel, and the representatives of the numerous libraries and archives who so generously offered information about letters in their possession. My heartfelt thanks also go to the collectors who opened their homes to me and provided information about the correspondence they own. Notable among these is Daniel W. Dietrich II, a longtime Eakins enthusiast who helped me in any number of ways. During my years of research on this project, I have benefited from the devoted assistance of University of Delaware graduate students Sharon Clarke, Suzi Isaacs, Carol Nigro, and Stephanie Taylor. These individuals shared the unglamorous chores always associated with this kind of project, ranging from photocopying to checking footnotes. Special acknowledgment goes to Annie Counter, also a Delaware graduate student, who served as my research assistant during the final stages of the manuscript preparation. She helped with research on people to whom Eakins wrote, checking the accuracy of the transcriptions of the artist’s words and making inventories of the letters. My thanks as well to the late Samuel Borton, the late Julia H. DeShons, Giuseppina Fazzone, Nik Gross, Tom Lathrop, Sahnoun Ndiaye, and Alas-

x



Acknowledgments

sane Maty Sene, who translated those letters and passages written in foreign languages—primarily French, but also Italian and Spanish. I am also grateful to James Tikellis, MD, my friend and neighbor, who solved some especially difficult problems of translating Eakins’s passages from French to English. Not to be forgotten is my typist, Debbie Knott, who read my handwritten notes, listened to my tapes, and prepared the manuscript with great care and an admirable concern for accuracy. I am indebted to Debbie for her dedication to this project. Regina Ryan, my agent for many years, was unflagging in her support and her efforts to identify a distinguished publisher for the book. In the end, she wisely placed it in the capable hands of Hanne Winarsky, art and literature editor at the Princeton University Press. Hanne deserves special mention for her encouraging enthusiasm for the manuscript. From the beginning, she gave my book her full backing and made it a pleasure for me to go through all the otherwise tedious steps involved in a project of this magnitude. Special thanks go to Cindy Milstein for her skilled and comprehensive editing of the letters and my remarks on them. Also, at Princeton University Press, Adithi Kasturirangan’s cheerful efficiency in tracking down photographs, Maria Lindenfeldar’s excellent design, and Sara Lerner’s careful supervision of the production process ensured a notably handsome volume. My work, as well as the production of this volume, benefited greatly from grants awarded by the Wyeth Foundation for American Art. Without this resource, my research would have been much more difficult. Finally, I would like to express my deepest gratitude to my wife, Christine, who was not only supportive during the entire writing process but also read and edited my comments chapter by chapter, making many valuable suggestions.

xi

The Paris Letters of Thomas Eakins

Introduction Thomas Eakins: The Artist and His Letters

I have always considered Thomas Eakins (1844–1916) one of our greatest American artists. He skillfully captured the essence of the human image, placed it within a convincing space, and made it seem tangible in its reality. His best portraits are extraordinary not only because he mastered the conceptual and technical skills needed to make inert paint and canvas come alive but also because he discovered the sitter’s most worthy personal traits, and recorded them vividly and in persuasive detail. In his genre paintings, Eakins concentrated on life in the United States rather than rehashing worn-out European myths and allegories. His hunting, sailing, and rowing scenes reflect the pleasure he took in these commonplace sports while elevating them to a higher, more universal plane. The pictorial language he used was not particularly original, yet it differed from what he had been taught at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts during his student years in Paris. It was also allied to, but separate from, the American genre tradition of George Caleb Bingham, Winslow Homer, Eastman Johnson, and William Sidney Mount. His work often resembles theirs in subject, but more than any of them he derived his visual information directly and faithfully from nature. For Eakins the nude human figure became a symbol of freedom, intellectual and sexual liberty, and opposition to narrow-minded prudery. His experiences as an art student in Paris reinforced this view. The French, especially within the high-spirited art community, were far less puritanical than the Americans back home. Eakins saw the nude not as a transcendent image, nor as an allegorical or traditional one: it was a marvel of nature, the superb end product of centuries of evolution. To see and study the body in this way, Eakins had to invoke all the authority of science, drawing endless analogies between medical and artistic practice.

Introduction

Eakins pursued his goals in art and life with unswerving determination. Not only did he work diligently to become an accomplished painter himself; as a teacher and administrator at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, he forcefully imposed his credo on his students. For some of them this was the right path, but for others, especially women, his teaching seemed unduly confined to the workings of the nude human body and little else. Caring far less about his public reputation than about his freedom to paint and teach as he pleased, Eakins tenaciously held to his principles, no matter what the cost. His candor in regard to the nude led to his expulsion in 1886 from his position at the Pennsylvania Academy. This prevented him from having a beneficial influence in art education, tarnished his personal reputation, and exiled him from the social and art-political circles in Philadelphia where he had exerted considerable leadership. His uninhibited, often vulgar speech was considered boorish, and his stubborn, self-righteous behavior caused him to become an outcast. It is as though he thoroughly enjoyed offending the Philadelphia commercial aristocracy and the philistines who appreciated neither his ideas nor his art. His masterful paintings and his creative process in producing them have become the subject of informative books and catalogs by art historians, biographers, and critics. Noteworthy are the writings of Lloyd Goodrich, Margaret McHenry, Elizabeth Johns, Sylvan Schendler, Kathleen Foster, Cheryl Leibold, Gordon Hendricks, Henry Adams, Sidney D. Kirkpatrick, and William McFeely. Through these volumes, and the present author’s Thomas Eakins, His Life and Art, the artist’s contributions became well-known to a wide audience. Indeed, it would seem that by now every facet of Eakins had been appropriately covered. But there is still a large body of Eakins material that has not been fully mined. I am referring to his personal correspondence, especially the voluminous letters to his family and friends written while he was an art student in Paris. I believe these student letters will prove to be an endless source of fascination to scholars and laypersons alike. Abroad for nearly four years, 1866–70, Eakins wrote long, detailed letters. These provide full accounts of his daily life and artistic development. Perhaps his father, Benjamin Eakins, had asked this of him, just as he had required his son to write home once a week; or possibly the young Eakins found his new experiences so compelling that he felt a need to capture

2



Introduction

everything in words. Whatever the reason, his letters from Paris and Spain are wonderfully informative; they are a treasure trove of information, revealing much about his training, growth as an artist, and opinions of France and the French. He continued this kind of writing while living in Spain in 1869–70, and there also recorded trenchant observations in a pocket notebook that serves as a rare summary of his opinions on art and artists. Eakins’s letters are filled with narrative detail. His descriptions often go on for page after page, frequently without much focus or emphasis. These impressions are particularly fresh, bordering on wonderment, because they come from an American art student who was experiencing the pleasures of Paris for the first time. The city was teeming with activity; Napoleon III was emperor and brought the trappings of regal splendor to the office. The French nation was at the height of its power, and many of its citizens enjoyed unparalleled prosperity. Paris of the Second Empire presented Eakins with an astonishing panoply of cultural experiences. Eakins’s letters offer much besides biographical information and insight into the formation of his art. They answer fundamental questions about his psychological drives that have puzzled and challenged scholars in recent years. For some, like Michael Fried, David Lubin, and Henry Adams, Eakins seems to have been motivated by dark forces, tumultuous urges that he himself was unable to acknowledge. Others, like Foster and, most recently, Kirkpatrick, have taken a more objective position and sidestepped the riddles of Eakins’s psyche. Read carefully, I think Eakins’s letters, particularly those in the Charles Bregler collection in the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, will help to settle many of the debates that have circulated around the artist’s inner life and thus serve a useful purpose by telling us who Eakins was. His father and Caroline, his mother, were the primary recipients of his correspondence. While Eakins was growing up they provided a normal, respectable, middle-class environment for him in Philadelphia, and he suffered no particular boyhood traumas or scars. He seems to have loved and gotten along with his mother, a Quaker from southern New Jersey, but we have few details about their relationship. His father was a respected penman and writing master, steady and quietly successful in his work. Benjamin loved hunting, fishing, and outdoor sports, and through his father Eakins was indoctrinated into these activities, which he apparently enjoyed as much as Benjamin did. There

3

Introduction

seems to have been an undercurrent of Quaker rectitude and morality in the Eakins clan. Achievement and hard work were valued by both the parents and children, of which there were three besides Thomas, all girls: Fanny, Maggie, and Caddy. He wrote to them regularly, especially Fanny. A close relationship existed between Eakins and Fanny, who seemed to be his intellectual equal—and that is saying a great deal. His letters to her were filled with such things as linguistic analysis, the art and science of music, and the fine points of Dante’s poetry. Eakins wrote that Fanny was “superior to any girl I know” (April 1, 1869). From all we can gather, she was, like her brother, both intelligent and artistic. She did not take up painting but rather found her niche in playing the piano, an instrument she took seriously, not as a dilettante. Eakins enjoyed his companionship with all of his sisters, but Maggie was a particular favorite because she shared so many of his interests. Like her brother, she engaged in sports, and apparently was quite good at sailing and ice skating. Goodrich points out that “temperamentally she was like [Eakins] in independence, hardiness, and mental vigor.”1 Another object of Eakins’s affection was Emily Sartain, daughter of the noted engraver John Sartain, a family friend. She was three years older than Thomas, and like him, was an artist, read Dante in the original with him, and could correspond with him in Italian. For reasons that are unclear, their romantic relationship cooled while Eakins was a student in Paris, though they did remain friends in later years. Eakins frequently corresponded with Emily’s brother, William, who also studied art in Paris. They were close friends and lived together during their student days. Another major correspondent was William Crowell, a classmate of Thomas’s at Central High School, and a friend and future husband of Eakins’s sister Fanny. There were others—family and friends—who received letters from Eakins, but they were fewer in number than those just enumerated. Wherever possible, these lesser figures will be identified in an introductory note or footnote to the letter in question. In regard to the publication of his letters, Eakins has been shortchanged when compared to other American artists. For example, we have editions of letters by George Inness, J. Alden Weir, and John Marin, as well as the correspondence between John Sloan and Robert Henri. Eakins certainly ranks with these artists, but an edition of his letters has not yet appeared. Fortunately, the publication of excerpts from Eakins’s letters as integral 4



Introduction

parts of the books by Goodrich, McHenry, Hendricks, and Kirkpatrick has in part addressed the situation—but not enough. This volume will hopefully fill the gap. A major step toward this publication was Foster and Leibold’s Writing about Eakins, issued in 1989. Their volume is concerned with the Eakins manuscript material in the Charles Bregler collection, acquired by the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts in 1985, as noted above. This remarkable collection gathered by one of Eakins’s former students includes not only paintings, drawings, and photographs but also numerous letters and manuscripts. Some of the written material was published by Foster and Leibold in 1989; some was not. (A limited microform edition of letters and related manuscripts, now out of print, was issued in connection with their book.) Although the Bregler collection is important, it does not tell the full story. There are other repositories of letters that round out the picture, among them the regular (non-Bregler) collection of the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, the Archives of American Art, and the Dietrich Collection. Other institutions, dealers, and collectors hold significant numbers of letters, too. One of the most interesting discoveries in recent years has been the lost “halves” of a group of Eakins letters in the Archives of American Art. When the original letters were divided between two different Crowell family members, some of them were physically separated about halfway through each letter. The remaining portions came to light and fortunately were photocopied before they were lost. My goal has been to publish all of Eakins’s letters and collateral writings, major and minor, from the years 1866 through 1870. This involved a decision to print not only the long letters but also the brief ones. At first glance, the latter type of material might seem irrelevant and not worth including. Nevertheless, I believe even the slightest written expression may tell us something intriguing or unexpected about its author. A choice had to be made as to whether to print Eakins’s occasional misspellings and omissions of words. I decided to leave the idiosyncrasies just as they were, without changes, because they, too, reveal something about the writer. Where information about the recipient of an Eakins letter is needed, I have provided it in an introductory sentence or brief paragraph or two. Whenever a personality, place, or event cited in the letters is not gener5

Introduction

ally known, I have offered more information in brackets and/or a footnote keyed to the subject matter of the letter. Birth and death dates are provided where relevant. I have been involved in research, writing, and lecturing on Eakins and his work for more than forty years. My first public remarks on the artist date from the early 1960s and focused on his contribution to the scientific method, particularly the photography of motion. Eakins was the subject of journal articles and scholarly papers that I presented over the years, and I taught graduate seminars on Eakins on a regular basis at the University of Delaware. My 1976 seminar contributed materially to the exhibition of the Thomas Eakins Collection of the Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden, Washington, DC. My graduate students and I became deeply involved in this project, and a considerable portion of the research for the catalog was done by the Delaware group working under the joint direction of myself and Phyllis Rosenzweig of the Hirshhorn Museum. During the fall semester of 1979, I repeated my Eakins seminar. This time, the research that my students and I did led to a 1980 exhibition, with a catalog titled Eakins at Avondale and Thomas Eakins: A Personal Collection, for the Brandywine River Museum. The concept for a book of Eakins’s early correspondence developed as I was conducting research for the Brandywine River Museum exhibition. Studying Eakins material in this connection convinced me that such a publication was long overdue. Thus, in 1979 I started to assemble photocopies and transcriptions of the artist’s letters and other writings, and began research on many of the personalities mentioned therein. The partial fruits of this labor came to light in my essay “Eakins as a Writer,” published in the exhibition catalog Thomas Eakins issued in 2001 by the Philadelphia Museum of Art for its exhibition of that same name. During the ensuing years I have worked diligently to complete this project. Originally my plan was to include all of Eakins’s letters, but as I labored it became clear that this would need to be a two-volume effort. I chose for the present edition all of Eakins’s student letters. These are the most numerous, interesting, and revealing documents from his hand. A smaller future edition will cover letters from 1870, the year of his return to Philadelphia, to the last letter penned by him in 1915, the year before his death. It will also include the few letters dictated by him to his wife, Susan, during his terminal illness.

6

Introduction



It is my hope that scholars and lay readers alike will share my enthusiasm for these insightful and illuminating writings. It has been my pleasure to assemble this edition for publication, and I look forward to producing the companion volume in the coming years. 1. Lloyd Goodrich, Thomas Eakins, His Life and Work (New York: Whitney Museum of American Art, 1933), 38.



7

Chapter 1  w 1866

1 1 1 1 1

v This letter was addressed in the main to Eakins’s friend and classmate William (Billy) Sartain, and deals with the fine points of language and word origins. Ranging from English to Latin, Italian, French, and German (which, following a convention of the day, he called Dutch), Eakins demonstrated a characteristically analytic approach, showing (or showing off) his wide knowledge of the subject. At the end of the letter he added a note on German linguistics for Billy’s sister Emily. William was a son of the venerable John Sartain, a noted Philadelphia engraver and friend of Benjamin Eakins. William was close to Thomas, both boys having attended Zane Street elementary school and Central High School together. Like Eakins, William studied to become an artist, first in Philadelphia, and then in Paris. Although William gained some popular success, he is forgotten today. Emily, the daughter of John Sartain, was a Philadelphia portrait painter and engraver who had studied at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts under the aging Christian Schussele in 1864–70. For a time she and Eakins were romantically linked, but by 1868, the relationship had cooled. In later years she served as the principal of the Philadelphia School of Design for Women.

June 12th. 66. Dear Billy, Naïf, of which when I last saw you, I did not know the root, comes, losing a t, from the Latin Nativus (Noël & Chapsal)1 and therefore coincides exactly with our Natural and Ingenuous. The principal idea of natural qualities as applied to persons, is that of those passively received, as opposed [to] those acquired by their own doing, and here we can build many synonyms. Artless. This word of your suggestion is very strong, because of the frequent contrast of nature and art.

Chapter 1

Unaffected. Ad, to. Facio, (feat, fact, factory[,] etc.) to make. Not made, brought, put on-to. Unassuming. Ad, to. Sumo (sumptuous, etc,) to take. Open. The Dutch [sic, read German] of the verb to open is to auf-machen, to make up. I conceive our open to be formed in a similar way from the root of our to pain. The word is then discovered, that is nothing is concealed, nothing has been pulled over, or affected. Sincere. Sinc without Cera, wax. (Schmitz & Zumpt.[)]2 One of the meanings of Cera is a paint for women. The second definition of naïf in Noël & Chapsal is sans fard, and the first definition of Fard by the same is “Composition cosmétique qui imite les couleurs naturelles de la peau[”] [a cosmetic compound that imitates the natural color of the skin]. I think cera is contracted from to smear as our marrow is from the same word. In contracting a word, it often happens that one language will lose one letter and another another [sic]. Example. Lat. Monstrare. Fr. Montrer. Ital. Mostrare. Unpretending. Tendo, to stretch, Prae. Not to hold or stretch before. Undisguised. Guise has probably the radical sense of drawing on, covering, holding or containing (See Webster on Wise.) Noël & Chapsal bring it from the same source. Candid. (Candidus, white.) From the root to cant, whose purest, most abstract signification is in the phrase to cant a stone. From this we have to tilt as in the phrase to cant a barrel over on its side. Hence cant, to whine as a beggar, as the Dutch sprechen is to break (to cant) out (A. Cyclopedia) Latin, Canto to sing, English, chant, canto. Latin, Canto, to sing, English, can, to be able, press forward. From this comes also the sense to dart—rays, to shine, to be clear. Hence Candidus white. Hence, candidate. Simple. Sine, without, ply. P—ly, To lay upon, or over or to (Webster.) whence our apply, comply, reply, complex, implicate, etc. and plait, but this last word when applied to shirt bosoms I have always heard called pleet, and this is not in my dictionary or I know not how to spell it. 12



1866

Unstudied. Study. To set the mind to. Steed & Stud. Frank. Prank, franchir, friend, frango[,] etc. Unpremeditated. Nearly the same as Unstudied. There are I suppose many more. I have made mention of the contrast of nature and art, and of how the last synonyms depended on a passiveness of being born (for that is Nature.) Yet Nature and Art are but the same words. Nature is from L. Natus, born, and this from Gnatus, and this from Gigno or Geno, to generate, bear, create; and Nature is what is created or shaped; that is the Creation. Tell Emily to look in her Dutch dictionary[.] Now Art (so thinks Webster) is but a contraction of the word to create. (See Art, Create, Cry, Can[,] etc.)  w It’s time to go swimming. I saw the lightning bugs last night.  w Dear Emily, You called my attention to the childish word liefer, Deutsch, lieber. Did it ever strike you that even such a verb as to love implies and contains motion as its principle [sic] element, and that one always loves to and not away from a person. I have an affection for him, (Translation, to make forwards to). I have an inclination for him. I yearn towards him ˘ ˘ brings (Ich habe ihn gern.) How close then comes love to laufen. Laufen us to the English life, live, leave. Another class of verbs, having the same radical meaning that is of going towards, are those of intention. I have the intention says I tend towards. I propose says, I put forward. I will ˘ (ich will) (wollen) is the Latin volo to stretch forward (Deutsch Welle, a wave) and this brings us to Valeo, to be strong, from a going forward. A man therefore while he lives goes after the fashion of a clock, er läuft, ˘ he lives. How are you? How goes it? Valeo. I am well. T.C.E. 1. This is undoubtedly a reference to François-Joseph-Michel Nöel and Charles Pierre Chapsal, Nouvelle grammaire Français (1823), translated into English in 1869. 2. A reference to one of several publications by the nineteenth-century German linguists.

13

Chapter 1

This letter was undated, but its subject and style reflected Eakins’s thinking around the time he left for Paris in September 1866. As in his letter of June 12, 1866, to William, he wrestled with the fine points of literature, in this case analyzing passages from Virgil’s Aeneid and Dante’s Inferno. The majority of Eakins’s text was written in Italian, with quotations in that language and in Latin. In other letters, Eakins alluded to William’s, Emily’s, and his group study of Dante—an exercise that must have been carried out at a high level of linguistic sophistication.

[undated, ca. September 1866] [To Emily Sartain] Non era ancor di là Nesso arrivato Quando [noi] ci mettemmo per un bosco, Che da neun [nessun] sentiero era segnato. Non fronda [frondi] verde, ma di color fosco; Non rami schietti, ma nodosi e involti, Non pomi v’eran, ma stecchi con tosco. Non han sì aspri sterpi, né sì folti Quelle fiere selvagge, che ’n [in] odio hanno Tra Cecina e Corneto i luoghi colti. Quivi le brutte Arpie lor nido [sic, read nidi] fanno, Che cacciar delle Strofade i Troiani Con tristo annunzio di futuro danno. (Dante, Inferno, canto 13, 1.1–12)1 Versione del Sig. Cary.     . Less sharp than these Less intricate the brakes, wherein abide Those animals that hate the cultured fields Betwixt Corneto and Cecina’s stream.  w Ho questa sentenza, la quale, domenica sera passata, o per la tardezza dell’ora, che, si non porti sonnolenza, almeno causa spesse volte al14



1866

quanto di stupidità, o per una attenzione da una quasi lunga lezione troppo divenuta minore, o per uno svenimento delle mie idee, o forse piuttosto per un smarrimento di queste, altrove a lor diletto state andate, o per altra cagione alcuna, non fu potuta tradurre, di nuovo esaminata; e spiegato ho, esaminandola, ed ove e come a me mancò allora il pigliarne il senno, il quale io sto per dimostrarti in poche parole; e per venir ai punti, accui: È ben possibile che fiere abbiano sterpi, ma certo per soggiorno o abitazione e non altramente; perciòche sterpo vale a dire (non lo tradurrò) rejeton qui frousse du chicot ou des racines d’un arbre sec; chicot significando, venendo quella parola del spagnuolo chico piccolo, (1.) reste d’un arbre. qui sort de terre, (2.) branche morte ou en très mauvais état. (3.) reste d’une dent cassée (4.) maladie des chevaux. Però noi possiamo apertamente vedere la significazione della sentenza, ed eccola: Quelle fiere selvagge che hanno in odio (perciòche sono elleno selvagge) i luoghi colti tra Cecina (fiume poco lungo da Livorno) e Corneto (una città) non han (avverti per abitazione) sì aspri sterpi nè sì folti, che hanno quel bosco il quale il Dante ha testè descritto.  w [“]S’elli [egli] avesse potuto creder prima,[”] Rispose il Savio mio, anima lesa Ciò c’ha [ch’ha] veduto pur con la mia rima [sic, original not italicized] Non avrebbe [sic, read averebbe] in te la man distesa. (Dante, Inferno, canto 13, l.46–49) Questa del Savio rima trovasi quasi nel comminciamento del terzo libro del Eneid. L’istorietta è d’un uomo che ebbe nome Polidoro, e conciosiacosachè [sic] ella ti debba forse alquanto interresante essere (perciòche se non dimentico, tu l’hai già poco fa letta) io intendo in piccola parte di ridirla. [horrendeum et] dictu video mirabile monstrum. [Latin] vedo un mostro meravigliosa cosa essere detta [Italian] Nam, quie prima solo ruptis radicibus arbor [Latin] 15

Chapter 1

Or (c’è) un albero il quale siccome prima è, essendo state rotte le sue radici, dal suolo [Italian] Vellitur, huic atro liquuntur sanguine guttae svelto [Latin], e gotte di sangue atro da cui sono stillate [Italian]. Et terram tabo maculant. Mihi frigidus horror e maculano colla lor tabe la terra [Latin]. Un orrore frigido [Italian]. Membra quatit, gelidusque coit formidine sanguis [Latin] mi per-cuote le membra, ed il mio sangue gelato da formidine coagola [Italian].2 (Virgil, Aeneid, bk. 3, l.26–30) w Andai jersera a casa Signor Waugh.3 Non sta egli molto meglio, se ho ben inteso qual che mi è stato detto. È fiebole [sic], e non è ancor la sua malattia arrestata. Thos. C. Eakins Adesso, io son per partirmi, Bella, cara Emilia, Addio. [Translation from Italian and French.] I have this passage that could not be translated when I looked at it again, last Sunday evening, either because of the lateness of the hour, which, if it doesn’t make me sleepy, at least often makes me a little stupid, or because my attention flags after a long lesson, or because my thoughts have been lost, or perhaps rather because they have wandered, having gone to their loved one, or for some other reason. And in considering the passage, I explained where and how I failed to catch the sense of it, as I am about to show you in a few words. And to come to the point, I may say: It is quite possible that wild animals may have thickets but certainly for a place to visit or for a home, and not otherwise; since sterpi [thickets, or decaying shoots] (I won’t translate it) means a sprout that grows from the stump or roots of a dessicated tree; stump, a word coming from the Spanish Chico-little, signifying (1.) remainder of a tree appearing above ground, (2.) a branch that is dead or in very bad condition, (3.) remnant of a broken tooth, (4.) a disease of horses. So we can clearly see the significance of the passage, which is: 16

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Those wild animals that hate (since they are wild) the cultivated places between Cecina (a river a little distance from Livorno) and Corneto (a city) do not have (note—for habitation) thickets so sharp or so thick as have that forest that Dante just described. The poem of Savio is to be found almost at the beginning of the third book of the Aeneid. The little story is of a man who was named Polidorus, and as it [the poem] may perhaps be of some interest to you (since, if I remember rightly, you read it a little while ago). I intend to retell it in brief. I see an awful portent, wondrous to tell. For from the first tree that is torn from the ground with broken roots, drops of black blood trickle and stain the earth with gore. A cold shudder shakes my limbs, and my chilled blood freezes with terror. w Last night I went to Mr. Waugh’s house. He is not much better, if I understood rightly what was told me. He is weak and his illness has not yet been arrested. Thos. C. Eakins Now I am about to leave, lovely, dear Emily. Farewell.

1. Translation by Henry Francis Cary (1772–1844), a translator of Dante’s Divine Comedy. 2. Translation from H. Rushton Fairclough, Virgil, rev. ed. (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1973). 3. Samuel Bell Waugh (1814–85) was a Philadelphia painter specializing in portraits.

In this letter, Eakins dealt with the planned meeting in New York with his friends William (here called Willie) and Emily. The occasion was his departure for Paris, to become a student at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts, the official government art school.

Philada.[,] Mon.[,] Sep. 17/66 My dear Emily, I received your letter of Friday on Saturday, and delayed answering that I might consult with Willie. I leave here in the midnight train of  Wednes17

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day or Thursday and sail from New York in the Pereire on Saturday. Willie expects to spend the last of the week with you in New York where I can see you Friday evening or Saturday morning. He suggests a picture gallery as the place of our meeting and parting. Tom Eakins wrote Emily in Italian four days before sailing for France. His tone was stilted and sentimental, almost a parodic or theatrical style of writing. Except for a few grammatical errors, his knowledge of the Italian language was commendable.

Filadelfia, i 18 di Set. 1866. Mia cara Emilia, Da Willie il tuo secondo viglietto [sic] ed italiano ricevuto ho e con piacere di molta pena miscolato letto; e addiviene il piacer d’un sentimento che m’assicura che andato via non sarò dimenticato e che una cara amica della mia partenza si dorrà. Ma qui nel animo mio surge grande tristizia, tristizia avendo Emilia; e credo che non passerà giammai. Nondimeno dacchè io abbia sovente udito dire un cotal proverbio, maggiore è la ventura stata divisa e diviene per compassione il dolore minore, e conciosiacosa chè mi sia gran mestier di consolazione, ti prego, acciochè non m’uccida il mancar di questa, di compiangere del mio dolore. Io mi parto non che da un amico, ma da tutti. Mio buon padre e la dolce mamma mia lascio e vo in una contrada straniere, certo non Inghilterra, ma ancora straniere assai, non essendovi o parente, o amico, o dei miei amici, amico; e vo solo. Mio padre m’aspetta: non posso finire. Vedrotti a New York. Scrivi a Willie od a me. Ringrazia da mia parte le tue ostesse. Non avrò il tempo di farlo io. Tom. [Translation from Italian.] Philadelphia, 18 Sept. 1866 My dear Emily, From Willie, I received your second letter in Italian, and I read it with pleasure mixed with a great deal of pain. The pleasure derives from a 18

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sense of assurance that although I am gone, I shall not be forgotten, and that a dear friend grieves at my departure. But here in my soul, great sadness arises, because Emily is sad; and I think it shall never go away. Nevertheless, since I have often heard the proverb that says happiness becomes greater when it is shared, and pain becomes lessened by compassion, and because I have a great need for consolation, I pray you, so that I may not die from lack of it, to take pity on my suffering. I am leaving not just one friend, but everyone. I am leaving my good father and my sweet momma and go to some strange country, certainly not England, but much stranger still, there not being here a relative or a friend or a friend of my friends; and I go alone. My father is waiting for me: I cannot finish. I shall see you in New York. Write to Willie or me. Thank your hostesses for me. I shall not have time to do it. Tom. Eakins sailed to France on the Péreire on September 22. The ocean voyage would take him to the French port of Brest, and from there he was to travel to Paris by rail. At sea he wrote his mother one of the longest letters he ever penned—a letter that revealed values and convictions that he appears to have held throughout his life. He wrote not only about the food, the living quarters, and the sea but also about individuals he met, as well as class, nationality, and religion. His views about humanity were strongly held and not without prejudice. In essence, he showed himself to be morally upright (if not self-righteous), opinionated, and antiaristocratic. And he was above all a keen observer of human character flaws, and was quick to point them out.

Atlantic Ocean, 2 or 3 hundred miles from France, Oct. 1, 1866 Dearest Mother,1 Such is a mothers love, that the letter most acceptable to her will be as full of I’s as one of Johnson’s speeches, and therefore with no further excuse or parley, I will say: I have been very sea-sick. The agony of parting with all my family and all my friends had considerably interfered 19

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with my digestion and in spite of my eating but little fat or butter, and drinking but little milk for a week beforehand I was decidedly bilious when I started, and fearful of [the] consequences. The brightness and coolness of the Saturday of departure diminished but did not entirely dissipate this fear, and alas for me it had a good foundation. We started out a little before 2 o’clock, and soon passed the English steamer which my father remembered seeing get off about a quarter of an hour before us, and soon after some others[,] German and English six in all, for the Pereire is very fast. The sun was pretty warm and we did not dine till half-past four. I got as far as the end of the soup, and prudently retired. I then lost all account of time and everything else. I will not try to say how sick I was. I think it must be worse than cholera at least as far as sensation is concerned. It is while asleep a continual nightmare, and even when awake the ugly dreams often continue. But as all earthly things have an end so had my sea-sickness. One night my dreams were better. I dreamed that although sick my head was on your lap. Afterwards I heard one of Fanny’s sonatas from beginning to end. 2 I do not think I missed a note, and this I look upon as extraordinary, for if awake I could not have begun to remember it. Then I was eating ice-cream; then, I had been rowing with Max,3 and I was drinking some cool beer at Popp’s at Fairmount; but while I was drinking some one put salt in it, and I was still forced to drink. Then I woke up and felt hungry and dry, for I had not since the soup tasted a morsel of food or drink, not even water. It was growing daylight and soon a waiter came in with coffee, a thing which I can just remember refusing in my sickness. Does mister want any coffee? He has long fasted. No, but bring me some bread and wine. I could only get down a couple of mouthfuls of bread, but I drank all the wine and soon felt much better. What day is it? Wednesday[,] mister.You would not eat anything before. I commenced to dress for what I wanted to get out in the fresh air, and I think I was an hour doing it, I felt so miserable, and had to lie down often. I do not think you would have known me if you had seen me, I was so pale and thin, and had such large eyes. My teeth even were loose and my lips hard and dry. But after I got up on deck, I began immediately to recover. I did not go to breakfast, but a passenger who came up eating grapes gave me a bunch and these I found very refreshing. By dinner time my appetite was as good as ever, and if my 20



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sickness was sudden, my recovery was no less so and now I am as well as ever in my life[,] if not better. End of the disagreeables. w I met with an unlucky incident in New York but a very funny one with all. I arrived there before daylight and went to French’s Hotel because, first I knew where it was and secondly I knew I would get a room there without meals. Well, I did get a room and such a room you never saw in your life. After I got asleep, I heard a great pounding on the door. I got up. What do you want? Open the door. I opened it. Why, says he peering around, have you paid yet for your room[,] I have forgotten? No, do you want the money? No. I only wanted to know if you had paid or not, that’s all. He wanted to see if I had any baggage as security. I went to sleep again. I woke at last again and felt sorry that it was so early and such a cloudy or rainy day. I dressed [and] looked at my watch. Past 8 o’clock. Then I was sure it was raining, but going to my window to see how hard it was raining, I was surprised to discover by looking up a sort of chimney into which the window opened that it was as bright a day as ever shone. After breakfast I took off my shoes and threw myself on the bed again. I felt something crawling. I jumped up in great fear of bedbugs, but they were not, they were fleas. I counted five at one time on one foot, and my body was covered proportionally. Then I stripped and shook my clothes one by one, and hung them up, and then fixed myself like we did Harry.4 I made a ring of soap suds around my neck, and then commenced driving them down. They made good their retreat to the carpet whence they came. I did not kill any, nor did I care to do so. Then I dressed myself on top of a chair and hurried away, outgeneralling them all. Father came on at night and by taking a double room we got a very decent one. I am not fond of New York. To be sure there is a great deal of life there, too much in fact for the size of the place. The ocean is different from what I expected. The waves are much larger. When people said mountains, I always thought of mole-hills. The general size is between the two. The wind except for two or three days has been east right against us. Sunday, that is yesterday, for I know nothing of the other one, was perfectly calm. One could not have wanted a bet21

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ter place to row Charley’s shell.5 Besides it was hot almost to suffocation. Just before sun-set we saw a heavy black cloud rise in the east and in five minutes it reached us. I never saw a rain come up so quickly. One could hardly see for the fog, and it was almost freezing cold. An hour afterwards the stars were all shining but it was much cooler than during the day. On the whole it was a very small affair, ridiculous in comparison to the preparation made on board to receive it, for the officers came up on deck, and such a blowing of boatswain whistles and a giving of orders I have not heard since I started. The hatch was fastened down if the big hole in the front of the ship is the hatch, and I think it must be, cordage was stored away, and ropes and things tied and tightened generally. We have passed several ships but not near enough to speak to them. This morning we came within a quarter of a mile of a very large French ship with every sail set and there was a great running up of signal flags for some time. We see birds nearly every day, [and] some were in the very middle of the ocean. They seem to be of two kinds. One is like a large gull and the other looks no bigger than a swallow. What they do for a drink I don’t know. There are about thirty [people] in our cabin, mostly Frenchmen, and very agreeable. My first acquaintance was my room-mate[,] the least desirable of all. He is from New Orleans, has lived there over ten years and don[’]t know a word of English, and I suspect not much of his own, for the waiters and others ask him often to repeat sometimes only once but oftener twice. I think he speaks French like an Irishman talks English. Besides he looks like an Irishman. He is dirty in his habits and has no just appreciation of the difference between his things and mine, but I believe him very good hearted. I was early attracted by the young man who gave me the grapes. He is the picture of a Philadelphia fireman, and not a Phoenix boy but a good Fairmount or Shiffler rough. What attracted my notice most was his facility in translating the French for a young friend and his fluency in speaking it. He told me he could also speak Italian[,] Spanish & German fluently, and he read for me some of my Dante, not I think extremely well. He is a savage eater and drinker. The next day he told me he was the son of General Miles of the rebel army who commanded the right wing at Port Hudson, that his father owned 350 slaves, that not one had left the plantation, that they would work for whatever his father would 22



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give them, that he had a cousin in the Yankee army to wit General [Nelson] Miles of Harper’s Ferry, etc., etc., etc. He introduced since in a conversation a German phrase and I responded and soon discovered he did not know even as much Dutch as myself. However there is no doubt of his speaking French and Spanish well and this goes to show what riches will accomplish without effort. His father has purposely placed him first among Frenchmen & then among Spaniards and he has picked up what he knows without pain. He goes to Lyons to study ten years. I guess he will never distinguish himself, nor do I believe him capable of it. His greatest trouble today is to know why in going round the world & losing a day you do not come across a day & night of double length, but it does not trouble him much: nothing does. He has a particular spite against turkey. He says one picked at him when he was a child. In his company there are an old gentleman & two young ones. The old one sits opposite me at table and does me a thousand little favors a day. He is a Jesuit priest who has lived 20 years in Louisiana. He is the most learned man I ever saw and talks French to me by the hour. He has read all the books with which I am acquainted and knows them. He chats about authors, painters, musicians, colleges, the animals of the south[,] those of France. He knows anatomy, medicine, & all the languages of Europe. He has never tried to convert me although he knows I belong to no church, and the only moral advice he ever gave was to abstain from gaming in Paris which he says ruins so many Americans. The most striking thing about him is his modesty. He is a gentleman in every sense. He is tall and thin and there is about him none of that low look which distinguishes the secular priests of our city. He likes wine & turkey also. One of the young men is to study for the priesthood. He tells me that Latin is much harder to learn than painting, that he has already graduated in the highest college in our country (some school house in Mobile), that he knows mathematics to the end, that his Professor of Mathematics is the greatest in the United States having amongst his other feats written in Arithmetic, and on this science (Arithmetic) he is consulted by the leading men in Europe. Tell Fanny that this great Professor showed his pupils by means of a formula (a great secret) to calculate not only interest on money, but also from the interest & time to find the principal, and as I remember it I will give it to her. Int = I or 23

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P = I/rt or r = I/Pt etc. etc. How lucky I am to remember it since it is so valuable. The young man thinks he can even now after a long vacation work out every sum in Greenleaf’s Arithmetic. He has studied on algebra to the very end, he thinks algebra. He got as far as equations of the second degree. He looks like one of the young men on 18th street & interested himself once in the welfare of my soul. His mind is not to be compared with that of Miles but he will be very industrious & perhaps learn something more in France or at least that there is more to be learned. The other young man is very young and I would judge some relative of Miles’s selected as a companion for him. The young priest has often the colic. There is on board a large number of Californians, and nothing surprised me more than to find they were all Frenchmen. They had lived there since the first discovery of gold[,] having emigrated from New Orleans. I could not get accustomed to hear them speak French, they looked so much like Bill Murphys & Uncle Toms. Some of them spoke Spanish and most of them knew English words, some the language. There are a couple of ladies in our cabin of about 45 & 65 years. They speak often with me, and the old lady speaks very slowly from habit. There is a party of 4 young Americans also in our cabin, most of them from New York[,] the most ill-mannered set of asses I have ever seen. These I have had the good fortune to be able to almost entirely avoid. One of them discovered today that I spoke English, he having before taken me for a Spaniard, and he talked with me some time. He informed me that he was going to Paris to study art. He knows every artist in New York, and is on intimate terms with the best of them. He has indeed often assisted them in giving them good ideas for which they abandoned their own feeble ones, and there is hardly a good picture in that city that does not owe its principal beauty to the genius of this young man. He says his own execution is not yet perfected but this will soon come. He says that he has already made many beautiful figure pieces in pencil but his forte is drawing horses. He admits he can draw a horse about as well as any man in America. However he will soon learn French and then if he gets tired of making horses he can make suggestions to the French artists as he has already done to the Americans, and if that land is at all grateful he will receive all the awards of the French Schools and probably some handsome pensions. He wanted to know about me, but he 24



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could learn nothing from me. I felt so modest in his presence. He is yet ignorant of my name, as I am of his. A little incident will show better than anything else their character. A servant on the ship having a little spat with the apothecary boy wrote the word pig on the Pharmacy door.The surgeon of the ship, a fat man[,] went there and saw it and not knowing the circumstances took it for a personal insult and put the servant in irons. The passengers having consulted some of the officers, got up a petition for mercy, for the servant was much liked because of his attention to everyone, and a thing of the kind gives a good excuse to an officer to pardon a good man. The petition was a very respectful one of course, written as it was by educated Frenchmen. When about half the passengers had signed it, it came to these fellows & one wrote in English for he could not write French, “If the surgeon had attended to his duties as well as the boy Adolphe has to his, it would have been etc. etc.” and then they commenced signing their names. The petition was brought to me and I called the attention of the Frenchman to that rude & impertinent observation, which I translated. I was very careful to sign my name above it. They then consulted with the commissary and blotted the whole thing out without even speaking of it to the young men. Adolphe was liberated that night after 12 hours with his bracelets on, and came around thanking everyone in the politest of language. The New York party received his thanks damning him for a good fellow, and thought no doubt it was principally due to them that he was free. There is an old negro in our cabin going to France to receive a medal for having nursed and saved a good many cholera patients in Guadeloupe or some such place. He plays the fiddle. Also a young negro taking over to Victor Emanuel [sic] a bear, tiger, wild cat, prairie dogs and elk. This is his sixth voyage on that account. He goes over the Alps with mule teams. Sometimes he meets a messenger half way who orders him right back to America: California, Texas, Canada[,] etc. He is well educated by profession a musician and is a good friend of Miles. The rest of our cabin passengers are all Frenchmen[,] mostly young and all gentlemen. The second cabin is I think preferable to the first at least in this trip. The first cabiners are nearly all Jews and Americans. I heard one yester25

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day talking. He had been abused by the officers. He required as medicine pure alcohol. He asked for [illegible] the surgeon said he could not spare any. That was a base subterfuge. He knew he had plenty of it. He will go to Paris and complain to the officers of the company. If the surgeon is not immediately discharged entirely from the service he will withdraw all his custom from it as well as that of his friends, and his custom is very, very large, thousands of francs a year. He says he is a gentleman until aroused by injustice and then he is like a rock, or a lion. He had a large audience and told us all about his character, and that of his fathers[,] etc. I forget to thank Heaven that all the Englishmen are in the first cabin, and a nastier looking set of young snobs I never saw in my life. They avoid coming near us but we sometimes see them. They keep close back to the rudder for the second class passengers often overstep their limits. I do not believe there is a single Frenchman in all the first cabin. My four Americans at the opposite table are now blackguarding one another[,] bantering the favorite expressions of our streets, so that I can hardly write. That is about the only English we hear now. I am glad that the Frenchmen do not understand them. I can now make out all that I hear around me, even the talk of the sailors except of course technical parts of their discourse, and this I could not in English at first. I shall never sufficiently express to Mr. Gardel my thanks for his kindness.6 We not only speak French but we live French. Last night Sunday and the afternoon too we had fiddling and card playing.The young priest was at the cards too and he plays a good game of euchre and all fours. He is very quick at handling cards [so] I am sure he is well practiced. We have coffee at eight o’clock or so in the morning. I don[’]t go to it. At 9½ there is breakfast, turkey, chicken, birds, beef-steak, corn beef & cabbage, fish, tongue, potatoes and I don[’]t know how many dishes of singular names and divers tastes. At 12 we have bread & soup. At 4½ Dinner. At 8 Tea. Dinner & breakfast are the two grand meals. Wine is our only drink, the water is not good. It is very foggy just now. We hoped to reach Brest early this evening, but at noon the fog came on and we came near to running into some ships.The whistle is blowing all the time and we are only crawling along. We will not dare to near the coast till morning. Perhaps not till noon. All the officers are on deck. I am scribbling in great haste for they will soon put out my light. I hope Fanny has had some pic-nics and that she 26

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will give me a detailed account of them. Has Max & Poppy had a row with the Streets yet, and what was the result[?] I will give you an address as soon as I get to Paris. It will be a long ride. It takes 16 hours of rail-road travelling. T. C. Eakins 1. Caroline Cowperthwait Eakins (1829–72). 2. Fanny is the nickname for Eakins’s oldest sister, Frances (1848–1940). 3. Max Schmitt (1842–1900) was one of Eakins’s boyhood friends. The two were classmates at Philadelphia’s Central High School. Schmitt was a champion rower who was the model for Eakins’s celebrated painting Max Schmitt in a Single Scull (1871). By profession, Schmitt was a lawyer. 4. Harry was the family dog, a setter. 5. Charley Boyer, a music teacher and gunsmith, was one of Eakins’s friends. He lived at the “Fish House” all winter. 6. Bertrand Gardel (d. 1885) was a friend of the Eakins family, and gave private French lessons to Thomas and his sister Fanny.

Eakins shared with his family his process of assimilation to Paris. He expected that they wanted to hear about the unique traits of the city and its inhabitants.

Paris, Friday, Oct. 6, 1866. My Dear Mother, I am all safe and sound in Paris. I hope I shall soon hear from you all. I have been here since Tuesday, and would have written sooner, but I wanted to give you my address and delayed my letter on that account until I should find a room; and besides my letter from Brest will have shown you my arrival in France and termination of the sea voyage. My address then is Monsieur Crépon No. 64 Rue de l’ouest Paris, pour remettre [for delivery] France à Mons. Thomas Eakins 27

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How is my father? How long did his chill last. How are all the others? Does little Caddy still remember me?1 How are my friends? Has anyone been to see you? Who? Have you gone to see anybody? Have you been out on the river? It must be very beautiful now with the red and yellow leaves of the trees. The leaves are all changing here too, but they do not grow bright; they only fade and die. Since I left America I have not seen the sun except two or three days in mid ocean, and although the weather is not positively bad, it is far from good. It is always cloudy, sometimes it drizzles a little, sometimes it is foggy. Crépon says the winter is commencing and this is a specimen of it.2 It never gets very cold here. The Seine does not freeze. The snow is seldom more than an inch deep. We sometimes see such days at home in November. The spring however is said to be very beautiful here and I shall await it with some impatience. Since I have been in Paris, I have been living at the hotel recommended by Doctor Dunglison as respectable and reasonable.3 I fear the recommendation came partly from a mistrust in my French. The place is filled with Englishmen and an interpreter is always ready if needed. The house is not very large, but it is furnished handsomer than our Continental. My own room in the fourth story has an Axminister carpet on the floor, rosewood or mahogany furniture, red velvet chairs, lace curtains[,] etc. etc. The dining room is marble, carved & painted & gilded wood & mirrors. The dinners are very grand, and many bejeweled English women and English snobs with eye-glasses condescend to eat at the table instead of having their meals sent to their rooms, but notwithstanding all their condescension I shall feel more comfortable when I will be living less expensively, and I move to night. Just think of it, almost two hours at dinner. The first day I got here I was so tired and sleepy, for I had been traveling all night, that I slept until nearly dinner time. Since then I have been hunting those to whom I have letters. I found Crépon very soon and he[,] remembering his obligations to Mr. Sartain and America[,] has been a very kind friend to me and has helped me to find a room, which will probably be my future home.4 Mr. May the painter is sick, has been so for two to three months.5 I had a great walk to find him, although the direction by Mr. Sartain was correct and plain. A policeman sent me up town: he gave me to understand that the street was about a mile

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above a palace which is itself above my hotel, but Poppy knows it, the Louvre.6 When I got up there, another policeman said, “there is to be sure a street up here by that name but no artist would live here, you must go down by the Arch of Triumph.” This is 2 or three miles below the Louvre. It is a misfortune to strangers that in such a great city as Paris there are often several streets with the same name. The letter itself had two directions on it. I went then to the first. They had never heard of such a man. I then found the other, and the door keeper said Mr. May is sick. He told me he came around to the studio every day or two but he generally remains but a few minutes and is very irregular in his coming. He did not know, had not the slightest idea of where he lived, so strange are the habits of the people of Paris, so little are they given to attending to the business of others. I shall be sorry to trouble a man who is unwell, but if he can go out I think he can sustain a short interview and I stand very much in need of a little advice which Crépon thinks he can give me. I will therefore write him a note requesting an interview and leave it with Mr. Sartain’s letter at his studio. It is getting dark now [at] 4½ o’clock and I must prepare for dinner and then pack up. I am sorry I cannot write more.When I once get fixed I shall have more time, and I have a good deal to tell about Paris, some of which I am sure will interest Aunt Eliza.7 Get Poppy to tell me about politics. When you get my letter [the] election will be over. I can here learn all about France, England, Spain, Italy, Germany, about nothing of America except the New York price of gold. T.C.E. 1. Caddy is the nickname for Eakins’s youngest sister, Caroline (1865–89). 2. Lucien Crépon (1828–87) was a French painter who had resided for a time in Philadelphia and attended the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, where he met and befriended Eakins. Crépon was a great help to him in Paris. 3. Dr. Robley Dunglison (1798–1869) was a hero to Eakins. He obtained his MD from the University of Erlangen, and taught at the University of Virginia and the University of Maryland before coming to Philadelphia’s Jefferson Medical College in 1836. Dunglison remained there until 1868, earning accolades as a surgeon and teacher. 4. John Sartain (1808–97) was a skilled engraver and official figure in the Philadelphia art world. He was a friend of Benjamin Eakins and his family. 5. Edward H. May (1824–87) was an American literary and history painter living in Paris.

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Chapter 1 6. Thomas’s affectionate name for his father. 7. Eliza Cowperthwait(e) (1806–99) was Eakins’s aunt (his mother’s sister). She lived with the family at 1729 Mount Vernon Street.

Eakins continued his wide-eyed account of Paris and the Parisians, but in much greater detail than before. Nothing seems to have escaped his attention—the streets, the people, birds, fish, dining habits, popular amusements, houses, cats, dogs, and bedbugs. Often his Parisian experiences came into sharp relief when he contrasted them unfavorably with the events of his native city. There was a distinct note of homesickness for his former life in Philadelphia and a yearning for news about his family and friends.

Paris, Monday, Oct. 8th, 1866 My dear Mother, I have been in Paris now nearly a week and as I have been going nearly all the time, I am getting well acquainted with it. They say that Boston has crooked streets but I guess the Paris ones are worse. Their names I fear I shall never know. They have generally four or five streets with the same name to begin with. Then the same street often without any apparent cause changes its name. Then some streets are only a square long and few of them are straight even for so short a distance. We would call them alleys in our country. In them it is the fashion to walk in the middle of the street. It is much cleaner there than on the sidewalk, the sidewalk here as in other European cities serving for other purposes. The streets are not all so bad though. There are some very fine large ones called boulevards and these are often straight for some distance. I know one more than a mile long. The buildings of Paris are beautiful beyond description. Although I expected so much they have far exceeded those expectations. Paris is a city of palaces. To beautify things the sun came out yesterday and all that day and all today there has not been a cloud. Things are all very different here from those at home[,] more than anyone would suppose. The carriages, houses, animals, dresses, every30



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thing. The ways of the people too are strange to me, and so are those of the animals. One of the first things that struck me was the great number of tom-tits in the street at the depot. Afterwards I found all the streets alike. They are filled with birds, and you can judge then that the gardens are not empty. They flock in them by thousands, and in the window shutters of the Palace of the Louvre there is hardly a slat that has not its little nest. Besides the tom-tits there are a great many doves, and these are tame too. I wish Aunt Eliza could see them. Any bird at all will come and eat out of your hand, and it is fun to get a crowd of the little tom-tits around you and make them catch the crumbs.You call them around you and then put a little piece of bread on your thumb and shoot it up like a marble. They are very dexterous and as there are always a great many ready to eat, I have not yet seen a crumb fall to the ground. If you do not hurry and shoot your crumb, though, some impudent little fellow will steal it before it goes up. Nobody seems even to think of hurting or annoying these little birds, and how queer it will look I think in the spring to see the mother birds teaching the little ones not to shun people but to look on them as their best friends. In the basins of the fountains there are swans and fish. These too are always ready to eat. A pin-hook would be of great service but I don’t think the French boys have ever conceived of it. The French are strange even to the time of eating. I felt very hungry one morning at half-past eight o’clock, and strolled into a restaurant. When they found that my business was to get something to eat, they opened their eyes wider than the Dutchman when he saw Mr. Gardel put water in his beer. Nobody breakfasts till 11, not many till 12. Dinner is eaten after half-past six. This is, I believe, the true Paris style. The Hotel of Lille & Albion was only half French in its seating as well as its talk. Yesterday was Sunday and it is a great gala day. Many stores are closed and have signs on them saying we close Sundays and Holydays. All Paris tries to be merry. There is considerable ball playing in the gardens. One man stands opposite another and with broad bats of wire or string they bat the ball from one to another. They do this for hours and seem to find 31

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amusement in it. How Uncle Emmor would laugh at them.1 They play a game more stupid than cricket. While speaking of Uncle Emmor, I know he would like the French bread. It has so much crust and besides it is well made. It is no thicker generally than my wrist and they give you about a yard at my restaurant from which you cut off whatever you want. Besides the ball playing the chief Sunday amusements in the gardens are promenading, wine drinking, music, dancing, and games of chance, which latter are very numerous and some of them remarkably ingenious. The French must be a happy people. They are so easily amused. The quays of the Seine are always full of people weekdays as well as Sundays fishing. Some seem to be poor people, mechanics or boatmen. Many however are well dressed people[,] some with sporting costume. Many are quiet respectable nice old gentlemen. They are always fishing but I have not yet seen a fish caught and I don’t believe that one ever is caught there. The children have many amusements here. A good one is to ride the hobby horses. These are wooden horses which go round in a circle of about 30 ft. to the number of 10 or 12. The horses are soon full; the smallest children are strapped tight so they can’t fall off, and then the man in the middle turns the crank which moves the concern. Each child has a sword given him which he tries to pass through little rings hung up. Some manage to get a good many, and a certain number probably entitles them to an extra ride. There are a dozen or so nanny goat turnouts[,] some with the most stylish of coaches and silver plated harness. The coaches are exactly like the large ones. They are mostly minded by old women who trot up and down with them all day. The children are early imbued with a love for the theatre. They have little theatres all through the Tuilleries [sic, read Tuileries] and the Elysian Fields. The scenery is well painted and the actors are doll babies. How they are moved so well is a mystery to me. They are generally furnished with clubs with which they batter one another’s heads, and this, though it occurs on the average three times a minute[,] never fails to provoke a laugh from the children and their governesses. The boys play leap frog and spin top but there is a great want of spirit in their playing; they play in a listless sort of a way as if they were all very sleepy. Is it top time yet in our country? It seems to me it is a spring game there. Maggie can tell 32



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you. Another game here is a hindmost of three. I saw a number of men playing it yesterday in the gardens. It put me in mind of our picnics. The men play other games too but they are too stupid to describe. I saw two big men playing marbles. They were down on their knees and much interested. The houses of Paris are all built of stone. When you want to get in you step up in front of a big iron door and ring a bell. You hear a bolt drawn and you push the door and walk in. Unless you look sharp you will not see anyone. The man who drew the bolt is way back in a little house from which he has not stirred and sees you as you enter out of his little window. It puts you in mind of the penitentiary and I don[’]t think an American criminal could live contented here for any reminiscences. When you get into the house you do not feel at home. The furniture is different and there are some pieces which we never see at all in our country. The floors too are all stone. There is mostly a carpet though in the center of the room. Cats generally give a homelike appearance to a room. Uncle Tom used to say that an ounce of gold was the price of them in the early times of California; but even the cats here are strange. They are larger than ours, [and] have long fur and bushy tails like foxes. There are a few[,] however[,] of our kind. I have already seen two.When I saw the first one I felt so glad I would have run to stroke it but for fear of making myself ridiculous. There are many dogs in Paris all muzzled with leather bands or led by strings. They have neither nobility, dignity, nor intelligence. Milliken’s nasty little cur would shine amongst them, and it would make Charley Boyer sick to see the most respectable and well dressed gentlemen of Paris walking along the promenades carrying these little whiffets in their arms and fondling them. The women do the same thing. Paris is full of soldiers. I thought English soldiers of Montreal very gay in their dress, but the Frenchmen beat them. They are dazzling, and you see them in every street. The most beautiful are the dragoons with their long swords and carbines. They mostly go at a full gallop. The only soldiers here that put me at all in mind of ours by resemblance are the Emperor’s African Zouaves. They dress like Collis’s men and are not much darker.2 When their foreheads are too low they shave their front hair entirely away. You were surprised perhaps at my queer looking letter of Friday with the address changed but I can tell you how it was. Crépon went round with me to find a chamber. We found a good one which he advised me 33

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to take which I therefore did. A man came to my hotel that very night and took my trunk and I went with him. I had just written my letter to you, but I had not despatched it for I didn’t know how, and must wait to ask Crépon. My chamber was yet occupied[,] and the landlady Mme. Francastel put me in a larger and much handsomer room to stay until my own would be empty. I made myself comfortable till bed time. Just as I was about to jump into bed I saw something and on closer inspection saw another something and then found they were bedbugs. I didn’t know what to do. I was in a strange house and it was a dark night. I had no right to go and disturb Crépon and couldn’t if I had wanted to for I could not have found my way there at night. But I began to get sleepy and cold and must do something. So I stripped myself stark naked, put all my clothes even shoes and stockings up on a table, stopped up the keyhole of my trunk which I had not unpacked, brushed away what bugs I saw and hopped into bed. I did not sleep much, and what little sleep I had was so troubled with dreams of bedbugs that it did me but little good. The French bedbug is larger than I think than its American brother and just as ravenous. Crépon came to see me early next morning and asked me how I had slept. I told him and asked him in turn if it was necessary to accustom myself to these creatures, if they were in all Paris boarding houses[,] etc. I felt quite easy when he promised me he would see that I should get a room entirely free of them. He then called Madame Francastel and she made a thousand excuses and apologies and assured me that my own chamber was entirely free from them, and that it would [be] unoccupied that very day. Crépon told me he thought I might believe her and so I took possession of my own room. It is very clean and as yet I have not seen a bug or a sign of a bug. I unsealed my letter[,] rubbed out the address which I had at first written and with a new envelope at the post office[,] and they gave me the worst pen to do it with that it has ever been my misfortune to handle. For fear my letter should have miscarried I will give you directions again. Monsieur L. Crépon No. 64 rue de l’Ouest Paris, France pour remettre à Thomas Eakins I can’t begin to tell you how anxious I am to hear from home, to get my 34

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first letter. It seems to me that I have already been away for months. No particulars can tire me. Keep me informed of everything. Does Maggie go to school yet?3 Where does she go? Has Charley given her a piece yet? Has Caddy learned anything new? Who comes to see you? Where have you been to[?] I hope you have been boating. Our Schuylkill is so beautiful at this season. I hope Poppy goes out regularly with Max. I should be sorry if he should lose his taste for rowing. Has the opera come to Philadelphia yet[?] There are several here. Does Fanny go to the Germania[?]4 I wish she could hear the Imperial band playing in the garden in the afternoon. There must be over a hundred musicians. It is a military band with no stringed instruments. I don’t suppose they play a bit better than the Germania, but still it is different and very good, better for the open air as the Germania kind of music is for the concert room. Please send me Henry Huttner’s address. I must write to him. Have you had any news of him[?] T.C.E. 1. Emmor Cowperthwait(e) was Thomas’s uncle. He lived near the Eakinses on Mount Vernon Street. 2. Collis’s Zouaves, who served as the 184th Pennsylvania Volunteers in the Civil War. 3. Maggie is the nickname for Eakins’s middle sister, Margaret (1853–82). 4. The predecessor (1856–85) of the Philadelphia Orchestra.

In this letter and the next Eakins announced that he had been accepted by the Ecole des Beaux-Arts, and then offered details about how he was denied admission and then reinstated. He gave a blow-by-blow description of his struggle with French bureaucrats and explained, among other things, how and why he needed to manipulate the system. Eakins reported that he had “quite a talk” with his chosen teacher, Jean-Léon Gérôme, marking the beginning of a long and close relationship.

Paris, Saturday, October 13th. 66 Dear Father, In accordance with a determination of not sending you a letter until I saw a good prospect of getting to work, I have delayed writing to you 35

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until now. I will be admitted next week into the imperial school,1 having passed ten days of great anxiety and suspense; and although it may seem at first sight wrong to fill a letter to home with an account of trouble, yet as sorrows entirely past often leave no bitterness but generally enhance a present joy, I will not hesitate to tell you all that I have done and all that has happened to me since I have been here. The first day I came here I could do nothing; I was so tired and sleepy. The second, I went to see Crépon. He received me very kindly on account of the photographs I brought him, and the letter of Mr. Sartain whose kindness to him on more than one occasion he assures me will never be forgotten. As soon as he could find the time he went with me and found a room for me. I inquired of him the best way to get into the School of Fine Arts. He could not tell me. He had not drawn there for some years himself, and since then there had been changes. The only influential man he knew, formerly a director of the school, and intimate friend of his, through whose influence he had obtained admission for several, was in Rome, gone there to live. I told him then that Mr. Sartain had given me a kind letter of introduction to Mr. May. He thought Mr. May might possibly do something for me, but if he couldn’t then I must enter a pay school. The price is not great for models are cheap, but other advantages are not much. He knew of one such and nearly all the Americans go there. Formerly these schools were numerous and had the best of Professors at their head, but they have now with the exception of two or three been merged into the large imperial school. He gave me no hopes and told me that he would introduce me to this American school whenever I wanted to, and gave me liberty to come and see him when I should be in trouble or in need of his advice. I was considerably frightened and hurried to May’s. The door keeper told me that May had been sick for a long time, that he did not paint but came to his studio once in a while to look around. I think he had had a surgical operation performed. The man advised me to come in two or three days. I came in two, but was not lucky enough to find him. He could not tell me where he lived for he did not know himself although May had painted there for years. On consideration I decided to write to May asking for an interview, thinking that if he was well enough to come to the studio at all he could see me for a few minutes. So I wrote “Dear Sir, I am very sorry to hear that you are not 36



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well, and knowing this I am again pained with the thought of troubling you but I stand so in need of a little advice that I cannot refrain from asking of you a short interview which I yet hope you will refuse me if you do not feel able to easily support it,” and enclosing this in Mr. Sartain’s letter of introduction, I left them both with the doorkeeper. Just as I was about to leave, a grand barouche drove up and Mr. May himself descended. The man called me back to tell me that that was Mr. May, and so taking up my letter again I introduced myself and being invited followed Mr. May up to his studio. He is a different looking man from what I imagined. I thought him young. He is old; and is tall and gray, and stiff and proud. He read the letters and then inquired coldly after Mr. Sartain’s health, and deigned to ask if Mr. Sartain painted a great deal and also if the daughter who traveled with him was married. He afterwards asked me how much money I calculated to spend. After he had done all his questioning I commenced. What chance is there of getting into the Academy. He then cried out to the young artist in the next room, “I say, Saintin! There are no vacant places in the Academy! Are there?” No, says Saintin. Now says May you had better go into the private studio of Mr. So & So. He is a friend of Saintin’s and Saintin will give you a letter to him. I next asked if he knew our minister, telling him I had a letter to him, and also at what time I had better see him. He said he did know him and then gave me gratuitously to understand that he dined very very frequently with that illustrious man and was on the whole very intimate with him, and also that Bigelow was in the country and there was no knowing when he would come back. He was kind enough[,] however[,] to give me the address of the minister. He told me to come again in a week and he would get Saintin to write me a letter to this friend who kept a pay school and finally fixed the time at 4 o’clock on next Saturday, that is today. I thanked him for his kind attention and took my leave. I don’t like May at all. He may mean to be kind but you don[’]t feel at ease in his presence. I fear he follows Couture his master in other things besides painting.2 You may imagine that I was very low spirited and as I went home I stopped to see Doctor Hornor.3 Not at home. Come again. I did not feel sorry for it, I was almost afraid to see him, afraid to give up another letter, for the letters seemed to be friends to me. On my way home I thought I would execute a little commission for Mr. Sartain. There was 37

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an Art Report published in 1855. Mr. Sartain wrote the Report from America, and had lost his manuscript and wanted a copy of the Report. So he asked me as I was coming away to go to a Mr. Lenoir and see if he could not give me one, and wrote his direction on a little slip of paper. I got this out to see it, and it was this “A. Lenoir, secrétaire à l’Ecole impériale et speciale des Beaux Arts,” and then it popped into my head to speak to this man about the school. When I found the place I found it was the school itself. When I asked to see Mr. Lenoir I was passed through a whole suit of rooms, bureaus, entries and stairways by at least a half a dozen (one at a time) men dressed with uniforms and soldier caps and was finally ushered into the presence of Mr. Lenoir. He is a big, good-natured kind looking man not a bit prettier though than Lincoln. He told me to come sit down and tell him what I wanted. So I told him all about the report, how Mr. Sartain had lost his manuscript and wanted a copy and so forth. He said he could not tell exactly where to find it, but would look for it, now if I was going to leave the city soon, but if not and had the time to call again in a couple of days he would be more likely to get it. I told him that it would be better then for me to call again in the two days for Mr. Sartain had assured me that although he wanted the report very much he was in no hurry for it. Mr. Lenoir may I speak to you about myself for ten minutes. O yes! certainly, why not, and he spoke so kindly that I at once commenced. I want to be an artist. I have left America to come to Paris to study in your school. I am a stranger here. Is there a possibility of my getting in? What must I do? What is it you want to study? Painting Sir. O well I guess we can find a place for you. Go and see your minister and ask him to write you a letter requesting your admission and then you can get to work as soon as you please. Instead of ten minutes I don[’]t think I took two, and I went away with a light heart. I knew the minister had not got back yet, so I went into the Louvre and staid till 3 o’clock when I was to go and see Dr. Hornor. I found him in and he is another good-hearted man. He did all he knew how to make me feel at home[,] chatted about Philadelphia and Paris, my room, his paintings, everything, but I must keep all this for other letters. He finally told me he was not personally acquainted with Bigelow, that he had neglected to go see him as consul, and did not like to afterwards for fear Bigelow would say to himself[,] Here Hornor, you 38



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didn’t come to see me when I was consul, and I wish you’d stay away and now that I am minister. He said he thought Bigelow might be difficult to approach and offered voluntarily (for I had not even thought of asking) to put me in such a way that Bigelow would be sure to do all he could. He said he knew a physician[,] an intimate friend of Bigelow’s[,] and in fact everybody that Bigelow knew and told me to come early next morning[,] say at ten o’clock, before business time and perhaps he could also think of something else in the meantime.You may be sure I went. I thought I saw when I entered a look of disappointment on the doctor’s face, but it passed immediately away and if you had seen us you would have thought we had known each other for years. As he said nothing about the minister[,] neither did I, but just as I was leaving he followed me out and said, you had better go to Bigelow with your letter from Professor Roger’s, and if he is not gentleman enough to do what you ask, but I am sure he is a gentleman, why wait till General Dix comes and he will do it for you. I am sorry to have given Doctor Hornor any trouble, for I am sure he took upon himself considerable on my account and it proved of no avail. I went then to the Minister’s. He was in the country. The servant said he would not be back till Saturday or Monday. (A lie.) I could see Colonel Hayes however. Next day I must go and see about the Report. Mr. Lenoir had not yet been able to find it. He asked me if I had got my letter yet from the Minister. I told him no, that the Minister had not returned. Well[,] said he, you can[’]t depend much on Ministers, there is no knowing when they come and go. Go to his Secretary. He will give you one and that will be just as good and save time. Had you seen me going to the American legation you would have said I walked for a wager. I asked to see Colonel Hayes and after sending in my 39

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card and letter I was ushered into his august presence. Ah! Mr. Eakins[,] I am happy to see you. So you have come to Paris to study? How do you like Paris? I answered all his questions and then told him what I was after. Oh Mr. Eakins[,] I would be delighted (school-girl emphasis) to accord your request, but there are no vacancies there, and if there were there are several applicants; some have been here more than a year and not admitted. I told him then that Mr. Lenoir had told me to come, and had promised to admit me. He said I must be mistaken for he had a letter from the Emperor’s household which assured him there were no vacancies. Would he give me a copy of that letter or let me copy it to show Mr. Lenoir? No, but he would give me the substance of it. With this, he scribbled on the back of an old envelope the following which is not good English nor good French nor a grammatical mixture of the two for there is no verb in his sentence. “A letter from the Ministry of the Emperor’s Household and of Fine Arts, dated Aug. 27th, declining to grant admission to the American students proposed by the U.S. Legation on the ground that all applications had been “ajournées jusqu’a nouvel ordre [postponed until a new directive] on account of the largely increased number of admissions.” Such an incomplete sentence might be a fine piece of disrespect coming from sources, but I am sure he was not capable of that. Why not I asked[,] write me the request and then let Mr. Lenoir refuse me[?] He did not feel at liberty. The servant who heard the last of our discourse did not take the trouble to show me out, but I found my way with him, thanks to the kindness of a French cook into whose kitchen I wandered. I was again in the depths of despair. What should I do? Had that young dandy lied to me? Why didn’t he let me see the letter? Should I appeal to May to write me a letter to the Minister himself or take me to see him as he was such an intimate friend. No, I was afraid of May. He may have private interests[,] I thought, or he may wish to advance someone else. Again, may it not be that there is some truth about the letter of the French Minister. Roberts (a rich disagreeable young man from Philadelphia, one who has without any apparent reason seen fit to be my enemy) is now in Paris.4 I am sure he must be Colonel Jackanape’s [sic] dear friend,5 and if there is truth in the letter I may have brought the first news of a vacancy, and the Colonel has refused to give me the request to save time. I will go see Mr. Lenoir again the first thing in the morning. 40



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As I went home, so nervous had I become that I even had fears of Mr. Lenoir, and Heaven forgive me those unjust sentiments. It is the vulgar talk that French politeness is a sham. Is it possible[,] I asked myself[,] that Mr. Lenoir has sent me to the Minister knowing that I will get a refusal, and will tell me tomorrow that he is very sorry but he has done all he can? But mind I did not believe it, I only feared it. As I was now in great fear of losing time I wrote the following to Mr. Lenoir which I would leave for him if he was not in. Mr. Lenoir, if I have rightly understood you, you have promised to admit me into the Academy of Fine Arts when I shall have obtained a request from my minister or his secretary. I went yesterday immediately to Mr. Bigelow’s. I found there a young man who received me very politely and who said, “I would be delighted to grant you your request, but they assure me that there is not a place in the school.” I represented to him that Mr. Lenoir himself had told me otherwise. He did not appear to believe that I was telling the truth. Will you have the goodness to write for me what you have said to me, that is, that there is room for me in your school, and sign your name[?] Perhaps it has been necessary to exercise circumspection in the choice of applicants. Perhaps there have been among them rich young men who have entered your schools only to amuse themselves and pass the time. I am not one of them. To study in the French School I have quitted and for the first time my parents, my friends, and my country, and I have come alone to Paris where I am a stranger. I was assured there was no difficulty in entering the schools of France[,] that they were open to the world, and if I cannot enter how now can I write to my father, or the friends who told me to come here[?] But if you will trouble yourself to write me the little note, the young man cannot I think then refuse me longer, and I will then commence my studies. I am sorry to give you the trouble but you will easily pardon it in considering that a word from you may perhaps determine the success of my life. Thomas Eakins. Early next morning I went to the Academy again, and was shown into Mr. Lenoir’s. Mr. Lenoir was not there, but there were two big Frenchmen there writing. One took my note from me and to my surprise opened it and read it through from beginning to end. They agreed that it was very good writing (I had done my best.) When he had finished 41

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reading it he looked at me a while and then said: What do you want to learn[,] sculpture or painting? Painting. I guess I looked anxious for he said: Don[’]t unquiet yourself (English have no inquietude)[,] you shall obtain all this which you desire. Come here tomorrow at noon. I went and Mr. Lenoir being again out I saw the same gentleman who handed me a note from Mr. Lenoir addressed to Mr. Thomas Eakins, in which he tells me that he [had] just written to the imperial superintendent that there is room in the school & says.You will therefore claim a letter from your embassy to solicit the permission to study in the school, which he will accord to you on the presentation of this letter. As soon then as the Superintendent will write to us, I will cause your name to be inscribed on the list of the scholars of the studio you may choose. Meantime, you must see your professor who will give you a letter, and then you can commence your work, and to this interesting epistle he signed his name and title. With this letter in my possession, I again went to the Legation. They asked for my card and sent back word that Mr. Bigelow was busy, but to sit down and Colonel Hayes would come and see me. After an hour or so he came in but I didn’t feel at all impatient. Good morning colonel. Good morning Sir, is there anything new?Yes sir, I have the new order of which you spoke. It is in a private letter addressed to me. I will show it to you. I did so and he read it. There was no mistaking it or its meaning. Well said he changing his manner entirely, this is a most unaccountable thing. I have some friends who have been trying to get in for a long time. How did you come to get such a letter from Lenoir[?] Oh[,] said I carelessly, it was only by chance. A friend of Mr. Lenoir’s is also my friend. I didn’t tell him how slim that chance had been. Hayes then explained to the clerks that I had had a private letter to Mr. Lenoir. I did not correct him. The mistake was only one of number. Mr. Sartain had made use of several letters in spelling the name and title. Hayes went back to Bigelow’s room and came back after a while and said to me. Mr. Eakins[,] we feel we would be doing injustice to the other young gentlemen not to include their names.We never make separate applications for the candidates.We apply for all at once and they take in as many of them as they have room for. We must[,] however[,] of course put your name first. I assured him that I would be delighted to render this assistance to my young American friends and I was sorry that they had to wait to long. 42



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He asked me if I would like to see Mr. Bigelow, and telling him yes. I was conducted by him to Mr. Bigelow’s Room. This gentleman impressed me very favorably. He talked with me a good while and gave me some excellent advice which I shall not forget. As he is a man of education none of it was of the soft kind. Hayes put in his penny whistle and said that the American students would look on me as their guardian angel, and a dozen other pretty compliments and so susceptible am I to flattery, that I forgive the puppy, but there was a time when I would have given a franc for a good kick at him. Sure enough Roberts is his friend. I thought so. Mr. Bigelow invites me to come and see him and his wife before they leave. As I went away Mr. Bigelow hoped I would make as good an artist as diplomat. The servant conducted me all the way, and as I passed him he made me a profound bow, for which I am extremely grateful. I bore with me a missive on gilt edge paper enclosed in an envelope about the size of a small window frame, the whole highly ornamented with seals & cunning devices. The following are the names. Thomas Eakins, Conrad Diehl, Earl Shinn, Howard Roberts, [and] Frederick A. Bridgman.6 Next morning I saw Mr. Lenoir and thanked as well as I could his extraordinary kindness. He stopped me and taking one hand in both of his and told me to go and see my professor on Monday and be a good child (infant), and as long as I behave myself I feel sure that I will have a friend in Mr. Lenoir. In accordance with the appointment Mr. May had made with me, I have just gone to see him. Neither he nor his friend Saintin was there nor was any word left. I will not trouble them any further. I have now delivered all my letters except Mr. Gardel’s one to Mr. Benneke. I don[’]t think he is in Paris, at least I cannot find him. But Mr. Gardel has given me a still better introduction than Mr. Benneke’s could have been, for he has introduced me to Mr. Lenoir and the whole French people. I have yet to encounter my first real difficulty in making myself understood. If you see Mr. Sartain thank him for his letters and that little slip of paper. I hope Mr. Lenoir will have soon found the report and then will write to him myself. If you see Rogers thank him too. I gave his letter to Bigelow. And if you see Dr. Dunglison tell him I have found through his means a friend. I see I have space. I will write more about Hornor. He is very fond of poetry, of his own, and very proud of it; but as a man is known by his work I will give you what he gave me of it. Lines on the 4th of July at Pre Catalan Paris 1866. We hail our 43

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nation’s Natal Day. The Glorious Fourth, When Freedom’s flag by patriot hands unfurld. Enwrapped within her folds near half the earth, and form the State which since has awed the world. Content and Peace on all our borders smiled Earth[,] sent her offerings to our thriving shore. Prosperity each cheerful hearth beguiled & God did bless our basket & our store. But discord reared its hydra headed form and brothers raised the swords their fathers gave. Against each other in a evil storm And dyed with crimson e’en a parent’s grave. Four weary years our mothers sacrificed Their second aye their only born To shield our boon by fire and blood baptized Lest from that sacred scroll a leaf be torn. The waves of passion now have sunk to rest The anvil rings responsive to the flail The bow of promise gilds our glowing West, and commerce smiles as fills the swelling sail. Peace weaves again her garlands in our land! Heart beats to heart as we now gather here to pledge the memory of a martyr land, and sanctify the tribute with a tear. The other piece he gave me is about the Atlantic Cable, & begins[,] See yon ship majestic looming, Like some monster of the seas; How she cleaves the swelling billow, as her canvas clasps the breeze. Be careful in acknowledging the receipt of what I have here written not to use the word trash as I want to show the letter to Doctor Hornor. He was surprised that Dr. Dunglison had given me a letter. He says it is not often that Dunglison puts his name to such documents and judged right away that I must be a favorite of the Doctor’s[.] He is very anxious to know if Doctor Dunglison had received a letter from him by the hands of young Maury, and asked me to write to Dunglison and that would save trouble. He sent Dr. Dunglison some of his poetry. Dr. Dunglison thanked him for it in a letter and then Dr. Hornor wrote a letter of thanks for the thanks of Doctor Dunglison. He dispatched it by young Doctor Maury, and it is this last letter he is so anxious about. Doctor Hornor’s wife is not well but as soon as she is recovered I am to come see them at home. The doctor is a great lover of pictures, and particularly of the low price at which he buys them; he is so sharp & such a good judge. Deception is wrong but the least is always the best of two evils and I think I would commit a sin not to affect to admire his Virgin Marys and other works of those great masters whose productions fill the dirty little shops of Paris especially when no harm can possibly come from the affectation. Doctor Hornor is Mr. Pickwick in every sense.7 He even looks like him. Caddy would know him in a minute.You 44



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may judge how I value his friendship. His little failings increase as they always to towards the old, one[’]s affection. I will go and see him and tell him I have dispatched my letter. I sometimes find now little scraps of news from America, but they are only commentaries and put me in mind of the French lady who was surprised that Mr. Gardel could be an American & white at the same time. Tell me about the Union League fire. Have the accused been tried yet? Has the fire been proved the work of the Copperheads?8 What’s Johnson doing?9 A paper here says that he is on good terms with the majority in Congress. But that is ridiculous. Write to me about all my friends. Tell Mr. Lewis I am sorry I can[’]t put in my vote, but I have a consolation; for, where my vote just lost to the Republican Party, the Copperheads have lost twenty, and I think that proportion was maintained throughout the whole steamship. I forgot to tell you in my first letter that those ill-mannered blackguards of whom I wrote were all Copperheads. However you have doubtless guessed it. I find I have yet room, I’ll give you more of the poetry. From her deck there comes a whisper Speaking plain as tongue can tell. Ship at ease with cable running and the work progresses well. Throbs electric still are beating Makes a thousand run or more Till it marks in fiery numbers We have reached the Western Shore! With the nervous pulse of commerce Quickening Wealth’s arterial span. Science sends to hope her greeting Peace on earth Good will to Men. S. S. Hornor. Do you see Billy Crowell? How are his eyes? Can he use them? Do you have torch-light processions[?] Have you yet been with Charley after rail? How many did you shoot? Did you tumble overboard? Did you see old man Williams[?]10 Did he give you a concise history of the building of that wonderful house[?] T.C.E. 1. That is, the Ecole des Beaux-Arts. 2. Thomas Couture (1815–79) won accolades as an academic painter, but departed from the linear tradition of Gérôme in favor of a more painterly style. He was the author of an influential book—Méthode et entretiens d’atelier [Conversations on Art Methods] (1867)—that impressed Eakins. 3. Dr. Hornor was a Parisian dentist and collector of pictures who had befriended Eakins. 4. Howard Roberts (1843–1900) was a well-to-do Philadelphia sculptor who specialized in classical figures. 5. Jackanapes was one of Eakins’s favorite words. The Oxford English Dictionary defines it as: “One who is like an ape in tricks, airs, or behaviour; a ridiculous upstart; a pert, impertinent fellow, who assumes ridiculous airs; a coxcomb.” 45

Chapter 1 6. Conrad D. Diehl (1845–1933) became a landscape and portrait painter and resided in the Midwest. Like Eakins, Earl Shinn (1837–86) studied in Gérôme’s atelier, but he showed little talent as a painter and became an art critic. Shinn was an early defender of Eakins and his work. Frederick A. Bridgman (1847–1927) was an American student of Gérôme who specialized in Oriental and archaeological subjects. 7. The main character of Charles Dickens’s The Pickwick Papers (1836–37). 8. Northerners (Democrats) who sympathized with the South during the Civil War. They opposed that war and sought a peaceful settlement with the Confederates. 9. Andrew Johnson (1801–75) was the seventeenth president of the United States (1865–69). A Democrat, he was vigorously opposed by the Republicans in Congress and was largely viewed as incompetent. 10. Samuel Hall Williams was the owner of the Fish House and a spread of property on the Cohansey River near Fairton, New Jersey, where the Eakinses and their friends hunted railbirds.

This letter consisted of a short note to his father stating that he was accepted as a student of Gérôme.

Paris, Oct. 26/66. Dear Father, I’m in at last and will commence to study Monday under Gérome.1 Full particulars in my next. The mail starts directly. I haven’t yet got my first letter from home. T.C.E. 1. Eakins’s chosen teacher, Jean-Léon Gérôme (1824–1904), was a popular academic painter and instructor at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts. Gérôme specialized in historical subjects, particularly from antiquity and the Near East. He depended heavily on close observation and archaeological verisimilitude, rendering his subjects in a tight, linear technique that enclosed areas of bright color. Eakins had probably become aware of Gérôme’s work in Philadelphia and chose him as his teacher because he was a respected academic artist, yet was relatively true to naturalistic detail.

Eakins took the opportunity to write his father, in great detail, about his struggle to gain acceptance in the Ecole des

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Beaux-Arts. He contrasted “great men” with the small-minded bureaucrats he had to contend with in the admissions process. He followed this discussion with comments on politics, particularly in Mexico, and the problems of the French water system.

Paris, Friday night, Oct. 26. 1866 My dear Father, There is many a slip twixt[,] etc.You have received a week ago I suppose my letter of this afternoon telling you I am in at last.You remember my letter about troubles entirely past. They were past but there were as many more yet to come. When I got Bigelow’s letter to the Minister of the House of the Emperor I took it to the school and gave it to Lenoir who sent it to its destination. I talked with him a little while about my studies and we chose Gérome for my professor and as I had already lost much of my time & was anxious about the future[.] Mr. Lenoir guessed there would be no harm in doing things a little backwards and to save time he permitted me to go see Gérome before I got my authorization from his Majesty’s House. Gérome’s studio the finest I ever saw [and] is surely near one end of Paris. He was painting from a model. I told him my business. He must see my permit. I told him why I had come before getting it and showed him Lenoir’s letter. He hesitated a moment, then put down his paints and wrote me Paris the 15th Oct. 1866 Mr. the Director. I have the honor to introduce to you Mr.Thomas Eakins who presents himself to work in my studio. I pray you will receive him as one of my scholars. Accept the expression of my most particular sentiments. JL Gerome I hurried to the school. Too late. I must go the next day. I went and showed my passport. Call at 3 o’clock said they. I called and a man after asking my name said they had yet received no authorization from the House of the Emperor. He gave me back everything and told me 47

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to come in two or three days. I went and another man learned that the minister was not in Paris. Shall I come tomorrow? No. Next day? No. Come monday. I went and saw the big man who had read my letter to Lenoir and had told me to be easy. Any news? Not for you[,] my friend. But an American has been admitted. His name is Moore.1 Then your Minister is returned. O yes, some time. Can I speak to Mr. Lenoir[?] No you had better not, he has done all he can for you. I assure you he can now do no more than I can. What must I do then I asked, you see I am a stranger, to whom must I go? Could I see your minister? Dear me, no. I will tell you all that you can do, go to your minister and get him to push you. That would not be polite. It is not right to ask twice for a favor and he won[’]t do it. Then there is nothing[,] said he, and as the French nothing is shorter than the English word he repeated it three times. He told me he was very sorry and I’m sure he meant it. He could see no reason why I had not been admitted, and the thing was unexpected. There was a chance that the minister had not seen the document from Bigelow yet, but then again this American had been admitted and state papers are always examined in the order of the dates. So I came away. Once more I went. No news whatever. I tried to think why I had been refused and I concluded. Lenoir wrote the letter to me assuring me there was room in the school and the one to the Minister of the H. of the E. telling him the same thing. He wrote them at the same time. (“in this moment.”) I ran to Bigelow’s as Lenoir had told me and gave him the first intimation of a willingness to receive a foreigner long before he could possibly get it from the regular source this H. of the E. His precipancy and indelicacy of putting in five names has disgusted the Frenchman, and they have not noticed the petition, but have hastened to respond to the more modest one for a single American, and I assisted by the kindness of Lenoir have opened for others a way which I cannot hope to enter myself. Besides I have placed everyone in a wrong light; Lenoir, for he has made me a promise which it hurts him not to be able to keep; my Minister, myself. You may imagine how bad I felt and not the less when I thought of having to contradict my letter to you which said I will be admitted next week. (I must yet contradict the week.) I could not lose time. Crépon appointed an evening to introduce me to a pay school where the students are all old men who having spent 40, 48



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50, or 60 years copying the old masters have commenced the study of nature; Saturday Morning 27th. and as there is no professor in the school and no one who can draw tolerably[,] Crépon offered to criticize for me all my studies. Tell that to Mr. Sartain. Crépon, said I, I am going to the Emperor’s Palace and try to see his Minister. You can[’]t see him[,] says Crépon! You can[’]t get near these big men; but try and you will rest easier perhaps knowing that you have left nothing untried. We thought over how I should try, and I concluded to write the man’s name on a little slip of paper, I had acquired such faith in these little things. Crépon suggested a tremendous envelope. I accepted with rapture the amendment, [and] hurried home endorsed as follows “Mr. the Count of Nieuwerkerke, Superintendent of the House of the Emperor & of the Fine Arts” and went to the palace of the Tuileries. What rows of soldiers & servants! Each one must know my business. I must see this Musheer[,] I would say slowly and then I would point to my envelope and I resisted all efforts to take this from me. Such was my ignorance of the French language that I found it impossible to explain myself further nor could I understand those who doubted if I should be allowed to go on, but I easily comprehended[,] however[,] those who showed me still on. At last I rang a bell and then found myself in the reception room of the count. An old gentleman with a big chain around his neck came to me and I had then to tell my business sure enough, and gave him a glimpse of the letters of Prof. Gérome & Mr. Lenoir. He would take in my big envelope for me. Good Lord, thought I to myself[,] what shall I do? A happy idea came. I put my modest little card in this tremendous envelope. I never saw a card look so little in my life, and although I was in such agony, I laughed to myself it was so ridiculous and I thought of the story of the little black monkey in the temple (Spectator Art. Hoops) and of the mountains in labor. In ten minutes or so the man returned. The count had found my card, and sent me word that he had not the pleasure of my acquaintance and could not therefore see me, but if I could write down what I wanted he would read it. I hurried home and wrote. Mr. etc. etc. I would not have dared address you this 49

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supplication, but I feel so much of my success depends on your kindness that I cannot resist. In leaving my home I have made great sacrifices to come here expecting to be able to enter the Imperial School. My minister could not at first give me the request for he didn[’]t know there were any vacancies in the studios.Then Mr. Lenoir gave me the enclosed letter & assured me I would be admitted. My Minister seeing this could no longer hesitate and he put in the request October 12. Mr. Gérome has accepted me as his pupil. Would it be too much to ask of you, your signature without which I cannot commence my studies,Your obedient etc. I felt that this letter would at least set everything in its proper light, and enclosing in it my letters from Lenoir & Gérome, I went again to the Palace. The count had left. The old man would give my letter to the count next morning. I must leave it there. Fortunately I had not sealed the envelope. I drew out my letters. Look[,] said I to the old man, this envelope contains two letters of the utmost importance and I showed him the signatures of Gérome & of Albert Lenoir[,] Secretary of the School Imperial & Special of the Fine Arts, and he also saw the paper on which they were written stamped with the words School Imperial[,] etc. Then I sealed them and gave them to him. He told me to come next day at 2 o’clock, and gave some orders about my being admitted & also took down my name & address. I had to print my name for him. He could not make out my English letters. Next day two o’clock found me again in the count’s reception room. It was crowded. I waited till after three. The old man told me the count had been so busy all day he had not had the time to open my envelope. Could you come tomorrow at 3 o’clock? Yes, Sir. Next day I put Dante in my pocket & went to the Palace at 1 o’clock and determined to wait that day until I got some kind of a definite answer. The old man came to me and said[,] “The count has read your letters and sent them to the Chief of the Bureau Mr. Tournoi, and he says your affair is now entirely with him.[”] Where is he? You can find out by going first to Mr. Bassenet. Won[’]t you be so good as to write these names down on a little slip of paper[?] (I have been fortunate & there’s no knowing what I’ll come to but if ever I’m a king I vow I’ll right away create the “Order of the little Slip of Paper” nor do I see why it will create less respect than that of a garter or a bath.) He did so & I found the first man who wrote the address of the second. Tournoi was 50



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harder to approach. When I got to his reception room they asked me what I was come for. Mr. the Count the Superintendent[,] etc, has sent me here to see Mr. Tournoi. What for? To get an answer to some letters he sent here. The fellow considered. Have you seen the Count himself[?] He had to repeat several times and slowly. It will be an eternal shame to me that I couldn’t understand such a simple question. I could only answer Mr the Count[,] the S u p e r i n t e n d e n t[,] the etc. If Mr. Gardel had heard me it would have driven him almost crazy. Then he told me Tournoi couldn[’]t be seen except tuesday and saturday at 2 o’clock, but with no better success. I only smiled and if there was a question asked & in such a tone as to leave no doubt as to its being a question then I commenced M r t h e C o u n t[,] t h e S u p[,] etc. He despaired at last & asked me to write down my name. When I comprehended by words & signs what was necessary I hastened to comply. It was taken in. I was immediately sent for & ushered into the presence of Tournoi. Good day Mr. Eakins, I guess well what you are come for. I received your letters yesterday (It must have been soon after I left the count’s.) I wrote to your minister and have just sent over to the school. You now have only to choose your professor but no I remember you have done that already. You may go to the school & get your card of admission. Please give me back Mr. Lenoir’s letter; I prize it very much. I suppose so, I have sent it along with the other papers. I thanked him & left. I received afterwards another proof of his kindness. He next day answered my letter in writing and I’ll send it to you. When I got to the school[,] everyone was glad & my big Frenchman made out my ticket before my eyes that I might have the pleasure of looking at it. The director would sign it the next day. I got it at 12 o’clock & was introduced to my fellow students. I have done a month’s hard work. It may be some of it was unnecessary, and I could have got what I wanted by patience, but I don[’]t believe it. One man was here nearly a year trying to get in & then went back to America. Roberts has been here a long time & he is very rich and his father sent him to enter this school. Shinn has been trying his best. Saturday Night [27th] On looking back at my month’s work, I have certainly to regret that to get what I wanted I had sometimes to descend to petty deceptions but the end has justified the means and I cannot feel ashamed of them for 51

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they were practised on a hateful set of little vermin, uneducated except in low cunning, who having all their lives perverted what little minds they had, have not left one manly sentiment. With men I believe I have always acted honorably and I trust I always will. This pushing business is disgusting and although I find I can do it in dire necessity, I hope there will never again be occasion. I believe myself to have made three good friends already. Hornor, Crepon, & Albert Lenoir[,] Secretary of the Imperial School & Special of the Fine Arts, and as I shall make it a point never to ask them to do for me what I can do for myself; but will not hesitate to ask them for what is well worth doing & which I can[’]t do for myself and which they see I can[’]t do for myself I think I can always retain them. My Paris life is benefitting me in the study of human nature for amongst strangers who do everything in a strange way, character is strongly marked for me, while at home the same amount of character springing from the same motives would make no impression. How comfortable one feels in the company of the great men. They are kind, respectful, condescending. They listen with attention to any straight forward reasonable demand & grant it immediately when they can. They form a delightful contrast with those who have just authority enough to annoy their betters, Or mathematically Gerome, Sartain, Dunglison, or Lenoir : Col. Jackanapes:: Charley Boyer’s Brace:2 Paris lap-dog or as an equation Gerome, S., D., or L. X Paris lap dog = C. B.’s Brace X Col. Jackanapes. This will perhaps render clearer my observation. I saw Gerome again this morning & had quite a talk with him. You have often accused me of being either in the garret or the cellar. Your remark had a fine application in Paris, and never were garrets so lofty or cellars so deep. But no sooner was I up in the garret that I was down again. My cellar life has done me no harm though. It has set me thinking & planning for myself & has taught me patience. My hair is not yet turned gray, but this I attribute entirely to the moist atmosphere of Paris. N.B.The above is all metaphysical for they never dig any cellars in Paris. 52



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Dr. Hornor came to see me some time ago & left his card. I returned his visit this afternoon & found him just coming out. He was glad to see me and reproached me for not coming sooner. I told him I hadn[’]t wanted to see him till I could tell him I had got to work. What! Had you any trouble about getting in? Any? thought I, and I answered yes[,] some. Didn[’]t Bigelow do the right thing for you[?] O yes but there a good many [sic] applicants. Then I told him I had written to my father to go see Dunglison. He was perfectly happy & nearly shook my hand off. I know that young Maury & I think I could lick him if he has not thought it worth his while for such a kind old man as Hornor to walk from 10th & Walnut to 11th & Girard. It has been a long while since we have had news from the U.S., but when we had it was that the republicans had gained victories in 3 states but there were no figures. All yesterday & today I looked for a letter from home but none has come. How’s Max of Mexico the First[?]3 I guess he’ll be the last, for Napoleon’s going to withdraw his troops.You get news in France from the editorials. They say, Max telegraphs his empire is flourishing. Let us withdraw our troops, they are needed at home. These editorials all advise the reorganization of the army and all agree in thinking the army too small & the term of service too short & trust the government will see to it, and they make comparisons with Prussia. They all deplore with unfeigned grief the absorbsion [sic] of Saxony and those dear German states for which they have such tender sentiments. Every article in a French paper even a telegram must be signed by the writer, and as all the editors think exactly alike, they show a precision of judgement & harmony of sentiment never yet seen in America. The French Artists are all caricaturing Bismark.4 Poor man[,] he’s sick. I hope these drawings won[’]t make him worse. Max’s wife is gone crazy. The pope treated her uncivilly. Have you been gunning[?] I hope you found everything in my drawer. The cleaning rod is in the closet. What luck had you? Has Dan been to see you? Did he tell you any story about a Frenchman? Did you see George Heyser? I liked to have forgotten the sporting news from Paris. I spoke to you of the thousands of fancy fishermen who fish in the Seine from morning till night. Well[,] one has caught a fish. Natural size. I thought the man was going to throw it away but he wrapped it up & 53

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saved it. Larger fish could not live in the Seine. It is too dirty. They could not see to procure their prey. The animalcule fish find less trouble. Bailly used to say water was good to wash yourself in.5 So it is if you are very dirty. Mr. Holmes used to admire it for navigation’s sake.6 It is easy to see he is not from Paris. The steamboats here have neither paddle [n]or screw. The friction would be too great. They only have the axle of a paddleboat. There is a chain laid[.] Turn back one page along the bed of the river. They lift this up and give it a turn around the axle. The chain pays out behind and drops for the benefit of the next boat. It is unnecessary to say that one turn is sufficient. It is sticky enough to prevent slipping. This water is supplied to Paris by public hydrants. Men fill water carts from them & then drive about the streets retailing the water. There are wells too in the city but their water has the consistency of that of Charley Boyer’s celebrated Mineral Spring, and the taste & smell is much worse. I’m too sleepy to write more. T.C.E. 1. Harry Humphrey Moore (1844–1926), later a successful painter, attended a school for the deaf in Philadelphia, where he met Eakins. Eakins helped Moore gain acceptance in the Ecole des Beaux-Arts and he became a close friend. Moore’s family stayed with Harry in Paris and frequently entertained Eakins. 2. A dog owned by Eakins’s friend Charley Boyer. 3. Emperor Maximilian was placed on the throne of Mexico by Napoleon III. 4. Otto von Bismarck (1815–98) was the German statesman known as the “Iron Chancellor.” Eakins characteristically misspelled his name throughout his letters. 5. Joseph A. Bailly (1825–83) was a French sculptor who moved to Philadelphia in 1850. He taught at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts. 6. George W. Holmes (1812–95) was a Philadelphia painter and teacher, and a friend of Eakins’s father.

Eakins politely wrote his mentor, John Sartain, to thank him for his letters of recommendation and report on the personal contacts he had made in Paris. He included a letter to William Sartain (in French), dated October 30, and one to Emily (in Italian), also dated October 30. In his chatty letter to William, Eakins reached out to reestablish contact with his close friend. He looked forward to the time when Sartain would join him in Paris, and in the meantime begged him for news from home.

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Eakins apologized to Emily for not writing sooner, but he was distracted by the lengthy, drawn-out procedure of gaining acceptance to the Ecole des Beaux-Arts. He lamented the fact that he had not found a long-term (male) “companion,” but proceeded to describe his small yet devoted circle of friends.

Paris[,] Sunday, Oct. 29. 1866 Mr. [John] Sartain My dear friend, I can never give thanks proportionate with your kindness in furnishing me with such good letters of recommendation and in entrusting me with a commission from which has sprung as my father will tell you my good fortune of entering the Imperial School. I regret that Mr. Lenoir has not yet found the report, but he thinks he may yet come across it, and then I will send it on. Msr. May is quite lame. He has had some operation performed the nature of which he did not discover to me. Crepon sends you his regards. Much of his kindness to me has come from gratitude to you for services rendered long ago, which he begs me to assure you will never be forgotten. We look with pleasure to your contemplated visit. As writing is a great trouble, I sincerely hope you will never answer any letter I may send you unless I request it. But news from you will always be pleasant and you will sometimes tell Willie or Emily to say something from you to my family[,] who will correspond regularly. But you must never hesitate to write to me when there is anything which my residence in Paris will enable me to do for you, and it will be a charity to send me some work, such pleasure will I take in its performance. My address now is Thomas Eakins 46 rue de Vaugirard Paris France. Mme. Francastel

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Paris, le 30, 8bre [October], 66. Mon cher Billy [William Sartain], Puisque tu m’as promis d’étudier français, et puisque j’en ai bien gardé le souvenir, et puisque tu as dû l’avoir déjà commencé [sic], il ne faut pas t’étonner de recevoir cette lettre. Combien va lentement le temps aux esseulés, et que je serai fort content de te revoir. Il me semble qu’il y a des années que je suis ici, et je t’aurais écrit auparavant, mais je n’avais rien à dire de moi-même, et je n’ai pas voulu te faire description des belles choses que tu dois bientôt visiter toi-même; ni n’ai-je désiré non plus prévenir tes jugements; mais sitôt que nous nous trouvions ensemble il nous fera plaisir de comparer les premières impressions que nous ont données ces oeuvres. Tu vois qu’enfin je suis admis dans l’école imperiale, et j’ai commencé mes études dans l’atelier Gérome. Fais moi connaissance des événements qui ont eu lieu depuis mon départ. Je ne prétends point que tu prennes la peine de m’écrire mais tu pourras dire ce que tu veux à ma soeur ou à mon frère. Comment-se portent nos amis? Avez-vous eu des piquenîques ensemble? Est-ce que tu te promènes les dimanches avec eux[?] Mon père, vous accompagne-t-il quelquefois. As-tu vu recemment Mr. Gardel? Qui est ton professeur? Ton frère songe‑t-il encore a voyager en Espagne? Mais que de questions! Je m’arrêterai sur-le-champ. N’oublie point de visiter nos chers amis. Il faut que nous nous séparions le moins que possible. T.C.E. Parigi, ai 30 ottobre, 1866. Mia cara Emilia, Non ti mouva a sdegno contro a [sic] me il lungo tempo che trapasserà avanti di ricever il mio viglietto [sic]; et non ragionare di cío che dimenticata t’ho. Tutte le fiate che vedo il Dante, mi vienero [sic] memoria le belle sere avute teco l’inferno leggendo (benchè non sia mestier di un libro per farlo), e lego sovente. Allora perché non ho scritto?, e venendo al fatto, iscusandomi [sic] dirotti; che dopo il mio dimorare in Parigi, sperando io di giorno in giorno non ho che mala fortuna avuta se non venerdì passato e che non ho voluto che istorie tristi ad una mia amica pervenissero; ma al presente, m’è la gran ventura di esser, mercè al tuo 56



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padre, al numero dei [sic] studenti ricevuto della Scuola Imperiale delle Belle Arti, e questo essendo, e piacendomi egli oltre ad ogni misura, e con fermissima opinione credendo io che i miei amici ed amice [sic] per la loro benivolenza ne saranno lieti meco, incomincio il scriver loro. Contuttochè sia in Parigi stato un mese, non ho ancora trovato compagno alcuno; non avendo pir lo cercarne il tempo avuto, ma se non compagno, ho amici e son eglino questi: Crépon, e sarebbe parimente compagno se non era ammogliato, e ho già da lui benefici molti ricevuti. Il Dottore Hornor è il secondo. E vecchione e dentista ed il migliore di Parigi ed ho contratto grand amicizia con lui. Il terzo (e non per gratitudine terzo) è il Segretario Lenoir. Molte son le cose le quale mosse dalla di lui bontà si son praticale per me, e sarebbe impossibile il contare per parole quanto lo stimo. Ma ora, che son nella Scuola, andrò cercando lieti e costumati compagni e del tuo fratello degni che arriverà acciochè nelle nostre anime non sopravenga [sic] la malinconia, o se ci addiviene ella acciochè sieno levate via in parte le sue gravezze, le quale [sic] da me già sentite non son piccola cosa. T.C.E. [Translation of the French in letter, October 30, 1866, addressed to Billy.] My dear Billy, Since you promised me to study French, and since I have kept the recollection clearly in mind, and since you must have already begun, you must not be surprised to receive this letter. How slowly time passes for the isolated, and how very happy I shall be to see you again. It seems to me that I have been here for years, and I would have written before, but I had nothing to say about myself, and I didn’t want to give you descriptions of the fine things that you are soon to visit yourself; nor did I wish to prejudice your judgments; but as soon as we are together, we shall enjoy comparing first impressions that these works will make on us. You see that I am finally admitted to the Imperial School, and I have begun my studies in the atelier of Gérôme. 57

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Keep me informed of the events that have taken place since my departure. I don’t expect by any means that you take the trouble to write but you can, if you will, tell what you want to my sister or my father. How are our friends doing? Have you had some picnics together? Do you go walking with them on Sundays[?] Does my father accompany you sometimes? Have you seen Mr. Gardel recently? Who is your professor? Is your brother still thinking about taking a trip to Spain? But what a lot of questions! I shall quit right away. Don’t forget now to visit our good friends. We must be separated as little as possible. T.C.E. [Translation from Italian.] Paris, 30 October 1866 My dear Emily, Don’t hold against me the long time that will elapse before you receive my letter, and don’t think I have forgotten you. Each time I see the Dante, I remember the lovely evenings we spent together reading the inferno (though I do not need a book to remind me), and I read [it] often. So why have I not written?, and getting to the point my great apologies. After living in Paris, I kept hoping from day to day, but had nothing but bad luck until last Friday; and I didn’t want to have my friend listen to my sad stories. But at the present time, I have the good fortune, thanks to your father, of being among the number of students accepted by the Imperial School of the Fine Arts. And this being the case, and I being pleased beyond all measure, and being of the firm opinion that my male and female friends, in their benevolence, will rejoice with me, I have begun to write to them. Although I have been in Paris for a month, I have not yet found a companion, not having had time to look for one. But if there are no companions there are friends, and they are: Crépon, who would also be a companion if he were not married, and from whom I have received a great many favors. Doctor Hornor is the second. He is a very old man, a dentist, and the best in Paris, and I have established a great friendship with him. The third (and not third in order of gratitude) is the Secretary Lenoir. His goodness has been the cause of many of the good things that 58

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have happened to me, and it would be impossible to tell you with words just how highly I esteem him. But now that I am in the School, I shall go looking for agreeable and decent companions, worthy of your brother, whose arrival will assure that melancholy shall not overcome our spirits; or if it should, to assure that some of its weight be removed, that weight being something I have already felt, and it is no small thing. T.C.E. This long letter to his sister Fanny offered a detailed account of his first visit to the Louvre. Oddly, he said little about the paintings and sculptures on view there, preferring to comment at length on historical curiosities and memorabilia. “History,” he reminded Fanny, “has been from my earliest youth my greatest delight & dearest study.” The letter ended with a short note to his sister Maggie, in which he asked about her activities and compared her pleasures in Philadelphia with those enjoyed by French girls of the same age.

Paris, Oct. 30th, 1866. Dear Fanny, The first thing a traveller does on reaching Paris is to visit the Louvre. I did so, and having no guidebook I followed the English visitors and stopping when they stopped & going on when they went on I received the same benefit as if I had had one. First, I went to see the statues. They are made of real marble & I can[’]t begin to tell you how much better they are than the miserable plaster imitations at Philadelphia. But I left right away. Statues make me shiver; they look so cold. No English lady ever enters a Statue Gallery. Half the figures are stark naked. I next went to the picture galleries. There must have been half a mile of them, and I walked all the way from one end to the other, and I never in my life saw such nice funny old pictures. I’m sure my taste has been much improved and to show it, I’ll make it a point never to look hereafter on American Art except with 59

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disdain. After the pictures, come the curiosities and these are of great historical interest. Many visit Paris on purpose to see them, and though you should stay here a year you could not see the half of them. When you remember that history has been from my earliest youth my greatest delight & dearest study, you may imagine perhaps my rapture. I can[’]t refrain from writing to you about them. In the South-East corner of the Palace may be seen reposing on a velvet cushion heavily bordered & fringed with gold, what a careless observer would take to be an ordinary stone. But listen Napoleon spit on it. Just before the great battle of Austerlitz Napoleon rode up to the Ninth Corps to give an order. Before giving it he had occasion to spit, and the spittle hit upon this stone. He then pronounced the words Forward March. On these two words is said to have depended the result of the battle and indirectly the subsequent history of the world. The stone was picked up by an old soldier called Lefou who had observed the action, and it was kept by him until his death[,] which happened many years after in a hospital in the South of France. Just before his death he gave it to the surgeon who had been kind to him. The surgeon not appreciating the value of it gave it to the steward. A Jew got the owner drunk and bought it from him for a mere song. But perhaps these things don’t interest you as they do me & the other travellers so I’ll cut it short & say that it finally came to the Duc d’Oies who purchased it for 15000 francs & who left it as a legacy to the Louvre. Its subsequent history is not without much interest. In 1851 an exciting controversy was raised as to whether this was the genuine stone and the government found it necessary to appoint a committee of investigation. It was composed of 12 of the most scientific men in France. They discovered by the microscope & other means of analysis indisputable evidences of animal substance, and without one dissenting voice declared it to be the bona fide stone. Their report covering 500 pages of close printed reading matter rests in the archives of the nation. A guard is kept in this room night and day & no crowding by visitors is allowed. I was so fascinated I could hardly leave this stone & even after I did I had to go back two or three times to see it again. The dauphin son of Francis the first when only twelve years old scratched his sister. His nurse cut his nail & so careless was she that she came within almost a hair’s breadth of touching the quick. If she had 60



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done this, the surgeon declared that she might have drawn blood. She was of course severely punished & justly too for she could give no excuse except that she thought the nail too long.This little nail cutting is in the Louvre and is much admired by the ladies who think it very sweet. A tooth pick, composed entirely of diamonds[,] used frequently by Charles IX is also here. Louis the XI or XII used to amuse himself for days playing mummelypeg with the ladies of his court. His knife is in the Louvre. A bible almost as good as new, said to have been very frequently used by Charles the XII. A fish bone which liked to have choked his mother. A very spirited drawing by the Princess Clotilde & her professor labelled her first attempt. The shoes of Francis the First, and his spurs. Several crowns and thrones, The slippers of Mary queen of Scots. The saddle on which Napoleon 1st rode in Egypt. His old gray coat. His sword. His spurs. His lead pencil. The trowel square & plumb line that set the cornerstone of the new Louvre. But I can[’]t write more. I[’]m in such a state of rapturous excitement. T.C.E. Dear Maggie, Do you go to school yet? If you do, do you go to Miss Rogers’s or to the Grammar school? If you go to the Grammar school what division are you in? A letter from home will always be pleasant, and when you have nothing else to do you may write me about your studies, your pleasures. News from little Caddy too will also be always acceptable. Always remember that her behavior will be copied from yours. Make friends with as many as you can, and select the best of them for companions. Above all never worry about your Aunt Eliza.You can only fully appreciate her goodness in losing her for a time. I feel there will be no need in giving you advice when you will always have better at home,—but it is the great distance between us that makes me anxious. Caddy I suppose talks a great deal better. Can she make a snoot for Charley Boyer[?] Write 61

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all about Charley, how often he comes, what he gives you to learn. The little girls of France don’t have many pianos.You very seldom hear one. Neither can they go out into the street by themselves. They wear very short frocks till they are young ladies. They do not dream of fun such as boating or skating. Don[’]t forget to tell me about all your fun, & I hope you may have plenty of it.You must not always expect an English letter from me. I’ll give you plenty of time though & someday you’ll [write] one without a single English word in it. T.C.E.

Eakins told of the Ecole’s student high jinks accompanying the entry of a newcomer (himself) to the studio. Baffled at first, he quickly acclimated himself to the French art students’ customs and, for good measure, helped his fellow American student, the deaf and dumb Harry Moore, cope with the initiation process.

Paris, Nov. 1st, 1866 Dear Father I spoke to you about a fellow named Harry Moore who got into the school. I met him the day before I got in. We remembered seeing each other in our Academy at Philadelphia. I never knew his name before or more likely I had forgotten it. We exchanged cards. He is deaf & dumb. This is the way he got in. His uncle went with him to see Gerome, and explained to Gerome that Harry had come a great ways to study with him, had set his mind on it, was almost frantic &c&c. Gerome took such real interest in him that he promised to teach him. If he couldn’t get him into his school he’d teach him anyhow, and then he wrote to the Minister & to the Inspector of the School. I beat him in though after all. I got my card Friday. He got his Tuesday. After leaving the studio Friday, it occurred to me that I had better go see Harry to give him some advice about the students.

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Instead of finding him in the Latin Quarter he was in the American part of Paris near the Arch of Triumph. I supposed he had a little chamber. On ringing the bell[,] a lady came to the door and spoke English and introduced me into a parlor full of company. The whole family is here. They received me very well. When they heard I had been admitted to the Imperial School they could hardly believe their ears. Harry was very downhearted and was afraid he wouldn’t get in after all. I told him I thought he would and offered to go with him to the school.You can[’]t imagine how glad his family were when they heard I would study with Gerome. Next day Harry came for me and we went to the school. They told me he would be admitted now as soon as he got the order from Gérome; so we turned back. He feared he was refused, and it was some time before he could find his paper & pencil. Then I wrote “admitted” as quick as I could, and we went to Gerome’s together. We got the paper and I had another talk with Gerome[,] who had not yet commenced his work. Then I took him round & bought all his things for him. He would have found a great deal of trouble by himself for he knows very little of French. I also explained to all the students his affliction & begged them not to amuse themselves at his expense (and they have respected his infirmity), and then introduced him to them. So that he might commence at the beginning of the pose, the inspector wrote down for him an order, to last until his regular card of admission should be signed. Harry is a friend of the Waughs. Their families are acquainted. w When I got my card of admission the officers told me I could go now into the studio, and they seemed to have a little fun amongst themselves. Asking my way of the employees I was passed along & the last one looking very grave took me in. All the way that I went along I was making up a neat little address to Prof. Gérome explaining to him why I appeared so tardy. Unfortunately for French Literature it was entirely lost as is every trouble you take to imagine what you ever are going to say when such & such a thing arrives. The man took me into the room & said, I introduce to you a newcomer & then he quickly went out and slammed the door. There was nobody in there but students. They gave a yell which would have lifted

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an ordinary roof up, and then crowded around me. Oh the pretty child. How gentle. How graceful. O he is calling us Musheers[,] the fool. Is’t [sic] he tall. Give us 20 francs. Half of them screamed 20 francs & the other half the welcome breakfast. When I could get them to hear me I asked what it was. Several tried to explain but their voices were drowned. They all pushed each other and fought & yelled all at once. Any one of them would have felt disgraced not to be doing two of these things at the same instant. Twenty auctioneers all crying twenty francs could not have said twenty francs oftener. Who must I give my twenty francs to? To me, me me me, etc. Oh you hogs[,] said the rest. Don[’]t trust them they’ll steal[,] etc.[,] etc., and a delightful interchange of courtesies and missiles.Where do you come from? England? My God no, gentlemen[,] I’m an American. (I feel sure that raised me a peg in their estimation!) Oh the American! What a savage. I wonder if he’s a Huron or an Algonquin. Are you rich? No! He lies; he’s got a gold mine. They began at last to sit down one by one. I was invited by one to do the same thing. I did so looking to see the stool was not jerked from under me. No sooner was I sat down than one of the students about 30 years old; a big fellow with heavy beard came and sat down with his face within a foot of mine & opposite me. Then he made faces & such grimaces were never equalled. Zeph Hopper would be nowheres.1 If he had lived in Addison’s time and had looked through the horse collar at the grinning match the first one, the Article in the spectator would have been spoiled for no one would have dared look through it afterwards. Each new contortion of course brought down the house. I looked pleasantly on and neither laughed nor got angry. I tried to look merely amused. Finally he tired himself out, and then after examining me a little, said he[,] You’ve got pimples on your face, what makes them? Pardon me[,] I don[’]t know. I’m not a doctor. Oh the droll[,] etc etc etc. Then he insisted that I should put my bonnet on to see how I looked in it. Not being a model I resisted and wouldn’t until I would be ready to go away. Can you speak German[?] said a student. Some of them really did not know what was the language of the Americans. I saw he was no German so I answered him in German, and as he could not respond there was a laugh raised at his expense. I had determined to keep my temper even if I should have to pitch into them and to stay there and have as much of it through with as possible. When they got not quiet but comparatively quiet I took my 64



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leave. I thanked them for their kind attention and giving warning to the big fellow that I was now about to put on my bonnet I thanked him for his politeness and then left. I think the last was a good stroke and the first thing I did next day was to go make friends with the big booby. I went Friday afternoon to see Crépon. I asked him about the twenty francs. Pay them[,] said he[,] by all means and conform to all their old customs as much as you can. They will let you work then. They had wanted me to bring my twenty francs next day[,] Sat., but as I had to go to Gerome’s with Moore I got back too late for breakfast time. I therefore went to them & demanded pardon & explained why I couldn’t come. O that’s nothing[,] any time at all. Let’s say next Saturday. The first day I worked there when we got through a fellow called me & offering me two cents told me to run get him some black soap.What! Said I. Black soap. My hands are dirty. Yes but I’m no errand boy. O no! but you are the new-comer. It is the rule.You assure me it is the rule.Yes we all have done it. Then said I[,] I beg your pardon. I took the two cents and went to hunt the soap. A student who knew I was going had posted himself at the door & he went out with me and then showed me where to get it. I have this business to do until a newcomer arrives. It is sometimes a little annoying when you are busy to hear a cry of New I want a penneth of milk to fix my drawing, or the like, but I always do it quickly and with as good a grace as I can & they never forget to thank one. They are an ill-mannered set when together but easy to make friends with one at a time. I will be sorry if I ever have an enemy amongst them but I’m almost sure I won[’]t. Whenever I meet the officers, with whom from my frequent intercourse I am as well acquainted perhaps as the rest of the students, they ask me how I am getting along with them. I say I find them a little lively, but that I have no trouble, and that they are a good hearted set of fellows, etc.They laugh and I’m sure think ten times more of me than if I should make a complaint. Their students are a pride with them. I can easily see now why Laurie got into trouble. He got into a big fight right away and they made the place so hot for him he had to run away. I have no doubt my assuming the protection of Harry has in a measure protected me also. There is no one in all the studio who knows English, and I’m glad of it. An employee told me there was an American in the school & and asked me if I had known him in America. He comes from Peru. I went to see Mr. Lenoir Tuesday for the first time since my admission. I told 65

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him it was entirely owing to him I was in, and that I should try to merit his goodness. There was a great deal of hand shaking. I am sorry he has not yet found Mr. Sartain’s report. He has soon to rummage some old papers though and thinks it probable that he will come across it. T.C.E. 1. Zephaniah Hopper was a professor of mathematics at Central High School.

Eakins wrote his mother in painstaking detail about his room at 4 rue de Vaugirard. Nothing escaped his eye. He went on to describe a visit to the Jardin des Plantes in the company of Harry Moore and his family. As was so often the case in his early letters, Eakins begged for news about his family and friends in Philadelphia. This letter and its illustrations by Eakins are reproduced as figures 18a and 18b.

Paris, Nov. 8, 1866 My dear Mother, Having a great desire to write to you and having the time, I will tell you about my room for want of something more interesting. It is as comfortable a one as can be found in Paris as far as I know. The house is across the way from the old palace of Luxembourg, and by going out into the entry, I can look down into the garden. Besides, it is close to my school, not more than half a mile, and on the same side of the river. Besides that, there is an arsenal or some such place right back of the house, and the soldiers of this place and of the Luxembourg wake me up at the right time in the morning with their trumpets and drums. Besides that there are no bugs and not even fleas which bother the Americans very much in Paris, as I am told. So taking everything together, I am as well off, as I can be out of my home. My room is not as large as my bed chamber at home, but it is large enough and has a big window in it, which gives plenty of light. The walls are papers, and the ceiling is nicely whitewashed. The floor is of stone or rather a sort of brick painted red, but a big piece of carpet in the centre of the room covers half of it.

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The grand houses still have waxed wooden floors. They are very slippery, and I came near falling when I first went to the Luxembourg palace to see the pictures. Before trying to find my way in, I stopped and asked a soldier for directions. He said they depended on what I wanted to see, so I told him the pictures. Well then you must go in that door over in the corner, but have you seen the throne, it is far more worth seeing. I told him no, and then he showed me where I must enter. I represented to him that, I had rather see the pictures first, but he was eloquent for the throne. I finally told him I was going to be a painter. He didn’t say another word. I fell at least a hundred degrees in his estimation. I am yet ignorant about that throne and whose it was. My room is well furnished, and the principal piece is of course the bed. It is kept clean and tidy. The French bedsteads all seem to have curtains. They add to the beauty, and help keep out the light which would be of advantage to those who don’t need to get up early. I’d like to know when you would be up if you had long curtains to your bed. There is a big flat pillow half the size of the bed which goes down at the foot and covers the legs after one is in bed. It is not a bad idea, for when the feet are right warm there’s no necessity for a heavy bunch of bedclothes. But comfortable as it is I’ve spent more miserable hours in it lying awake, thinking of home during my trouble. But I will not think less of my home now that it is ended, but it will be with another feeling. The next thing I’ve drawn for you is a chair with a velvet seat to it. I have two of these besides the little one with a cane seat. These will do for my friends when any of them will come to see me. Crépon has promised to come sometime, and so have one or two of my new friends. The next thing is my bureau, and this I make that Aunt Eliza’s mind will be a little eased about a place to put my clothes[.] The next thing is the wash stand, but I believe there is nothing worth mentioning about it. The next thing is the stove[,] which is just the corner of the room. It is necessary to build a fire every two or three days, to dry the room and purify it, even if you are not going to sit in it. To make a fire you take a little ball of resinous shavings. These balls are about as long as one’s finger and twice as thick. You light it and put a bunch or half bunch of little sticks on top and then a couple of big pieces over them and then pull down the gate in front. After the fire is well started you can put up

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the gate or whatever it is called and throw some coke in on top of the wood. The next thing I’ve drawn is a mahogany box with a door and a drawer to it. I think you would have had a good deal of trouble guessing its use if I hadn’t left the door a little open. The lowness of the French bedstead has given rise to this piece of furniture, which I first saw at the Hotel of Lille & Albion. It was sometime before I thought of looking there for what I wanted. On this page I make my armchair. This I sit in when I have a fire. Nov. 9th When I got home from school today I sat down to draw my table for you, but it got so dark in a few minutes that I couldn’t see, the days are so short here, but I guess you can make out that it is a table with a cover and some books on it. There is yet another table to write on, and this one has two little drawers in it, and completes the furniture of the room. There is no closet but there are some big wooden pegs on the wall to hand the clothes upon, and a curtain can be drawn over them which will keep them from getting smoked. When I came home yesterday, the old doorkeeper opened her little window and told me she had received a letter for me. I grabbed it and made for my room, and lit my candle as soon as I could. It was a miserable little business card. I had gone to Monroe’s, American Banker, to see a paper & had registered my name & address, and this man of business I suppose copies down all the names of all the Americans who come to Paris. Advertising is a good thing but it’s carried too far when it takes the private letter form. I’ll be careful never to go to that store. Last Sunday I was invited to go dine with the Moores, and they proposed we should go before dinner to the Garden of Plants. There is a splendid Menagerie there[,] probably the finest in the world. I can never get tired of seeing elephants[,] camels or monkeys. There is a little baby elephant there[—]a thing I never saw before. We had a pleasant time and then visited the Museum. I was glad when we got out of that; the Moores are such lovers of relics. The old lady must have a leaf from the cedar of Lebanon. She couldn’t get one for they were all too high but she managed to break off some bark. In the mineral department there is a splendid quartz crystal. They tried their best to break off a bit when they thought there was no one looking, it would be so interesting to a son in California to have a piece of stone which came from the French 68



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Museum. After this we were closely watched and a man with a soldier cap on followed us till we got out. We went home in a carriage & they gave me a good dinner & we spent a cheerful evening talking about Philad. Old Mrs. Moore knows all the old families of our city[,] especially the quakers. They are all very fine people & their only fault so far as I know is the intense love for relics. When you write me don’t forget about little Caddy and her progress, and tell me about Mrs. Lewis & Uncle Emmor’s family. I am very anxious to receive my first letter from home. I expected one today, but I am afraid I’ve another week to wait. It’s likely when the mail comes I’ll get a whole bunch of them. How is Billy Crowell? I hope he didn’t go home that rainy night; for he had been very sick. Have Max and Johanna taken supper at our house since I left[?]1 I have often used her present. I found no great difficulty in sewing buttons on. It was necessary to take a peep at the other buttons & remember the old civil engineering rule I learned at school that to gain stability you must widen the base and distribute evenly the strain. I have had a little darning to do too and I don’t think I’ve done it badly. The hole wasn’t very big though. I see it will require more talent to mend a stocking with big ones in it. When they get beyond darning and want patch work I’ll go and buy a new pair for I remember that Aunt Eliza with all her experience was not always successful in this line[,] although always brilliant. When you get this letter I suppose it will be thanksgiving day. Of course they don’t have any in France. We had a holiday here last week & they shut the school. It is called the day of all the saints. Next day was the day of the dead, and all Paris goes to the cemeteries to put wreaths on the graves of their friends. Mrs. Moore says the Chinese carry food to their graves in California. [No continuation found.] 1. Johanna, Max Schmitt’s sister, was often mentioned in Eakins’s letters. He often spelled her name without the “h.”

Eakins offered first impressions of Gérôme as a teacher. His opinion was entirely favorable

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Nov. 11th 1866 My dear Father I am alone, a letter from me to be full must be egotistical, so without ado here goes. I am right well and comfortable and settling down to work. I cannot help thinking very often how slim had been the tight rope on which I walked into the school. That is poetical and so is this of Dante[:] “Like him who with breath almost spent being come out from the sea on to the shore turns himself to the perilous water and looks[”], so my mind turned itself backwards to see the path, etc. etc. The studio contains some fine young artists, and it is an incalculable advantage to have all around you better workmen than yourself, and to see their work at every stage and to make comparisons between them. I will never forget the first day that Gerome criticized my work. His criticism seemed pretty rough, but after a moment[’]s consideration, I was glad. I bought Gerome[’]s photograph that very night. Gerome is a young man[,] as you see by his photograph, that I have sent; not over 40. He has a beautiful eye and a splendid head. He dresses remarkably plain. I am delighted with Gerome. Gerome comes to each one, and unless there is absolute proof of the scholar’s having been idle, he will look carefully and a long time at the model and then at the drawing, and then he will point out every fault. He treats all alike good and bad.What he wants to see is progress. Nothing escapes his attention[.] Often he draws for us. The oftener I see him the more I like him. [No continuation found.] Eakins sang the praises of Philadelphia, then offered a discourse on the true nature of politeness.

Paris, Nov. 16. 1866. My dear Emily, I can[’]t begin to tell you the pleasure I had on receiving a letter from you and Willie. I was anxiously looking for my first one. I got it Saturday[,] and Sunday (next day) I had yours and a second one from home. 70



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Your photograph is [by] far the best I have ever seen of you and I am very thankful for it. I will soon have mine taken and will send it to you. I am pleased with your German arrangements as they will tend to keep my friends together, and often will imagine the pleasure I would have in studying with you all. I envy you your drive along the Wissahickon among those beautiful hills with which are connected some of my most pleasant reminiscences.You say you had a slight sensation somewhat resembling pride in your native city. I feel like scolding you for such a weak avowal of your real sentiments.You should hear me tell the Frenchmen about Philadelphia. I feel 6 ft, & 6 inches high whenever I only say I am an American; but seriously speaking[,] Emily[,] Philadelphia is certainly a city to be proud of, and has advantages for happiness only to be fully appreciated after leaving it. I am very comfortable here, and like Paris much more than I expected to when I left home. Many young men after living here a short time do not like America. I am sure they have not known as I have the many reasonable enjoyments to be had there, the skating, the boating on our river, the beautiful walks in every direction. I am glad you already have an invitation to go skating and glad you have learned to skate so well that you will be likely to receive more. Do you know which of Charley Fussell’s sisters you saw[?]1 He has three. You ask me a question I find very hard to answer; we appreciate politeness when away from home. We may have different ideas of the word. An incivility or supposed incivility in a strange land cuts very deep and even a great or unlooked for kindness almost brings tears for one is apt to say to himself you are very good but maybe it’s because I’m a stranger, and he is forcibly reminded of home where kindness is taken thoughtlessly as a matter of course. Impressions are stronger away from home as you have discerned. If by politeness then is meant goodness, it is appreciated by me as I trust it always has been, but if it is to mean the string of ceremonies generally used for concealing ill nature, and which have been found necessary to the existence of every society whose members are wanting in self respect and morality I detest it more than ever. I have often used the word in both these acceptations, but I don[’]t like it. My prominent idea of a polite man is one who is nothing but polish. It is an unenviable reputation. If there was anything else in him 71

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the polish would never be noticed. He is a bad drawing finely worked up, and Gerome says that every attempt at finish on a bad design serves only to make the work more contemptible. I know nothing yet of Miss Casat [sic],2 but from what I know of Gerome, I think the whole story extremely probable. Your letter brings me at the same moment bad and good news, that Amy was sick and is getting well. I don[’]t know Helmick.3 I asked some of Cabanel’s boys if they knew him and they did not. I will not write you about Paris which you know yourself, and I know of nothing else that will interest you. Thomas Eakins 4 rue de Vaugirard Paris France. 1. Charles Lewis Fussell (1840–1909) was a fellow student with Eakins at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts and a close friend. He went on to become a successful landscape painter. 2. Mary Cassatt (1844–1926) studied at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts and then privately under Gérôme in Paris. She was associated with the impressionist group and spent most of her life in France. 3. Howard Helmick (1845–1907) studied at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts and then under Cabanel in Paris.

In this fragment, Eakins offered a vignette of studio life— his main topic being boxing and wrestling among the Ecole’s students.

Nov. 26 [1866]. There is a nice gentlemanly, almost dandy sort of a fellow in the class, and he has always made himself very busy setting the others to fighting, and deciding what was fair and what wasn’t. Some suggested since he had been so busy, he had better try it himself, he undressed himself in a jiffy and took the champion of the crowd for his opponent & had it all his own way.

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There was a dispute in the studio between two of the fellows as to which was the strongest. It was decided they should wrestle as soon as the model rested. So they stripped themselves and fought nearly an hour, and when they were done, they were as dirty as sweeps and bloody. Since then there has been wrestling most every day and we have had three pairs all stripped at once, and we see some anatomy. The Americans have the reputation of being a nation of boxers. Max Schmitt taught me a little about boxing, which I have forgotten. A french student squared off at me, offering to box, I jumped in nothing loth for a little tussel, but another student jerked my opponent away, saying, “my good man let me give you a piece of counsel never box with an American.” [No continuation found.] In this chatty letter in Italian, Eakins engaged Emily on a variety of subjects. For someone who allegedly had a romantic interest in her, the writing was surprisingly bland.

Parigi, ai 16 10bre [December] 1866. Mia cara Emilia, M’era piacevole il ricever la tua ultima lettera e tanto più quanto mi era inaspettata, avendone una fra pochi giorni ricevuta, e non mi credendo bentosto un altra avere dovere: ma leggendola al suo [sic] fine mi sento un dolore esser rimaso Perciochè [sic] non dici niente della cattiva tosse nella lettera precedente mostrata. Hai trapassato che che [sic] hai chiamato il mio regolamento ed un altro adoperato cosi guardando silenzio dopo avermi avvertito d’un male. Siccome tu hai immaginato il contarmi di tutte le occorrenze ed alle mie amice [sic] ed agli amici miei addivenute mi sempre farà piacere. Molto ti ringrazio dell’aver alla moglie del mio caro signor maestro scritto acciochè egli mi mandi il di lui indirizzo, e altri sono a Parigi fuor di me che troveranno felicità nel rivederlo e niun altro più di Crepon. Che hai cominiciato ad aver percezione delle qualità nobili di un mio carissimo amico non può essermi altro se non eccessiv-amente grato.

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L’esposizione in quanto apparare posso si cominciarà [sic] la primavera veniente e niuna mondana cosa si potrebbe trovare che facesse cambiamento nelle intenzione [sic] se non fosse la morte medesma dell’imperadore, il quale siccome è generalmente creduto sta male assai ma non per morire. In pochi mesi sarà giunta al fine. Son certo che Fannie non ridirà giammai cosa che non è da ridire e molti anni ed addiveranno e trapasseranno avantichè mi vergogni di esser corretto da Gerome. T.C.E. [Translation from Italian.] Paris, 16 December 1866 My dear Emily, I was pleased to receive your last letter, especially since it was so unexpected, since I had received one just a few days ago, and I surely did not think I should receive another. But on reading it to its end, I felt a lingering sadness because you didn’t say anything about the bad cough you mentioned in your earlier letter.You have neglected that which you call my rule, and have used another, by keeping silence after having told me of an illness. Just as you thought, your keeping me informed of the doings of my friends, both female and male, is and will continue to be very pleasing to me. Thank you very much for having written to the wife of my dear teacher, to get her to send me his address. There are many other people in Paris besides me who will be very happy to see him again, and no one more than Crépon. That you have begun to perceive the noble qualities of a very dear [male] friend of mine cannot fail to be anything but very pleasing to me. So far as I can see, the exhibition will begin next spring, and there is nothing in the world that can prevent it, unless it were the death of the emperor, who is generally believed to be very ill, but not about to die. In a few months, it will end. I am certain that Fanny will never laugh at something that is no laughing matter, and many years will come and go before I will feel ashamed of having been corrected by Gérôme. T.C.E. 74

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In a typically long, encyclopedic letter, Eakins rambled on from one topic to another. The subjects included his friend Earl Shinn’s displeasure with Gérôme’s teaching, and Shinn’s failure to become a good artist, Harry Moore’s sister’s ability as a singer, the advantages of studying at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts, and French democracy and self-government.

Paris. Dec. 23, 66. Dear Father, I have received your letter of the 2d. with Fanny’s. But where is the one that Fanny says Maggie was writing to me at the same time[?] She must have forgotten to mail it. I miss it very much, for her letters are so full of home matters and she gives me particulars of Aunt Tinie & Aunt Eliza.1 Commencing by answering your questions, I did not think of asking them at the bank for letters because I did not suppose you would write to me before you had news of me. I am glad you like Gerome’s looks. Have you noticed a likeness between him & Mr. Gardel? That photograph was taken two or three years ago & the likeness is much stronger now. How does Shinn make out? The landlady has just this minute brought me your letter of the 11th & Fanny’s of the 9th but not yet from Maggie. Well about Shinn. I hate to make fun of him, he is so good natured, and I sometimes wonder what people ten times smarter than I must think of me lacking perhaps his good nature. But I can[’]t help it. Gerome came down on him almost as hard the next time and so since that, Shinn has hardly shown himself at the school on the mornings that Gerome comes. Gerome has gone down considerably in his estimation. He don[’]t like his last picture at all and as a man he detests him as no gentleman. His head was very big some time ago with an idea that the American students should give Gerome a little dinner[,] quite a private affair, but we suggested Gerome wouldn[’]t come to it as he would not like to make any distinction between his pupils and Diehl[,] an American[,] (old pupil of Kaulbach) added that Gerome was not a damned fool. Shinn’s great subject of regret now is that there is no machine which would wake him up, make a fire & boil coffee & dress him in time to get around to the school at the 75

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proper hour. As there is none such, or if there is that he has not heard of it or prevents him from seeing the beginning of the pose, and when he does arrive the place he would like to have is occupied or the light does not fall right or the model is too skinny or the pose is a bad one or or or[,] and so he believes he will not draw that week. He buys a great many engravings and helps gentlemen here to get pictures[,] he is so good a judge and so susceptible is he to flattery that if one tells him he would like his criticism before getting some pictures he will think nothing of running round for days. A Mr. Wolf of Pittsburg, Fussell knows him, has been using him over a month. Shinn knows all Paris by this time & all the artists therein. The other day I got home too late to put my letter in the branch post office So, I ran to find Shinn & he took me to the general post office. If I had stopped to inquire my own way I would have been late. After putting in my letter we waited three minutes for six o’clock. As the hour approached the crowd increased. Many were bare headed and all were out of breath. At the second stroke of the clock[,] the man turned the key which shuts off the letters. There were at least twenty who thought he might have had the politeness to wait till the clock was done striking. w Roberts is in the modelling department[,] and I have met him but once or twice[,] and we nodded good morning to one another. w I have often heard Harry Moore’s sister sing, and she sings well, and belongs I guess to the Conservatory, at least her master is the director of Napoleon’s own opera. My first impression of her was not much. There was a sort of Colonel Jackanapes there that evening. He was a great criticizer of music & described to us for half an hour the impressions that music had on his soul. Then he compared Gottschalk & Liszt & Thalberg[,] etc., but to his taste a certain young lady he knew played just as well & then he paid a tribute to her goodness & said she had played a certain piece for him. It would be a disgrace to our city of Philadelphia if she couldn[’]t with a day’s notice get up a bigger Wide Awake one. 76



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w I do not think I have overrated the advantages of the Imperial School. From 8 to 1 we have the living model. We have a palace to work in. We have casts from all the good antique and many modern statues. Twice a week our work is corrected by the best professors in the world. I no doubt appreciate them more for the trouble I had in getting them. Shinn’s party had put in their applications over six months before [they] had been refused and thought no more of it. They had been enjoying themselves in the country and when they had come back a little while to Paris they found they were admitted. A Frenchman has no difficulty in getting in. He makes a direct application to the bureau & the professor of his choice. The only reason that a foreigner has a chance is that the school is so large. There are for instance three large studios for figure painters alone, Gerome’s Cabanel’s & Piltz’s [sic, read Pils’s].2 The Architects have other studios, the sculptors others, [and] the engravers others still. Then there are lecture rooms innumerable & a dissecting room, and library, and exhibition rooms. The Americans are the only foreigners who come here. Englishmen of course would not come and I doubt if one could stay with the French boys if he did come. The Germans, Italians and Spaniards have schools of their own. That is the rule[;] the exceptions are few. Our studio had 1 Spaniard, 1 Italian, 1 German, [and] 1 Russian, It’s likely though there are as many Frenchmen in foreign countries. I am very thankful for your Christmas present which you write about. I fear it will be a New Year’s present. I am glad Mrs. Lewis is doing well and I hope she may get entirely well. Have nothing to do with French politics. There is no danger. I do not think anything could ever induce me to, and if it could I would certainly take the part of the government. They ought to thank their stars they’ve got such a good man to govern them for it will be many a day before they can begin to govern themselves as we do. As I believe I predicted Cabanel’s boys have again commenced singing the Marseilles Hymn. 77

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As it is, although the laws are so strict and so diligently carried out[,] I doubt if anywhere the well doers can find so much personal freedom and social equality as in France. Every Englishman looks down on his neighbor, each class governs the class below it and fears contact with it; but except the one head[,] the Emperor of France, here all men are equal except inasmuch as they differ by their own works. The government here better administered than that of England, does not, I suppose cost half as much nor is the Imperial Family as extensive as the Royal one. There is a common saying here that your watch is safer in a gutter of Paris than in your pocket in London, and this from travelers. w What a fuss the English papers are making over the political demonstrations at a certain park. There were extracts for a month in the French papers here. How many men do you suppose had a peacable [sic] parade and a few speeches[?] Between 25 & 35 thousand. [No continuation found.] 1. Nothing is known of Aunt Tinie (or Tinnie). Susan Eakins, Thomas’s widow, remembers that he had “2 old aunts” (Lloyd Goodrich, unpublished notes, Lloyd and Edith Havens Goodrich, Whitney Museum of American Art, Record of Works by Thomas Eakins, Philadelphia Museum of Art). One of these was Eliza Cowperthwait, who lived with the Eakins family at 1729 Mount Vernon Street. 2. Isidore-Alexandre-Augustin Pils (1813–75) was a French history painter specializing in religious and military subjects.

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v In another typically long letter, Eakins jumped from topic to topic,including principally his attendance at a church service at Saint-Sulpice and the dirtiness of the monks he saw there and elsewhere in Paris.

Paris. 1.8.67. Dear Fanny, I am in receipt of a good many of your letters for which I am very grateful. But I have had no new one from home for some time. I had one from Bill Sartain on Saturday last containing photographs[,] and to day one from Emily with still another family photograph & a good one it is. Emily’s letter speaks of your looking at my photographs in mommy’s room. Do you sit now in her room instead of in the dining room, and why haven[’]t I got her photograph[?] I can[’]t help worrying when I hear of something strange. I spent my Christmas & New Years’ as you have hoped with the Moores. We had the turkey & potatoes but also no cranberries. We did not know then as we do now that there is a store in Paris where they sell them. I hope the north wind you have written about has brought you good skating. Horace writes to me that already he has met Maggie in the park. Sunday last I went to Saint Sulpice to hear music, it being a feast day. It was the biggest church music I ever heard. Besides the music they had grand processions all around the cathedral. Over a hundred monks helped form the line, and they present a fine appearance with their long cloaks and covered heads. We see a good many monks here in Paris. The most remarkable thing about them is perhaps their dirtiness. “Cleanliness is next to godliness.” So runs the proverb. It’s fortunate for them that it is not “Cleanliness only etc.” I often see the good Franciscans of whom you must be reading something every once in a while in your Dante. They have the head shorn,

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and their simple cloak is tied around the waist with a rope. They wear sandals instead of shoes even [in] this cold weather. How beautiful they would be if they were only clean. However it rains here very often & then their feet can[’]t help being washed. Some are only boys. I am sure two whom I saw were not over twenty. You remember in the Little Robinson that women hire out chairs along the promenades[?] They do the same thing in the cathedrals which never have pews in them. While the service is going on you hear the money rattling. Suddenly something serious is done & the chair women drop or cross themselves & then the next second go on unconcernedly taking in the pennies. It makes one think of Christ kicking the money changers out of the temple. I expect in your next letter a full account of your Christmas holydays. Of course you will go see the Schmitts and their tree. I would give a good deal to spend an hour there. I have May’s photograph and look at it almost every day. See if Jo[h]anna won[’]t let me have hers too. Give me the fullest family accounts, and write to me about mommy particularly. T.C.E. Eakins took the opportunity to explain to his father the pleasures that painting could afford, yet he warned the elder Eakins that the effect of a painting on the viewer could not be conveyed in writing.

Paris[,] 1.16, 67. Dear Father, Your letter of Dec. 26. is arrived. That my former letters should have given you cause for uneasiness has in turn made me suffer. Having determined to write often I hoped to amuse you in filling them with the trifles which I witnessed among the French students & which make the greatest or perhaps the only difference between them & others. The whole afternoon that I spent with them I don’t consider as altogether wasted. I saw more of new character & manner than I would 82



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ever have discovered by myself, nor am I either sorry or ashamed to have accompanied them to the place I suspect to have had some share in your uneasiness. But I would be ashamed if I had been in the least attracted by the vice which I saw there. I have sometimes commenced in my letters trying to give an account of beautie [sic] & twice I commenced a letter to Mr[.] Holmes about the Galleries of the Louvre & Luxembourg, but the pleasure in seeing a picture cannot be conveyed by writing & I find the attempt contemptible. I can say a sunset picture is very fine with its red & yellow clouds, & if I go into a rhapsody you admire my smartness & conclude the picture is a good one, but you really receive from it not the slightest pleasure or profit. If you are getting any pleasure at all it is from a red & yellow sunset you saw in nature or another picture and for all the difference it makes to you the thing before my eyes may be the meanest daub in creation. The most in fact that I could really do would be to send on a list of the artists & size of the frames. Comparisons however may be made[.] A few of our pictures in the Sanitary Fair have never I believe been surpassed;1 but I see here many just as good by the same men and thousands larger & grander as compositions. The advantages here are nevertheless much greater than in America for students, a fine daylight school, & a professor who corrects sharply when one makes a hippopotamus of himself. w There is nothing of importance going on at Paris just now. The Seine is very high & there are fears it will still rise on account of the snows. Politics too are very high, but they are of no importance to me, although very interesting TCE 1. The so-called Sanitary Fair held in Philadelphia in 1864 (the Great Central Fair for the U.S. Sanitary Commission) was designed to raise funds for Union soldiers’ supplies. Among other displays, it featured a vast art gallery.

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Eakins wrote his sister Fanny about a sport they both enjoyed—ice skating. He compared the Parisian style of skating to what he was accustomed to in Philadelphia. The French paled by comparison.

Paris[,] Jan 24. 67. Dear Fanny, I wrote I think in a former letter that they never skated in Paris. That was a mistake, at least in one sense. That is they sometimes have skating. This winter has been a very hard one [with] the thermometer often running down below the freezing point and last week it staid below it long enough to make ice. The guide books say. There is fine skating at Paris, on the fountains of the Tuilleries (2 in number[,] the same size as the fountain at Fairmount)[,] at the Garden of the Luxembourg (same size) and at the woods of Bologna [Boulogne]. I concluded on seeing so many with skates under the arms to go see for myself; so after school I walked out to the woods of Bologna. A double row of carriages extended as far as the eye could see. A couple of big notices of skating struck my eyes as I neared the gate. There were attached about 40 rules to be observed by the skaters. All this could not but impress me a little and I was terribly disappointed when after a walk of 3 or 4 miles I finally came to the place & found a miserable piece of ice not quite as big as Jensens’ and not half as good. I have seen awkward skaters in my life, but never yet did I see any as awkward & gawky as the young English snobs there & the perfumed French dandies. I tell you I wished I had my skates. I looked at them for a while and concluded I’d go in anyhow. Skates are hired by a man with a government licence. I picked out the most decent pair as I thought and then another man came & fastened them to my feet with strings. The runners were about half an inch high & perfectly straight. The only reason I took them was because the gutters of them were not outrageously scooped.

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I got on the ice and made two or three desperate plunges but it was no go. They were no better than parlor-skates & their shape prevented me from doing anything more on them. Then I went back to try yet another pair & finally selected a pair of wooden ones[,] which had the advantage of a dump to them & high runners, and these were fastened with both straps & strings.

You see the iron don[’]t run back all the way & it had a[n] awful curve to it. I got on the ice & was standing perfectly still and suddenly both feet slipped out in front & down I came. Then there was a laugh. I got up and thought well I’ll stop your laughing[.] I’ll go backwards[.] I guess you never saw that. I went to cut a ring but I leaned over so much that the confounded dull things wouldn[’]t hold on the ice but both went off sidewards & down I came again. A gentleman then advised me to take those skates off and get my first pair as none but the strong skaters ever ventured on dumps. I didn[’]t say anything[—]in fact I couldn’t[—]so I made up my mind to go it a little modestly at first & skated straight forwards round & round till I got a little accustomed to the things. My remembering to keep skating always on the front part of the skate[,] that is on my toes[,] I found myself rapidly improving in ten minutes[.] I concluded was no more danger of falling so I went back to the middle of the pond and showed them some touches I guess they never dreamed of. [No continuation found.] In this letter, Eakins communicated with his father on a variety of topics, including the climate, sauerkraut, learning Spanish, the treatment of a newcomer in Gérôme’s classroom, and Eakins’s dislike of the idea of the Pope’s infallibility.

Paris. Jan 31. 67. Dear Father, I am very thankful to you for your letter of the 13th. of this month which 85

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is just arrived and the papers. There have been some severe storms on the coast which stopped the mails, and as a consequence papers & letters came in raining for a couple of days. The Frank Leslie article in the Press is very interesting,1 and the poetry in the second Press which came the next day I believe never to have been excelled except by the same author about a year ago. The skating news seems queer to me in this muddy damp climate[,] above all when I remember how far north of you I am. Although I am no friend to cold weather in general I would give a good deal for a day of bright cold weather, especially on a pair of steel skates not rocky dumps. You speak of the promised Sour Krout at John’s. Max used to laugh at our murdering the word Cold Slaw. Tell him the Johnnies call Sour Crout Choucroûte. Our vacation lasts through the months of August & September and it will no doubt be cheaper living out of Paris than in it, but traveling will cost more I think than either. Much as I would like to visit Spain I fear that Mr[.] Sartain will have left it before our holydays. However it will do no harm for me to learn enough Spanish to say I am hungry or to ask my way back to Paris, and I have a chance of practice for I often hear Spanish Spoken in our studio now, and it certainly has a great similarity with the Italian which is also spoken here. I can[’]t tell you how glad I am for the good news about Mrs. Lewis. Do you ever see Harry any more?2 Does he sometimes come over[?] I am sorry for that bit of news about Mr. Gardel. Now about the tell tale. I think your sympathy was all wasted upon him. He was a mean dog to tell tales in the first place. He has come back. At first there was an intention to Say nothing to him.Then they concluded to make him enter as a new scholar. He had to sing a song, run for soap & milk & wood. He did everything without saying a word (except the singing). Another arrival has exonerated him, but now nobody ever speaks to him nor he to anybody nor will he ever be noticed in the studio more than a stick of wood. Gerome spoke to us once about him and told us that we must not interfere with a scholar’s work but let us understand that we had done right to the dog.

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The Catholic or rather Pope question is rampant in France & never have I seen such bitterness. To give you a faint idea of how far it is carried, I will tell you that the Galileo was forbidden to be played on the French Stage because it reflects on the infallibility of the Holy Inquisition. The Catholic papers are going into ecstasies over the prohibition[.] The strongest paper in France[,] perhaps in the world[,] The Charivari[,] has been occupying itself for the last week on the question [of] whether the world really does turn or not, and it makes comparisons between Joshua who commanded the sun to stand still & the censor who commanded Galileo to stand still. Naturally everyone is desirous of seeing the piece & it’s a pity the author was so well known before, or rather some worthy but unknown one had not written it. [No continuation found.] 1. This referred to the newspaper of this title. 2. Probably referring to Harry Lewis, the husband of Sally Lewis, both of whom were friends of the Eakins family.

In this letter to an unidentified family member, Eakins described his Christmas and New Year’s activities in the company of the Moores.

[Fragment, from Eakins to Caroline, perhaps, and probably written in late January 1867] The statuettes were my New Year[’]s Gift to the Moores. Mrs[.] Moore had seen them in a window during the week but feared she could not speak French enough to get them. I therefore bought them myself the next time I passed and presented them to her. 7 Francs. Cab. I had a long engagement with Harry Moore’s sister to go with her to a Catholic Cathedral on a Feast day, and we selected last Sunday as the Feast of Kings. It had been cold the day before & Sunday morning it was raining like all the world and freezing on the pavements. There were no cabs at the corners and I could only avoid disappointment by going to

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the stable & bribing a coachman. The municipal agent would not send one out but said if I could get one myself[,] good. w New Year’s Eve & Christmas Eve I spent at the Moores & also eat [sic, read ate] dinner with them the following days. We had turkey & good turkey with potato filling but we missed the cranberries.You can have no idea of the trouble one has in France to get things done in American style. Mrs. Moore had to show the girl constantly what she must do and watch her closely that she didn[’]t get any chestnuts into the bird, so strong was her desire to do so. The mince pie was to be cooked at a confectioner[’]s about a half a mile off. An hour before dinner a little boy came in bearing a portable oven in which the pie was cooking all the time. He wanted Mrs. Moore to see if it was all right. Bed time T.C.E.

In the first of several extant letters of this kind, Eakins listed his current expenditures. Among other things, the letter revealed his tastes in the arts and entertainment. Following his list of expenses, Eakins went into greater detail about certain items. For example, he cited his payment of six francs for a comb and the cost of a classical music concert.

Paris, Feb 28. 67. Dear Mother, It is fortunate for me that this being the last day of winter gives me a good chance to make up my account, for this week has been void of all occurrence and I could not have filled a letter. I have forgotten to mark off where I sent you my last account but I suspect it ran up into January and as I went to bank on Jan 11[,] my money here having run out or nearly run out[,] I will date from there. 88

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Jan 11. drew from Bank Feb. 9

200 fr. 250 fr.

My expenses from there are 1. 00 Soap 1.80 Cab 184.00 Carried over 3.00 Skating 1.25 Concert putting on 1.65 Tribunes & skates & a Philada. Keeping overcoat Bulletin 1.80 Butterfly 2.00 Cab 186.90 .20 Porte crayon 5.00 Gymnasium 9.75 Undershirt & pair of drawers 1.25 Heeling boots .75 Hair cutting 6.00 Comb 1.75 Soap 1.00 Monument to Ingres 4.25 Pair of drawers 4.95 3 Pair stockings 250 8.00 Postage stamps 186.90 26.00 Spanish Books 3.1. 20.50 Belt, Gaiters & Breeches for Gymnasium 15.00 Hat 45.00 Rent for Feb. 7.90 Washing 2.10 Fee to Chambermaid 3.00 Fire & Light 450 12.00 Champagne 450 184.00 900 Counting my money I find I have yet remaining 64.50 Besides the above expenses I have lent 7 francs. Five of them I will get back again. The other two a permanent loan will keep away the borrower. 89

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The rest with the exception of very trifling sums such as for buying apples or oranges or dropping a few pennies in the poor box after hearing a mass has gone for food. In reviewing my account I encounter two extravagances. At breakfast some students wanted to banter me into betting for champagne or gambling for who should pay for all the breakfasts. This was kept up for two days and after explaining as well as I could why I would not gamble I ordered the champagne for them, and the thing will never be repeated. 6 Francs for a comb. I get my hair cut over in the American part of the town in a nice establishment. The prices are the same all over the town. As I was coming out, the thought just popped into my head that it would be a good chance to buy a comb as my own was broken to pieces. I was shown a very nice one for 26 fr. [and] I thought it rather dear. Then they showed me a 10 franc one. Same fault. Perhaps Mister would like a cheap comb[?] I admitted the delicate insinuation and the woman showed me the 6 franc ones[,] the cheapest she had, one of which I took. I asked Mrs. Moore next week what a good comb was worth. She said I might have got a good india rubber one for a couple of francs. My own I notice on holding it up to the light is of a beautiful shell and since my discovery I always feel nervous about using it. I offered to trade it with Mrs. Moore for a common one but she wouldn[’]t do it and only laughed at me. I wish I could send it home. The first cab hire was for going to church; the second for taking Mr. Lenoir to see Harry Moore. Poppy seems pleased I have not forgotten Mr. Lenoir. What is just as good he has not forgotten me. I received from him an invitation to dinner and he presented me to his family. The daughters[,] who are very accomplished[,] play on the piano in a very charming manner. They play music composed entirely of trills and grace notes. It is the French fashion for all in the parlor to clap the hands[,] cry bravo and so forth at the conclusion of each bit just as would be done at the theatre. Mr. Lenoir has a very interesting collection of sketches by the greatest artists[,] ancient & modern. The Lenoir family have always been artists and directors of schools of art, and have therefore had rare opportunities. I forgot to say I got a grand dinner. The concert I went to hear was one of the popular sunday afternoon concerts given at the Napoleon circus. They say they are the best in 90

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the world, and I think it very likely. They never play any music except that of Haydn[,] Mozart[,] Beethoven, Mendelsohn & Weber, and they play about 5 pieces each sunday. The cheapest place is dearer than the germania but one hears twice as much good music. I wish Fanny could hear them. Everything seems to go along so smooth. There are twelve big double base [sic] fiddles and more than a hundred little ones besides flutes & one thing or another and yet I didn[’]t hear a single squeak or a scratch. I am afraid diploma time is over and I just remember Cliff. Beecher who was my companion in the dissecting room. If his diploma is not yet filled give him a good skin & an extra flourish around his name. The prevailing fashion at Paris now is to have a sore throat. Harry Moore was laid up at home with sore throat & fever for nearly a week under the doctor’s care. All my friends got it. In spite of my precautions the first thing I knew I had it myself the beginning of this week. Sunday night & Monday morning I could speak only with difficulty. Tuesday night’s gymnastics gave it a lift and now it is entirely gone. I am glad I had not time to write to Aunt Eliza for she would have written to me & then worried herself for fear I couldn[’]t get any assafoedita in Paris. She knows I get the whooping cough every February. The weather is now, that is has been to day clear for a wonder and cool. Yesterday it rained and snowed all day, and I had to make a fire for the first time in six weeks. Tomorrow it will probably be hot in the morning[,] foggy in the afternoon & rainy at night. [Cross-hatched words added to last page:] Moran & Williams have just gone to Rome. Shinn will go to Naples next week & Miss Gordon will go to England week after next. This letter described a Lenten carnival, followed by a painstakingly detailed, often witty narrative of how a new student was treated on entering Gérôme’s class.

Paris[,] March 7, 1867 Dear Father, I received yesterday a letter from Henry in answer to one I wrote to him enclosing my photograph. He is in the same place yet and in good health 91

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but you may perhaps have still later news from [sic].This week has been a holyday one. Monday & Tuesday they shut up our studios and have given us no model for the rest of the week and so we draw from the antique. The holyday is on account of the carnaval [sic] of which they celebrate the Sunday[,] Monday & Tuesday preceding Lent. During these days it is the fashion to parade through the streets show oxen which are killed and eaten at the big restaurants Tuesday night. First comes a few companies of cavalry to keep order; Then some funny giants made of pasteboard[,] say a dozen with men inside of them. Then next the band mounted and all dressed in carnaval costume. After them a car with a little girl (bare necked[,] bare armed[,] bare legged,) and an ape (man) who climbs up a pole, hoists a parasol[,] eats flowers, and scratches his back-side when he wants to be particularly witty, or makes indecent gestures to the little girl who then boxes his ears. Then comes a big man in tights who wears a crown on his head. This is the king of the carnaval. After him the grand triumphal car as high as the second story full of women with bare heads[,] arms & necks. Among these women[,] whom the most powerful imagination would be at a loss to transform into fairies[,] was one who prepared one[’]s mind or rather which prepared ones mind for, the sight of the fat on itself which followed drawn in a car by six horses. His horns were gilded, [and] his head covered with garlands. After him came a car of curious shape advertising pills and containing a sort of King of Pain man, after him some minor advertising contrivances. There would have been a delicate propriety if the doctor’s pills had been antibilious ones, or if without changing his pills he had followed directly instead of the on [sic] the triumphal car. There is some influence brought to bear by the papers against this relic of the barbarous ages. They say it has lost all its sense and its charm, but nobody would know exactly how to stop it; it has continued so long. All Paris goes to see it though and many collect on the streets hours before it comes along and I confess to waiting an hour for it myself. To their credit though I believe they resolve every year not to go the next time. I am forgetting the butcher himself who came between the cavalry & band, mounted on a beautiful horse & dressed in citizens’ dress. He bowed to the people right and left, and wore a blue ribbon in his button hole. He looked very much like the Emperor and I was very much impressed. 92



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We had a new-comer yesterday in our studio. He was the image of Dolly Bastian and resembled him in some of his little ways but all resemblance then ceases. Well he stalked in with a grand air of self sufficiency. “Hello new, have you paid for your easel yet[?] O Lord is’nt he beautiful[?] God how I love him, The welcome money, the welcome money. How much do you give[?]” He pulled out a twenty franc piece and held it out disdainfully. They grabbed it and then commenced. Is that all? Can it be possible, and from one so beautifully dressed[?] Why these two Americans (Harry Moore & me) they gave three hundred francs a piece, and you have all the air of a count.What is your name[?] This is my name[,] says he[,] pulling out a card case and getting out his engraved card. He handed it to them[,] making a profound bow which raised a horse laugh, and the card & name a few remarks. But notice he keeps his hat on in our presence. Off with it. But this gentleman has his on[,] says the new[,] pointing to one of the fellows. Do you call him a gentleman[?] Fellows[,] he wants to be sarcastic. No my dear you must call us ancients[;] that is our term of respect. The song! the song! The song! Gentlemen[,] I can[’]t sing[;] I don[’]t know anything. Gentlemen[,] gentlemen[,] always gentlemen, upon my word, fellows we oughtn’t to stand his blackguarding. He finally mounted and commenced a romantic song[,] something like our Ever of Thee. The pitch did not suit the fellows; he had to commence the first line three times. He was interrupted by running commentaries on the sentiment and many mocked his voice. At the end of the first verse they would hear no more of that song[;] it was tiresome. He commenced another & another, [with] no better success. What will you have then[,] ancients? Something piggish[?] After a silence of a few moments he commenced something piggish but they made him sing it without making any gesticulations in which nearly all the fun was concealed. They thought the motions showed a want of respect to the ancients. They soon permitted him to get down and go to his place, and the studio resumed a silence. Mr. New had been somewhat humiliated. He felt perhaps he might make a bold move. He called for silence and then made a disrespectful noise. Nobody laughed but all looked very grave and the biggest rascal in the room putting on a minister look went up to him and leading him into the corner gave him a long lecture. Such a want of decency was seldom known[,] he said[,] in the School and it was worse in a New than an Ancient. By complaining 93

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to the Bureau he would be forever turned from the school in disgrace and the Ancients would be ridded of one who did not respect them and his place given to others who were anxious to have it. In conclusion he hoped it was the result of an accident. The fellow afterwards turned to us and begged that as the New showed such evident contrition in his countenance that we should pardon him & he would look on it as a personal favor as he took an interest in the New’s looks & aristocratic bearing. A vote decided by a small majority that the complaint should not be entered at the Bureau. A muttered conversation was then kept up for some time on the shocking and unexpected behavior of Mr. New who did not fail to become very nervous. After [a]while wood was necessary. New[,] go get some wood. No[,] he wouldn[’]t[,] he wasn[’]t a servant. They would soon see if he wouldn[’]t. They explained to him that as there were no servants in the studio the new one was always a servant to all the others[,] that he has to do any errands the others choose to put on him[,] that they had all done it and so on. No we could get it done & he would pay for it or he would bring his manservant there and keep him to do it. Then the fellows getting vexed made him bring it by force, he all the while protesting that it was hard he should live in the world so long and have to learn for the first time to carry wood. Never mind[,] my dear[,] you’ll get used to it. Everything is hard at first. As luck would have it the fire went out in one of the stoves. New[,] New[,] go build a fire. Then there were fresh protestations and finally tears. He had never built a fire in all his life[;] wouldn[’]t we only let him fetch his servant[?] O dear[,] dear[,] I am sure I can[’]t make one. Then a big fellow went up to him & told him to stop his nonsense & commence by putting the light stuff into the stove door, which he did. Booh hooh hooh[.] Oh if my servant was here[,] O my what must I do now[?] Put on the little sticks[,] my infant. (He is registered as 23 years old and is about six feet high.) Boo woo woo[,] how shall I do[?] Put on the big sticks[,] my infant[,] and now rub the blue end of the match up and down till you perceive a flame which you will put in contact with the combustibles. I’ll never forget that scene as long as I live. He went again to his place and there was a stop of all plaguing. After which what does the fool do but commence talking about a duel and making some hideous threats and these provoked much fun. At the close of the day he was told to thank God it was an antique week and that there were but a dozen in 94



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the studio and those the most studious and peaceful and who would not report his disobedience and stiffneckedness to the class next week. That was all yesterday. Today an old student Guille came marching in.1 Another New[,] somebody sung out. Paris Friday. The cry was taken up & Guille acted New admirably. He could not sing for he had a very sore throat but he would bring his welcome money on Monday[,] etc. etc. After [a] while more wood was wanted and of course Guille was sent for it & Mr. New went with him to show him the way to the wood room. To hasten Guille’s departure he was kicked out of the door. The New then put on a very patronizing air [and] told Guille he must bear with them and as for getting the wood he the New who had a servant & had never carried a stick of wood in his life before had done it yesterday, that the students were the hardest set he ever saw in his life[,] that he would like to kill about half of them[,] etc. etc. We liked to have frozen before we got the wood. Poor New[,] he found out after an hour or so that he had been confessing to an ancient and that he must be servant yet for some time to come, but he is very docile now and will have nothing disagreeable except running for wood & soap & that only when needed. His conduct was exactly opposite to that of a gawky slovenly looking new who came in about two weeks ago. He sung his song, did everything they asked him to and at last was thrown down by a little Ancient. Nothing ruffled him & he was put down for a stupid & let alone altogether. One day last week on coming back from breakfast we saw one of our wrestlers stitching up a seam in the back of his coat. Hello[,] what’s up[?] Nothing[;] only that damned New has been laying me out. O shame shame. To let yourself be thrown by a New. Which one did it[?] They pointed out the gawk. Young Jacques[,] son of the animal painter & etcher[,] jumped at him crying here’s for the honor of the ancient studio, but he caught a tarter and down he went on the broad of his back. Jacques[,] you’re a fool[,] says Villeminot & grabbed the New, but with the same result. Jacques said the New had a trick & wanted to get at him again but as soon as he grappled him down he went again. Bricard fared no better. The model now commenced posing & they agreed to settle the thing after school. At one o’clock the wrestlers all stripped and got to work but Mr. New threw them all. Where did you come from New[?] says Danneville at last. Brittany says the New. Oh! and I suppose you 95

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used to wrestle at the fairs. O yes most always. Since then the New is highly estimated and it is now no disgrace to be thrown by him. He has but two masters in the whole studio. We have had the meanest kind of weather for a week. It is now snowing & there has been ice every morning on the fountain of Saint Sulpice. Sunday[,] Monday & Tuesday day & night people blew horns like they do at home for Christmas Eve. It gets tiresome after three days. At night masked figures parade the Boulevards. I went to see them Tuesday at midnight but they are not to be compared with our Christmas Eve rioters. All that was not indecent was stupid, while amongst ours there is a great deal of harmless fun. I have got a letter from Fanny which shows me beyond all doubt that some of my letters have miscarried in spite of my plain direction, & I will therefore adopt her idea & number them beginning with this one. I have crossed the last page of this letter but I have written so big that it will do no harm. Give respects[,] love and so forth & write me about the health of my friends, particularly Mrs. Lewis. [No continuation found.] 1. Louis-Ernest Guille was a student of Bonnat and a friend of Eakins.

Eakins offered his father a progress report on his studies under Gérôme. He was pleased with his teacher’s encouraging comments. Later in this letter, Eakins spoke of his desire to learn Spanish, no doubt in anticipation of making a trip to Spain.

March 12 – 67 Dear Father Gerome gives me the benefit of his criticisms twice a week. Last time he made no change in my work, said it was not bad, had some middling good parts in it, but was a little barbarous yet. If barbarous and savage hold the same relation to one another in French that they do in English, I have improved in his estimation and we have the following proportion very savage minus a little Barbarous “Civilized” minus a little Barbarous!! 5 months! 96



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Only once he told me I was going backwards & that time I had made a poetical sort of an outline. The biggest compliment he ever paid me, was to say that he saw a feeling for bigness in my modelling (Il y a un sentiment de grandeur là dedans) and some times he says, “there now[,] you are on the right track, now push.” This week I am running the concourse of places, and if I can get in I will be able to draw in the evening also under Prof. Yvon. But there is but a very little chance of my getting in, as the Concourse is public, that is anyone can try. There are over 240 painters alone inscribed and of these but 70 at most[,] perhaps only 65[,] can be admitted. March 13th. Today my drawing has got a little dirty, but I will try to fetch it up again tomorrow. It is a poor comfort to me to see a good many drawings better than my own, all around me. There are two guards and an officer of the Bureau who watch us all the time[,] and the moment the pose is finished our drawings are taken away and locked up. I am studying Spanish which may be of use to me some time, or if of no use otherwise, as a benefit to my mind. My study of other languages has shown me the best way of attacking a new one, and I have adopted the following plan. I have found a good teacher, who will for a month give me three lessons a week, this will give me a good idea of the pronunciation. He addresses me altogether in Spanish and I can read Gil Blas in Spanish, and tell him what I remember. The grammar is very simple and the verbs analogous with the Italian ones. After the month is up I will take one lesson a week for some time. As ill luck will have it the Spaniards have not shown themselves at the school since I determined to study their tongue. I hope they will come back. In a couple of months I will be able to express simple wants in their tongue and understand the most that they say. The Arabs having left many words in the Spanish—make me often go to the dictionary. The Italian I judge to be the only tongue, that can be learned without a teacher. We have had lately snow[,] rain & fog, but now becoming warmer. [No continuation found.] 97

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In this newsy letter to his father and sister Fanny, Eakins commented on the French trait of politeness.

Paris[,] 3 21 67 Dear Father, The spring being now come by the almanachs [sic] the vegetables who know no better than the astronomers have begun sprouting, and in all the restaurants I see conspicuous on the bill of fares Pissabed Salad (Pissenlit). Although I have heard ladies and gentleman with ladies call for it[,] I have not yet tried it but presume it to be the same that we would call dandelion. They don[’]t seem to mind trifles of a certain kind in France. I forget whether I ever told you of a walk I took one day last winter with Mr. Williams to the Garden of Plants.You remember him. He met us once at the big willow tree back of Girard College when Mr. Holmes was with us. Well he was taken short suddenly & ran into a back house kept by a little Frenchwoman. I waited for him & when he came out & paid her she dropped him a curtsy and (a common salutation in France) [,] hoped she would have the pleasure of seeing him again[,] which being translated will signify she wished he might have another belly ache as soon as he could conveniently revisit the Garden. From this I conclude that politeness may be run in the ground. Gerome has at last told me I might get to painting & I commence Monday. I send you by this mail a couple of papers. The Liberty contains the celebrated discourse of Thiers the Historian.1 The Charivari may amuse Fanny or Billy Crowell or anyone else who knows the Grammar of Noel & Chapsal. Dear Fanny, I am much obliged to you for your letter & to Maggie for hers & am glad she has been promoted. I am sorry my letter congratulating you on your possession of the new piano miscarried & am glad to hear that Amy is going to write me a letter. 98

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Dear Father, I go to the Gymnasium 3 times a week. It is not to be compared with Hildebrand & Lewis’s. It is on the ground which is covered with a half a foot of tan. There is no heavy weight practice. But a good deal of sommersetting [sic, read summersetting = somersaulting] & swinging on trapezes & wrestling. Wrestling is great fun but it fills one[’]s ears[,] eyes[,] nose & hair with tan & we look like pigs when we are done & it is another hour’s work to get clean again.

T.C.E.

You’ll get this letter from Bill Sartain. I will direct the papers to you but inclose your letter in his envelope. [No continuation found.] 1. Adolphe Thiers (1797–1877), a French historian and political figure, was aligned with the republican camp during the Second Empire (1852–70).

The next letter was a brief note to Emily Sartain concerning the Byron Tavern, among other subjects.

Paris, April 12, 67 My dear Emily, I’ve got your letter of the 20 of March and just had time to fulfil Henry’s mission before the starting of the mail.1 The Byron Tavern is still kept by the same Mrs[.] Byron, her address being Madame Byron, Byron’s Tavern[,] 2 rue Favart. It seems almost an age since I had a letter from you, & you don’t know how pleased I was to get it. I will try to write to you or Bill next week. T.C.E. 1. No doubt a reference to Henry Sartain, Emily’s brother.

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This letter was an accounting of Eakins’s routine living expenses and the costs of his art supplies. Worth noting was the admission charge to the “exhibition”—the Exposition Universelle held in Paris in 1867—which he visited several times.

April 12. 67. [Presumably to his father] All my checques are as follows. No.1 Self Nov 6 250 2 Saynsché " 24 130 3 Self Dec 4 250 4 " Dec 24 200 5 " Jan 11 200 6 " Feb 9 250 7 " Mar 4 300 8 " April 4 200 1780 francs 2500 720 All my expenses since I last wrote are as follows. 25.00 Pair of Gaiters Two trifling expenses I have 2.00 Cab not been keeping account of 5.00 Gymnasium as they are very nearly regular. 50.00 A pair of Pantaloons Drawing material very cheap & a vest which I buy at the school as I 3.00 Mending old Pantaloons want it a few cents worth at 12.95 Colors Brushes Canvass a time as it is looked on as 8.00 Postage stamps common property. The other is 2.00 Writing paper & envelopes my tribune which cost me 6 59.00 —3 Spanish lessons cents or 30 centimes a copy. 23.00 Box for Paint We may say then 2 francs for 10.05 Colors & Canvass each & I make the whole 335.20. 100

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2.80 Petroleum & a wick I have yet in my pocket 91.75 19.00 Pair of shoes francs. The rest has all gone 90.00 Rent for March & April for food. 9.50 Washing 2.25 Candles. Wood 7 a bottle of  Wine. 3.25 Service 1.00 Visit to the Exhibition 2.00 Catalogue .60 Painting paper .80 Colors 331.20 I owed the Spanish man 56 francs & gave him 60. He could give me back but 1 franc change at the time but will pay the three others next time we meet at the restaurant. I have been to the Great Exposition but have no time to write now any more. [No continuation found.]

Eakins wrote his sister Maggie about the kind of hats he wore, and catching a frequent glimpse of the emperor and empress. This was followed by a letter addressed to his friend Max Schmitt, in French, in which he discussed the current rise of Germany as a world power. To his father he reported on the political situation in Paris, paying special attention to the emerging conflict between France and Prussia.

April 12.67 Dear Maggie, I am very glad to get hold of another letter from you & more especially since it is so long and full of news. I would have liked to see the baby in Jack and Jill with the dough plastered over its mouth[.] That was a happy thought and should become more generally adopted. I have never yet worn a pair of white kids not even when I went to see Lenoir. Neither have I got a high hat yet. You remember my little cap that I got for the 101

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steamer[?] Well I wear that sometimes at night or at home. Soon after I got here I bought a hat to go to school in, it is made of cloth and is very comfortable. Some of the boys though made fun of it, some called it infect [sic] and some said it was not a hat but a chamber pot. Keeping this one for everyday use[,] I have bought to go to church or visiting or to great places a very proper pasteboard quaker hat. This is I believe the first stiff hat I ever owned and I hope it may last a good while for I don’t think I’ll ever buy another. Americans are looked on in Europe as a people who may be allowed to do as they please. If I was a Frenchman I would have sported a stove pipe since I was two years old. I am not yet accustomed to the sight of little brats with high hats, & they still always look to me like little servants. The Emperor and Empress I often see. One day they came to our school and went through the studios. At one time I might almost have touched them by putting out my hand. They often ride out too in their big carriage drawn by four horses & outriders & accompanied with friends. When the little Prince rides out he is always surrounded by Cavalry but the Emperor and Empress often walk or ride all alone. Mon cher Max, On vient de me faire part de ce que tu m’as écrit des lettres dernièrement, mais il y a joliment des mais que je n’en ai pas recu. J’ai peur qu’il n’y êut la-dedans, quelquechose que le censeur n’aurait pas voulu laisser passer. La politique et tres amusante pour les etrangers, et les passions font dire parfois des betises tout à fait au dehors de la raison. Par example “Pour moi, si j’étais allemand je serais modeste. Je m’appellerais que l’Allemagne n’a jamais joué qu’un rôle très secondaire dans la civilisation européene qu’il a fallu [sic, read failli?] pour sortir des ténèbres où elle s’était endormie en plein [au milieu?] moyen âge qu’elle [a] recût [sic/récu] les reflets de la lumiere éclatante dont la France au dix 102



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huitieme siècle était le foyer généreux.” Voilà un tribut à la nation du génie delaquelle [sic, read de laquelle] est provenu l’imprimerie l’horlogerie eta, eta. Pour mieux[?] connâitre les moeurs ici je ferai fidèle copie d’une paragraphe que j’emprunte au [de] Magasin de Paris, journal qui se pique d’être très comme il faut, et se trouve du reste partout. La voici. Mlle. X a crevé sa conduite comme dit Gavache et est obligée d’aller demander au climat de l’Italie de vouloir bien lui revelouter le tuyau. Sans souligner tu remarqueras deux significations dont l’une des plus chiques. April 12, 1867 Dear Father, I send you by this mail a copy of the Liberty[,] which if it reaches you will give you an idea of the feeling of a considerable part of the Frenchmen.1 As the sale of that paper has been stopped by the Minister on the streets[,] and as Girardin & his printer are both summoned to appear on account of this copy of the paper, it is not likely it will pass.2 It has a little article about portative canon which resembles your own idea. They are I believe[,] though[,] not so particular about papers which go out as those which come in.Yesterday’s Charivari[,] which I tried to buy but couldn[’]t find it[,] had a picture of a big French Zouave passing a little Prussian under a measuring stick which had the head piece marked Rhine & saying to him: Don[’]t grow any bigger[,] my little man[;] it[’]s for your own health I tell you so. The Prussians not long ago drew a soldier who was painting the map of Europe all Prussian Blue with a needle brush. I don[’]t know, but I think the Prussians have as yet the best of it because they have the Rhine itself and let the Frenchmen keep the right to it if it serves to amuse them. The right too is not without grave doubts. T.C.E. 1. Liberty referred to the controversial Parisian journal La Liberté. 2. Emile de Girardin (1802–81), a French journalist and political figure, founded La Liberté.

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[Translation.] My dear Max, I have just been informed of what you wrote me in some of your last letters, but it is some time since I have not received any. I fear that there is (may be) something that the censor would not have wanted to let pass. Politics are very amusing for foreigners, and passions make follies entirely beyond reason. For example, “As for me, if I were German, I would be modest. I would remind myself that Germany has never played anything but a very secondary role in European civilization, that it was necessary in order to come out of the shadows where she [Germany] had been sleeping since the Middle Ages, that she received the reflection of the dazzling light of which France was the generous source in the eighteenth century.” Here is a tribute to the nation of genius from which originates the printing press, clock making, etc. In order to better know the habits and customs here, I will make a faithful copy of a paragraph that I borrow from the Magasin de Paris newspaper, which prides itself on being up to par and happens to be everywhere. Here it is. Mlle. X was let down by his behavior as (such) a Gavache (= poltroon) that she was obligated to go and benefit from the atmosphere in Italy, to be willing to “reline the pipe.” Without overemphasizing, you will notice two meanings, of which one is the more chic. In this letter, addressed presumably to his father, and Max Schmitt and Eakins’s sister Fanny, the artist highlighted the tensions between France and Prussia. His medium was a verbal caricature in which the two countries were represented by chemical compounds.

April 25.67. Dear Father: This week has been particularly dearth of events. There is great excitement though in regard to the Luxembourg on this very account. The Moniter [sic][,] which is the official organ of the impire [sic][,] has never 104



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yet even mentioned it. The congress having been refused permission to speak of it, it is highly probable that the people will be entirely ignorant until the thing is decided either one way or the other. Prussia it seems has a right by a treaty to this stronghold. Napoleon says Germany now is entirely different from what she was then and therefore Prussia has no more right to it, but it reverts to the King of Holland who may sell it if he wants to. Bismark does not judge fit after taking some trouble to make a stronger Germany that he should go to breaking it up again for fear it might become strong enough to interfere with France if so disposed, although he no doubt understands perfectly. The French papers say, “It is no longer a question of how this thing commenced or with whom. France’s honor is at stake. She has asked for Luxembourg and would be forever degraded & humiliated if she did not get it. Germany must understand this and all we want is peace; but if Germany will have war it is not our fault.” They thus fill up more than half the paper crying peace & war in the same breath. This European balance of power business hardly seems honest to an American. It is as if I cocked my pistol & went up to my friend and said, My dear fellow, you seem to have been a little successful in your business lately. [There] is some danger that you may indeed become richer than I am which you see my pride & position in society cannot tolerate. I had the honor yesterday to ask you for your pocket book, and you will hardly refuse for the sake of such a trifle & make a fuss. You will not only bring trouble on yourself but will probably arouse the whole neighborhood. Besides my honor is now at stake. Dear Max. There is a chemical compound called Germany. It is distinguished by a strong smell of lager beer[,] sour krout & limburger. According to the latest analysis of Professor Bismark it consists of Prussia 10 parts Saxony 3 parts Bavaria 4 parts Baden 1 part Hessedarmstadt 2 parts Limburg 1 part Luxemburg [sic] 1 part Its scientific name is the bi-Prusside of Landbavabadeheslim . . . ∞ 105

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There is another called France which has often been regarded as a very simple element. Professor Napoleon in a recent lecture before a select number of scientific gentlemen from England, Russia, Austria and so forth announced that he had been experimenting for some time past with this latter element. He thought he could soon produce a new binary compound[,] the Frenchide of Luxembourg, which he conceived would be very useful. The formula of reaction is in itself extremely simple[,] being merely but he had encountered many difficulties in the manipulations[,] which were unlooked for. One trouble was the poisonous quantities of the residue of Germany which he had hoped would be entirely dissipated. A discussion ensued as to whether the new compound would be solid or only gaseous. The supporters of the gaseous theory remarked the instability of the well known sesqui-Frenchide of Mexico which the learned professor had been able to obtain a few years ago by making an alloy of France[,] England[,] Austria & Spain[,] by which Mexico was easily attacked[,] and then filtering to get rid of England & Spain & obtained the Frenchide nearly pure. A gentleman from the Southern part of the United States related that the compound had given rise to great expectations there at first but that it was now falling into disuse as the atmospheric influence of the American climate seemed to be sufficient in itself to decompose these new Frenchides but he could not speak with certainty of European climates. Professor Bismark is understood to be opposed to these experiments as he believes no good result will be obtained and because he believes them to be very dangerous to professor, assistants and all engaged in it. Professor Bismark is the inventor of the new color Prussian Blue which is a very fast color & by which the German flags are now all dyed, and his attitude has great influence among these gentleman of science. Professor Napoleon however did not appear discouraged. It is to be regretted that these lectures are not open to the public and we ourselves[,] although reporters[,] had some difficulty in entering.We were surprised at the heat of the scientific discussions & have to regret 106



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many discourtesies. For instance, there was an old English professor who although talking all the time was never listened to and when he appeared to be in great earnest, some laughed in his face. This rudeness could not but shock us. At the close of the lecture Prof[.] Bismark exhibited the new needle retort by which he effected his brilliant experiments of last year. An Austrian chemist stated that if this retort had been in use in his manufactory it would have saved him many dollars and he would now adopt it.  w Dear Father, The Siècle of to day gave a short sketch of the history of Pennsylvania. After speaking of William Penn, his trials, his treaties with the Indians & his observances of them & so on, they described Philadelphia and ended up by saying it now contained 250,000 inhabitants. I have not been to the exhibition this week but will try to get off next week in the early part before writing my usual letter. Irish Post Script. If this letter or the Papers I send you don[’]t reach you let me know immediately. Dear Fanny, The roses here are nearly over and for the last two weeks I have seen strawberry pies in all the confectionary windows. New pease and new potatoes have been here for some time. The leaves of the trees which have been out so long already are hardly as big I think as our own now at home, they grow so slowly. This is owing I suppose to the difference of climate. At home after a hot week the sun comes out and sets everything to steaming, here it seldom shows itself for more than a half hour at a time. What can make it rain so in a land where there are no Quakers gives me much study, & I hope it may sometime be investigated by capable men. It is ten o’clock & I am going to bed. T.C.E. Friday I have got your letter telling me of Aunt Margaret’s accident & the de107

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velopment of the Prissy[?] Potter Money & Gardel affair. I also have one from Emily Sartain which I will answer next time. None from my other friends. I will soon I suppose be looking out for Hallowell & the Moores whom I will be glad to see. Keep me informed of all events at home among my friends, up at Uncle Emmors & over at [the] Lewises. I will be looking soon for a letter from my father. It has only rained three times today so far & the sun is shining bright. [No continuation found.] This letter to his sisters Caddy and Maggie was geared to their childhood interests. In this case, he reported on the public performance of a trained dog and monkey.

[Paris, May 1867?] Dear Caddy & Maggie, Last evening after dinner I was taking a walk along the garden of the Luxemburg and when I came to the end I saw a crowd of men & little boys and girls and little babies and their nurses. I went up to see what they were looking at & found out it was a man who had a little dog and a monkey. The little dog would stand up on his hind legs & dance for a very long time that way, while the man played on a whistle & beat a drum, and afterwards he would be [a] horse for the little monkey and would turn to the right or left & would walk or trot or gallop just as the man would say. When any one gave the man a penny the man would throw to the monkey & the monkey would catch it in his hand & put it in his little pocket & then turn around and take off his hat & bow to the person that had given it. His name was Funny. His master gave him a little sword & then fenced with him for some time, but when he stopped to look around at something Funny hit him as hard as he could & made all of the little children laugh. One time his master said[,] Funny, how do the naughty little children do when they don[’]t want to go to school[?] and Funny put his little hands over his eyes and hollered as loud as ever he could, and then all the nurses laughed and some of the children too but not all.

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Funny had a little fiddle to play music on but it was not as good music as Fanny makes on her piano. When he was done his master said he had not played well & told him to give him the fiddle, but the monkey gave it to him over his head & he had to say it was a good tune & ask him please before he could get it away from him. Funny played the tambourine too and rung a bell while he galloped around dog-back and when he dropped his bell & his master told him to pick it up without getting off the dog’s back he reached out his long tail & picked it up with that. At half past eight o’clock it was beginning to get so dark that Funny couldn[’]t see to catch the pennies and so the man stopped and little Funny jumped up into his master[’]s arms & kissed him and they went away. The little dog wagged his tail and barked & ran on before[,] and I hope they had all a good dinner after they got home. [No continuation found.] In the company of his friend Harry Moore, Eakins attended a free concert—one that featured dancing, singing, and humorous skits. One of the performances bordered on the indecent, but Eakins assured his father that his and Moore’s standards of “taste” had not been lowered by witnessing it.

Paris, Friday, May 2 or 3 [1867?] [To his father] After I found him [Moore] last night we took a stroll along the Champs Elysees street. He was a little astonished and I suspect disgusted to see gentlemen with high hats on laughing and riding round on the children’s hobby horses. When we got tired we went and sat down at a table under the trees to listen to one of the free concerts. These are quite numerous. There is an orchestra and a little stage on which a half dozen women singers gracefully lounge[,] coming out one at a time when they must sing. They have dancing too and represent funny characters, in short it is sort of a Sanford Opera House affair.

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A Spanish dance was very beautiful, but as they must needs end everything up comic, the man and woman as a final bumped their behinds together[,] & this was heavily applauded & had to be done over again. One fine looking girl dressed in men’s clothes sang a sailor song. She had on a sailor hat[,] a red shirt and then a pair of white breeches that fit the skin so close that every form was marked. As she pretended to weigh anchors and pull ropes about she put herself in many indecent positions. One verse of her song described a poisoning they once underwent, wherein she had to go the the surgeon of the ship who gave her an injection. Her words were accompanied with gestures so apt that Moore, although he could not understand her song, could not refrain from asking me if this place was respectable, and nothing less than my word would have reassured him. Respectable. Dear me. Fine looking old gentleman stop there to rest and smoke their cigars & have with them their daughters, & no married lady would hesitate an instant to stay there and applaud their wit. At one time Moore asked me if the policemen and soldiers standing around would not probably stop the thing. Another big mistake. If the man stopped of his own accord or shut up his place he would be put in jail.The Government of France has authority over every place of amusement. It is its duty to see that i[t]s subjects shall be kept gay. You may rest assured that neither Moore nor I will be attracted by these scenes except from curiosity & you need not fear that they will lower instead of heighten our standard of taste. [No continuation found.] This newsy letter dealt with matters of routine business.

Paris[,] May 24, 67 Dear Father, I intended writing a long letter home this week but was stopped by a heavy rain storm from getting home to my paper[.] I was over at Crepon’s and now after spinning out a long one to Mr[.] Gardel I have but little time left before the mail goes. I must also answer Billy Crowell a 110

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letter from whom I got this minute. He is well and at Cork. Bad passage 27 days. Your offer of still more money to enable me to continue my studies reached me last week [and] also the news of Aunt Eliza’s Christmas present & with a feeling between pride & humiliation I long for the time that may enable me to give them the other direction. Tell Fanny I long ago got her photograph. I was still waiting till I wrote directly to her before mentioning it & afterwards forgot to. I do not like it as much as the other one. With the exception of Mr. Holmes & the Sartains I have yet got none of my promised photographs. None of my own family except yours & Fanny’s. Tell Fanny I have had no chance at all at Dutch [sic, read German] since I have been here. The only Germans at our studio speaking French far better than their own tongue, coming from Alsace. My reading time is devoted to French or Spanish. Tell Fanny I have received her letter telling me to scold Max Schmitt. I had already done so before getting her instructions. Joanna will I hope not desert you also. I must stop now [as the] mail is going soon. T C E. I always forget to number my letters but it would be of no use[.] I write regularly the thursday or friday of every week. This letter was filled mainly with Eakins’s lengthy descriptive accounts of the displays that interested him in the Exposition Universelle of 1867. Often he compared U.S. products with those of other countries, and always to the advantage of his native land. Little escaped his attention—locomotives, sewing machines, pianos, and the like. He was, in addition, fascinated by the costumes of the various participating nations.

Paris[,] May 31, 67 Dear Father, Last week we had ice but now it is as warm as summer and the sun has been shining almost every day since. Billy Crowell wrote to me last Fri111

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day to send on his letters to the London postoffice[,] but I was afraid to send them to such a large place and so wrote him one telling him if he would get settled to write me and I would then do it. I have got no answer to this letter which convinces me he did not receive it and so I am glad not to have dispatched the bunch. I will not be surprised to see him dropping in on me some day next week and it will be a joyful day when I see him. I have been to the Great Exhibition twice I think since I last wrote. The Locomotive the Press speaks about is by far the finest there. I can’t tell you how mean the best English[,] French and Belgian ones are alongside of it. The part of the article about the fairness and disinterestedness of the Englishman Juror I take to be a lie. One of the most amusing things in the American department is the soda water fountains. The foreigners[,] above all the French[,] have begun to taste the ice cream soda water and its fame has spread so that there is a long tail like at a theatre all waiting their turns. It has grown necessary to have tickets which are bought near the fountain before taking the place. The ice is made at the Exhibition by steam. The soda water man is said to have already made a fortune. The story of his daily receipts is fabulous. Besides soda water they have at the restaurant all the American fancy drinks, mint juleps, cobblers and a dictionary of other names, and also plug tobacco which is a great comfort to Sammy Moore[,] who is back again[,] having arrived here with his Pittsburgh friend Kramer last Saturday night. They have traveled over Germany and Switzerland. Kramer leaves tomorrow so as to start from Liverpool for America next Wednesday. Sammy up to this time has not made up his mind whether to go with him or not. They have possession of my room. No people will think of competing with the Americans for sewing machines. There must be a specimen of nearly every kind here. One little one I noticed particularly because of a quarrel between two rivals real or feigned to draw attention. It sewed a fine cambric handkerchief with a fine needle and fine cotton and then without changing the stitch or the needle or the cotton or even the tension it slid right off into sewing on to each side of a piece of sheet lead a heavy piece of sole leather, and this it did without dropping a stitch. The heaviest machinery is the French, some of the engines are the largest I ever saw. Sellers has a good many things here[,] among them a very large planing machine[,] I think the largest, and our American has a very powerful engine which is small and remarkably compact. 112



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Chickering and Steinway have a great many pianos here and great musicians are nearly always a drumming on them, so that you can hardly go there without hearing good music. There is no doubt our pianos will take the premiums or have already. I wish we had a steam squirt over here from Philadelphia just to put alongside of the English one. The worst one we had would answer the purpose. The English are strong in lighthouses. An interesting walk is around the restaurants. Except the American ones[,] there are waiter girls in nearly all of them dressed after the fashion of their country. Holland sends big women with showy dresses. Switzerland neat ones. Norway and Sweden send gaudy looking ones but I forget whether they were pretty or not. The Turkish women are very ugly and heavy[,] while the men are thin. The Russians have Georgian women in their restaurants and they are very beautiful.The Spanish girls have the gayest frocks of all and fairly glitter with spangles and silver and gold fringes. The finest thing of all though was a single girl in a Romany restaurant. She was dressed in a perfectly plain frock of crimson and had a few green leaves in her black hair. She was the most beautiful woman I ever saw or ever expect to see. She served out ice cream. There was a crowd looking at her all the time. I will never forget that long sad face with such clean firm modelling. The French have a monster coffee concert like those on the Elyseean Fields I was telling you about. It will seat I suppose two or three thousand. The women dressed in very low necked dresses sing comic or ornary or both songs here all day long. The Chinese too have their theatre but I have not attended it. There is a large Mexican temple here with skulls out in front; and Mexicans in buck skin breeches and blankets and hats as big as umbrellas parade around and let you go in for five cents. There is also exhibited there a tent labeled the tent of her Imperial Majesty Charlotte. I did not see anyone lift his hat in passing it. I heard some Frenchmen[,] though[,] make some grim jokes around the temple which they would take to be French ones. You have perhaps seen the beautiful mosaic work of the Moors on their jewelry. They have a big workshop at the exhibition. I took interest in nothing more than in seeing these black[s] working with tools entirely dissimilar with our own. The turning lathe is like this. The first is look113

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ing down on it [and] the second [is] looking at it sideways.The old fellow sits down on it cross-legged[,] wraps the string of a bow around the nose of this primitive lathe and then takes the bow in the left hand and saws in and out with it while he grasps his heavy chisel between his hand and bare foot, which seems indelicacy [?] almost another hand. The furnace for melting gold and silver is a little bit of thing and the bellows are made of the stomach of a camel with no boards and are squeezed by the hand. The rough hammerings are afterwards made into rings, bracelets or ear rings and are covered with ornamentation[,] conspicuous among which always shines out the crescent. They make matting there too. A row of strings are stretched on a frame about four inches above the floor. Two Moors sitting cross legged alongside of one another and on the strings take the straws in their fingers and poke them in and out among the strings frall [sic] a strip of wood with holes through which the string passes up against it. I guess they never thought of making the strings themselves go up and down and poking the straw through straight like our weaving machine would do it, but they certainly must have the credit of being very dexterous and they work very fast. [No continuation found.] In this letter to Emily, in Italian, Eakins demonstrated that his affection for her had greatly diminished. His tone was factual, even brusque.

Parigi Magg [remainder of line torn off] [1867] Mia cara Emilia. M’è pervenuta la tua dolce lettera italiana, alla quale, rendandone [sic] grazie alla tua bontà, mi duole il non potere risponder (se non con dire essa avermi [sic] molto piaciuto) il tempo mancandomi e novelle per dirti, niuna [sic, probably deliberate] cosa importante essendo accaduta. Fra tutta le novelle tue, alcuna non mi fu piacevole quanto la tua amicizia per un amico mio manifesta stata. Che infermità che la paralasia. È il Sig. Irwin il terzo dei quali conosco che l’hanno esperta, e non ha 114

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la medicina ancora dato remedia che facesse profitto. Parte incontinentamente la posta.

T.C.E.

[Translation from Italian.] Paris, May [?, 1867] My dear Emily, Your sweet letter in Italian has reached me, to which while I’m duly thankful to your kindness for it, I’m sorry not to be able to reply (except by saying it would have given me much pleasure)[.] I have no time nor any news to tell you, since nothing important has occurred. Amongst all your news, none of it was so pleasant as your having shown your friendship for a friend of mine. What an illness is paralysis. Mr. Irwin is the third one I have known to suffer from it, and medicine has not yet offered a remedy to produce an effect. The mail is leaving forthwith. T.C.E. After questioning his sister Fanny about the well-being of their mutual friends, Eakins analyzed various readings of Dante’s Inferno. The tone of this letter, and others to her of the same period, suggested that Fanny was his intellectual equal.

[May 1867?] Dear Fanny I am glad to have your letter of April 22.Your classification of old Esh & Emily Sartain are but little flattering to Emily. But if now after conquering your prejudices, they occupy in your affections a similar ratio to what they do in mine or anything like it, I can well imagine the intensity of your love for Emily after learning from Maggie how when you heard his pull at the bell you rushed full speed to the door, flung it open & then 115

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into his arms. More seriously speaking (if anything can be more serious) I am glad you have both found companions in one another. I don[’]t mean Esh[,] I mean Emily & you. Emily is a good girl with much feeling, intensely sensitive & I think she has had but few friends. On those of them we have known I believe we hold the same opinions. When have you seen Joanna or Ida or Amy[?]1 How did you like little Addie Williams?2 She is a pretty little girl & I guess just as good as she is pretty, or she belies her blood. We owe a great deal to her father & mother for their unvarying and disinterested kindness to us whenever we have been there and to little Addie too. Try to make her welcome whenever she comes to town. Bill Crowell’s news are good. May I soon see him again. He is Addie’s cousin. You are very good to recur [sic] to my readings of Dante & you show by it, you appreciate my reasons for correcting what appeared to me wrong, for if you had imagined that I interlined, not in the search of a true reading but merely to show my smartness, you would not have showed them up to me again supposing that I was better acquainted with the language. I fear[,] though[,] I can give you no positive information, as I have not read much, nor have I any dictionary, and the only Italian person I know I have not seen for a long time. So the best thing I can do is to tell you as well as I can remember what were my reasons for the corrections then. If you have stronger reasons for the contrary let me know always[,] and we may argue until we come to the truth either by ourselves or the authority we may call to our aid. CANTO XV—E chinando la mia alla sua faccia. Risposi: Siete voi qui, ser Brunetto [Inferno, canto 15, l.29–30.]3 Of the two readings I think I would prefer this one. Dante is mighty careful about the actions. Never does he betray a looseness in the most trifling details[;] all that is done has its object. Just above Dante tells how the crowd looked at them, ciascuna Ci riguardava, come suol da sera Guardar l’un l’altro sotto nuova luna: E sì ver noi aguzzavan le ciglia Come vecchio sartor fa nella cruna [canto 15, l.17–21].4 It was hard then to see plain, and after recognizing Brunetto greatly changed I can easily see why Dante should approach his face closer to Brunettos to make sure before answering, but I don’t see why 116



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he should put his hand in his face or even towards it. Indeed I believe the tendency in the real action would be rather to hold the arms back while peering forward. CANTO XVI. Che in su si stende, e da pìe si rattrappa [canto 16, l.136].5 I yet retain my original conviction here but having no means to determine the meaning of the words I can only reason from the action. A person at the bottom of the river when he makes up his mind to ascend (more especially if he has remained there some time about some business or other hunting for something[,] or as Dante says loosening an anchor) jumps up and stiffens himself like an arrow to offer the least resistance to the motion gained by the jump. If rattrapare shows a contraction of the sinews or rather of the muscles which pull them for sinews are inelastic this will suit, for to stiffen oneself one just pulls on all his muscles from the feet upwards. The sinews about the foot would draw up but the foot itself would point down. Drawing in his feet as Cary says does not convey to me a swimmer any idea at all. Does he mean draw them up to his behind[?] That would be nonsense. Does he mean draw them together[?] But this he would have already done before springing & Dante would have written five meaningless words to fill out a line, but if the thing means stretches out, stiffens, it gives the principal action of the diver. Besides if we were to believe Cary right here[,] would we not have to think da pìe si rattrappa an awkward phrase for to say draw in the feet. The other Lo ciel etu is certainly only a printer[’]s error but a very bad one. Tell me in your next if Cary is a minister or not. [No continuation found.]

1. Ida and Amy probably referred to the sisters of Joanna Schmitt, Max’s sister. 2. Addie Williams was Mary Adeline Williams (1853–1941), the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Hall Williams of Fairton, New Jersey. In 1900, she went to live with Thomas Eakins and his wife. 3. And  towards his face My hand inclining, answer’d: “Sir! Brunetto! And art thou here?” Dante Alighieri, The Vision or, Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise of Dante Alighieri, trans. H. F. Cary (London: J. Taylor, 1831). 4. T  hey each one ey’d us, as at eventide One eyes another under a new moon,

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Chapter 2 And toward us sharpen’d their sight as keen, As an old tailor at his needle’s eye. 5. Who, upward swinging, close draws in his feet.

Eakins warned Fanny to be cautious in selecting her friends. He also instructed her to be careful with her spelling.

[Probably late spring or early summer 1867] Dear Fanny, I will try to notice something about frocks & one thing or another to make up a letter to Aunt Eliza. I regret my want of education in that line & will hardly know where to begin & it is a regret as it would enable me to please her. Don[’]t have much to do with that man Guthrie.1 I don[’]t like him from what you say of his little deceptions. He is a contemptible little pimp. While on the same subject I hope you will never have anything to do with Harriet Sartain at all the doctor.2 I have always regretted Emily’s acquaintance with her. I do not care to tell you my reasons but they are all sufficient. At the same time you need not say anything about this to Emily who seems to admire her. It is likely even she does not know her as well as I do. Your spelling is now become very good; your last letter having only two errors[:] madam spelt madame and daddy pere. Make excuses to Emily and Amy that I cannot write. I had left it till yesterday when I received the unexpected visit. Amy asked me if I didn[’]t think it would be nice if you would play duets with her & said she had almost made up her mind to ask you. This I conceive to be a great confidence to me and you must propose it to her if she has not said anything about it. She is such a timid little creature. Tell her we yet have strawberries. My love to everyone & give me accounts of the health of all friends[,] particularly of Mrs. Lewis, Uncle Emmor & Aunt Susan, & get Maggy to write [one or two words possibly torn off] home letter. T.C.E.

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1. That is, W. E. Guthrie, author of The Betrothed: A Nation’s Vow (1868). 2. Harriet Judd Sartain was a homeopathic physician and Emily’s sister-in-law.

After commenting on the attempted assassination of Emperor Alexander of Poland, Eakins plunged into a long-winded discourse on the common roots of words in different languages. Citing numerous examples, some seasoned by his homely wit, Eakins demonstrated a sophisticated knowledge of linguistics— an understanding apparently shared by his sister, the recipient of the letter.

June 12. 67. Dear Fanny, It is growing hot now & does not rain any more, so I conclude the climate of France is like that of California & divides itself into the dry & rainy season. We have been having strawberries for nearly two months & will have them for two more according to all accounts & this is an advantage over you who have them but for three weeks. Nobody eats milk on them here but most people pour wine on them[,] which I think spoils them, & I saw one man put vinegar & oil on them. The worms I suppose are in full bloom at home. I wish Philadelphia had little birds in like Paris.You see them all about hopping up to within a yard of you. I sent a couple of newspapers home describing the attempted assassination of the Emperor Alexander. I was on the spot with Billy Crowell about 5 minutes before the thing happened.When the Emperors discovered no one was hurt they immediately kissed one another. They came back to Paris at full gallop a regiment of Horsemen clearing the way. They are said to have looked very pale & their lips were blue. I guess they were badly scared. I happened to be on the boulevard when the Emperor Napoleon went out to the depot to receive Alexander. He was bowing to everybody. About a square behind him an undertaker driving a hearse at full gallop followed him[,] he also bowing like the Emperor. Everybody laughed[,]

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even the policeman. But it was a grim joke in some respects & I think the man was arrested. When Alexander appeared[,] a great many yelled live Poland and many arrests were consummated. When Alex appeared out on a promenade the same thing occurred. He visited the Palace of Justice but some of the lawyers hailed him with the cry Live Poland & the others yelled to the door[,] which means put him out. Some say they meant put the lawyers out the door[,] but Alexander thought as some others still think and he beat a retreat immediately without seeing anything of it at all. When he has since appeared he has been surrounded by a crowd of policemen & private guards who elbow the people with but little gentleness. On the night of the attempted assassination there was a grand illumination [of] all the public buildings & large stores. Police came around and requested people to illuminate or rather ordered them to. The King of Prussia & Bismark leave to day I believe to go home again. The sultan is coming in about two weeks. I received your letter last Sunday & gave it to Billy Crowell to read. He lives with me in my room & I had a jolly hunt to find it just now. My room is not a very big one but the other day when I was I was [sic] in a hurry I think I spent ten minutes looking for my hat. It does me good to see that you have found good authority to back what I had to say about the future tense. See if he mentions what I told you about a conditional mood which is only a past tense.We use the past tense oftener in French than in America in its simplest form to make conditionals.You speak of a provincial language separating the two parts of a future tense. Cervantes writes in Spanish very often indifferently lo veré [= I will see] or verlohe [= I will see]. I him to see have or to see him I have & many others with all the verbs to make futures. I can[’]t help thinking it is very fanciful to bring a word of ours from an old thing like this ardhr [sic] except as a matter of curiosity. Languages are all the same in roots & always will be & you can bring any of our words from the Chinese with equal readiness if you know the Chinese as well as Norse, & the relation between any two words can be traced through its father or brothers or uncles or cousins[,] indeed in a hundred ways[,] and you are after doing it no wiser than you were at first. Make up your mind that all words are relatives[,] that they are prolific & that [it] is better to know them only by looks & so well that 120



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you can say on seeing a new one he looks most like this crowd or this crowd. When a word comes into a language in a very round about way like your espiègle [= mischievous] it will adapt itself to a root in the language & as not one hundredth or even one thousandth of the people could know its history in a few years, it is felt by everyone to belong to it. Even the most ignorant person who never in his life heard of a root will have this feeling as strong as the most learned. If it is a long word or in other words a weak one or does not adapt itself immediately to a root in the language it dies right away; and such histories & searchings after where words come from are perhaps interesting for a moment like a light[,] very light novel but will be forgotten as soon but the big familys & resemblances in words are never lost to the mind. I would not have a high opinion of the sense of any one who advanced that the Latin terminations were conventional artificial inventions & not words in themselves.The Latins had an ugly way of not separating words in writing. I think it was only in late times that they put in periods between the words. If the French did the same thing I can easily conceive a fool like John S. Hart LSD writing something like this in centuries to come for the benefit of the poor little schoolboys.1 The French language was the most remarkable perhaps of all tongues for the number of its terminations[,] which shut up in themselves a delicacy of ideas not known to the moderns [and] exceeding by far in its cases & declensions even the Latin & the Greek[,] which it is remembered were both anterior to the French[,] thus violating a well known principle in language that the more ancient a people & the less its trades[,] its wants[,] its sciences & the more simple & frugal its life[,] the more complicated the structure of its tongue. We need only append here a short example. As an introduction to the large grammar we are about to write, take a future time signifying I will write jevaisécrire[,] jedoisécrire[,] jécrirai[,] jetiensdecrire[,] jaiintentiondecrire[,] jaiaecrire, jesuisdavisquilvautmieuxque[,] etc etc etc of which the above are perhaps most frequently employed. These ancient Frenchmen employed some marks over some of the letters which were turned either to the right or to the left or / \ or sometimes both at once ^. The most celebrated etymologists of the present day have at last decided that this mark was generally used to 121

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give a harsher sound to the vowel[,] making it approach more a consonant. In spite of the centuries of earnest work we must admit that the pronunciation of this old tongue is not even now fully established and on this account we must still regret that it may not become a universal language. Although the French was by far the most beautiful tongue that ever was known abounding as it did in thousands of affixes & suffixes & prefixes to vary in every conceivable shade the slight differences in meanings[,] it is held by philosophers that it could have never been spoken well except by the very elegant & learned persons for whom it was peculiarly fitted. The very futures of which we spoke about above were not used indiscriminately & what is most strange there are grounds for believing that the form which was used with greater propriety in one person would be inappropriate in another[,] thus one would conjugate jedoisecrire = tuvasecrire & perhaps jevaisecrire = tudoisecrire. A number of philology men are counting all the examples which are found in the language & it is expected they will finish their report within a few more years. If they can only establish this certainly it will throw great light on the connection with the English language which it will be remembered by scholars suffered a like peculiarity as shown by the work of a great American Grammar man which was discovered only lately & has been translated by Doctor Heklfoctz[,] the celebrated linguist.2 The reader will remember we mean the Grammar of John S. Hart, LSD. I shallwrite, thouwiltwrite[,] weshallwrite[,] youwillwrite. Some men have gone so far as to say that the French & English were never spoken but were the invention of the priests or learned men who communicated by writing with one another. Advertisement The great work called A Few Ideas on the structure of the old French language is under Press & will be out in a few days. It will be remembered that this is the long talked of work about which all the savants and the litteratti [sic] have been on the qui vive for so long. The writer has evidently made this subject the study of his life & the introduction or introitus, as he has preferred to call it[,] of which we published a sample some time past[,] will be a sufficient guarantee to our readers that it will be worth the while of every student to read. The author has 122



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been a very acute observer and points out with unshrinking fidelity all the advantages of this language over all modern ones. His volume on the resemblance of a term of politesse [= politeness] jemenfou [= couldn’t give a damn] to the Turkish and Arabic[,] To hear is to obey is not one of the least interesting. Although we have noticed one or two errors in the work we commend it heartily to the deep study of all the savants. We must of course expect a work of this magnitude & learning to provoke some differences but we feel secure that it will be a rich store for all future pursuers in the same path and a crown of honor to its worthy author.  w Dear Fanny, A man of Max Muller’s knowledge attaches but little importance to curious derivations I should judge but has nevertheless given these examples to make the thing less dry to a certain class of readers.3 But you will endeavor to to [sic] take only the grand principles it contains to remember. As regards the wolf story this is my opinion. There are two things to be represented[:] the wolf & his coming. There is no doubt about the come meaning simply movement in a direction. The wolf can be imitated by making a noise like him but after people had formed a tongue for themselves they would have found a better way of naming the thing, which they would have founded on his form or some remarkable habit. But form is only another name for motion. Form was made by modelling & is seen by running the attention round it, & the deaf express every animal by a simple movement showing either his form (generally of the head), or his habits. But if we describe a habit this is a motion just the same. I can see no place for language to get the start from except from motion but with a few[,] very very few motions every idea can easily be given by combinations of them. The most delicate idea & the one seemingly farthest removed from movement is perhaps color. But high or up as verbs would easily give the idea of blue except in France, and down or fall could say black[,] & to steal or take away or might say white as in bleach. See if  Webster connects bleach with leech closely. I remember he connects it with black. 123

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The way in which our sounds are representing motion is almost felt rather than to be accounted for. The sound is of course a motion in itself. A root will give its duration by a long or short vowel & perhaps the different vowels give other shades but they are undecided & change very easily in running from one language to another or even in the same tongue. Besides the vowel there is the initial consonant[;] the starter of the movement not very important & the final which stops it gradually or fetches it up all a standing like a t or a p. Verbs you will notice are the shortest words in any language & all express what I say. Cut, crash, crack, slip, knock, tap, sip, sup, loll, & I think our language has yet an advantage over others that our grammar men have not seen fit to interfere with their standing alone that we can see them when we read & hear them easier when we talk. And our prepositions[,] the purest of all verbs[,] how short the little things are at aft (comparative after, still farther aft almost overboard) (another syllable would drown it) by d-ow-n of on in up. This shortness would in itself be a strong reason for believing the verbs as the roots, but your knowledge & comparisons of the different languages will furnish you stronger ones yet in addition, and if in reading the works of a denyer [sic] of this theory you find him give some reason for its not being so instead of contenting himself with a naked denial or bringing scriptures of Moses & the tower of Babel[;] let me know so that I can give it its value to oppose to the favoring facts. [No continuation found.] 1. Author of In the School-Room: Chapters in the Philosophy of Education (1868). 2. This does not correspond to any known name at the time. 3. Also known as Friedrich Max Müller, he was a noted German philologist who specialized in Oriental languages.

In this letter responding to one of Fanny’s, Eakins continued his discussion of linguistic roots, here drawing on the writings of the noted philologist Max Müller. In addition, he remarked on the formation of tenses, citing examples primarily from the Spanish language.

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June 19. 67. Dear Fanny, I have received your learned letter of June the second, which I will try to answer. I hope you will get the one of 15 or 16 pages which I wrote last week. You are now getting too deep for me & I confess to not understanding the meaning of two or three words in your last letter as for instance where you speak of a Gothic aspirate corresponding always with a Sanskrit tenuis. I am glad to see Max Muller gives such strong & good names as Bow wow to theories but when he talks of dialectical regeneration replacing a thing I doubt if his ideas are then as clear, even to himself[.] His learning will probably tell him if in very old fashioned latin they used habeo habere [= to have] to form tenses in general instead of essere[,] but I would not call it a phonetic corruption the change from the expression I have to go out to morrow to I am to go out tomorrow, but would suppose it another way of saying the same thing. Short words are very seldom corrupted[,] especially those which are used by every man[,] woman & child in a nation a hundred or thousand times a day. The use of the verb to be to make futures is not uncommon in English at all. We have often heard what is to be will be = what will be will be. I am glad to see you stringing so many words together as tone[,] thin[,] tener[,] tender[,] tender[,] thin, and this kind of knowledge you are getting will never desert you but will I am sure be some day of great service to you. It will enable you to appreciate the writings of good men & teach you to despise affectation & nonsense. A minister would use the word attenuated of the same root instead of thin because it is longer. I like what you have found out about thunder but in joining it to its family by its strong family likeness we may notice its very appropriate vowel. It could not have a mean thin vowel, he called thinder[,] for example, but remember that in a root vowels are all lost. It will not be necessary for me to enjoin you not to bother with Sanskrit & Gothic but only to form connections in those languages you know already. It is well to look them over as they come in a book you are reading, and as a continuation of your thin series I might add the Armenian[,] the Arabic[,] the Chinese[,]

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the Egyptian[,] the Hebrew[,] and the Roman BOSH. I do not remember Shakespeare[’]s caring [?] the land but the verb is close onto err & hear. The formation of tenses is to my mind one of the simplest of things. One verb holding another will make either a past or a future & after they are fully established by usage a past tense used where you know by the sense it does not refer to past time will make a conditional or subjunctive. The Latin tenses were all I believe formed with to be[,] the rest of the verb or rather the other one being its object, but it is not singular in this respect as you have believed. French Je suis allé [= I went] j”all’-ai [= I went] the same tense while custom has formed a delicate shade of difference. All reciprocating verbs in French & Italian are yet conjugated only with to be je me suis lavé [= I washed myself] e meno sono doluto [= and I regretted it] because I caught cold in my head but I haven’t got it now. The Spanish which has hugged closest to the Latin conserves the verb to be in its simple conjugations more than any other or these you mention. I am gone, I am returned, he is come back[,] I was loved, I got loved[,] is all good English & a Spaniard may say I held or possessed loved. What a fortune is in store for an English Grammar man who will discover that to get forms a new voice to which he may invent a Greek or name & we can easily afford it having now only Active & Passive while if I remember the Greek had at least three. Here is a little footnote in a celebrated Spanish Grammar under a thousand rules. En effet les anciens ecrivains espagnols employaient l’imparfait du subjonctif en ra dans le même sens que le plus-que-parfait latin, et cela se pratique encore quelquefois chez les modernes. Exemple: Los libros que él leyera, les livres qu’il avaient lus (latin libros quos legerat).1 You recognize ley-era as being he was read the books instead of he has read the books.2 The only difference in the way of thinking is that in one way, to be, you are affected or qualified by your act & in the other you are owning or possessing it. There is a similar English case. He was deeply read. Nobody will be fool enough to wonder who read him as John S. Hart would ask as in his pound of butter question. Here are some more Spanish rules about conditionals. Les espagnols emploient fréquemment l’imparfait du subjonctif en ra à la place du conditionnel. 126



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De même pour le conditionnel compose. Le conditionnel simple ou l’imparfait du subjonctif en ra remplacent quelq’fois en espagnol notre conditionnel composé et notre plus que parfait du subjonctif. Le conditionnel espagnol sert [parfois?] à rendre notre imparfait de l’indicatif suivi d’à peu près ou une autre tournure.3 The subjunctive rules are at least ten times more numerous & one could learn ten languages sooner than one grammar. All this springs from such a fact as simple as the religion of Jesus Christ & see what men & grammarians have done for them both. If you take a half a dozen grammars of different languages & try running an expression with a would or a should in it[,] all through them each one will multiply on itself like a hundred faced mirror & before getting half through them there will be such a tangle as never was seen before. Not satisfied with multiplying if there are only three grammars instead of six, they will be working in cubes & cubic equations are even harder than quadratics. The greatest heads in the world stop blank at a biquadratic. I appreciate stronger than ever such men as Allendorf & Mr. Gardel who have waded through such masses of stuff & afterwards have formed principles for themselves founded on simplicity. I regret having wasted so much of my time from want of experience, but everyone must do bad things before starting on a right road. Be sure that whenever one affects learning he is not learned but is yet in the tangle. When you hunt out a word you can trace it in ten thousand directions which will do you no good, but take it right to the nearest little verb a slang word if you can. By slang I mean the talk of sensible people who have ideas which they are eager to express in a short way & who are not making conversation, and not the low meaningless expressions brought from England such as you are a brick &c. Leave fanciful derivations to those who want to be brilliant & thought learned but store up for yourself solid things, which are simplicity. [No continuation found.] 1. Translation: In effect, the old Spanish writers used the imperfect subjunctive in the same way as the Latin pluperfect, and that is practiced still, at times, by the moderns. Example: Los libros que él leyera [= the books that he may, or would, have read] (Latin libros quos legerat) [= the books that he had read]. 2. This assertion was a double misunderstanding on Eakins’s part. Leyera is 127

Chapter 2 an active form in Spanish, and as a verbal subject form cannot be, as in English, construed as an indirect object. 3. Translation: The Spaniards frequently employ the imperfect subjunctive in place of the conditional. The same for the compound conditional[.] The simple conditional or the imperfect subjunctive replaces, at times, in Spanish our compound conditional and our pluperfect or past perfect subjunctive. The Spanish conditional serves at times to render our imperfect indicative followed a little closer or another turn of phrase.

In an earlier letter to Fanny, Eakins had criticized her for associating with an unnamed female companion of whom he disapproved. The bossy tone of this letter to Fanny was typical.

[probably early summer 1867] Dear Fanny, I have your letter with the bitterness[,] “if you have got good reasons why let me know them, if you have not say so and forever after hold your peace.” These reasons have nothing to do with my friend, his likes or his dislikes, but were medical and as such I do not consider a modest virgin the proper person with whom to enter upon an explanation even if she is my sister, nor will I, and as such again if I preferred a crime she would be totally incapable of investigating or understanding. I remember to have said nothing about the person but that I had reasons for wishing you would not have anything to do with her. You correctly imagined it was not from fear the association would injure her but you. After a page or so you excuse a warmth in saying that I see you must defend her in the dark.You are wrong in the must & in my seeing of it. It was not once upon a time you would change sides to protect against me what I was trying for my sister’s good to defend from her. When you say nothing brought in comparison Mrs. Schmitt & her German is no compliment to my fairness, intelligence & I prefer to think the letter’s motive the curiosity of a dull moment. I am not accustomed to advise you against affected people for you have seemed to despise them more than myself. I never indeed noticed it in the woman.

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A consideration I feel sure you did not mean all you wrote. I will again tell you my wishes. I would have you treat the person politely as I have done to be decent, & if you have seen good qualities in her[,] admire them & respect her for them, but I shall be sorry[,] not vexed[,] if you go in her house or ever be in her company. Emily is a noble girl & a good companion for you & you can[’]t see her too often, but if she wants to go there & she has a strong will you had better run see Joanna or Ida or Addie Sheble or Uncle Emmor. I have of course no right to give Emily the advice I can you & she would have no right to obey me if I did, I requested you to say nothing to Emily[,] also a maiden[,] which might bring a useless discord between many friends & I once more request it, nor could she enlighten you[,] which I trust you no longer want. [No continuation found.] This letter dealt principally with shipping arrangements that Eakins had made for a painting by Thomas Moran to come from Paris to Philadelphia.

Paris[,] June 21, 67 Dear Fanny, When I come to remember that subjunctive moods in French, Italian & Spanish are formed of the old verb to be essere as in que je parlasse[,] etc. I guess that it is a mistake to suppose that on the whole the verb to have is the most general[,] even now among the latin tongues. However it is of very little importance if the principle of the thing is understood & still less if not. I forget to give me any new discoveries you may find in your book. Dear Father, When Moran left he asked me to see after his picture in the salon at the Palace of Industry, and he left fifty francs with me.1 I attended to getting it out & boxed & into the hands of Lherbette Kane & Co. I went to see the U.S. Consul to get an order which would pass it through the custom house but he told me that he must to issue the certificate have 129

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the affidavit of the artist himself & that my plan was to send the picture direct to Philadelphia. As soon as it arrives at the Custom House they will send notice to Moran, & on going there & swearing that it is his picture he will take it out free of duty. The picture is now at Havre in the office of the company. They offered to send it by Monday’s steamer to New York or to keep it yet until the departure of the steamer going direct to Philadelphia[.] These part twice a month or so. They assure me it will not be more than two weeks before one goes. They advised me that if I sent it to N. Y. there would have to be affidavits & a good deal of correspondence between the Moran, the Company & New Y. Custom officers, & possibly Moran would be obliged to go on to New York himself. Besides the expense would be much greater bringing it through by land and it would require more handling. They preferred sending it straight to Philadelphia, but would send it by any other way I would designate. I concluded on weighing the loss of time against the greater expense, and greater handling & knocking about & trouble with N.Y. Custom men to lose the time. He must not then expect his picture before a month after this date. I could have insured the picture but having no instructions to do so, I used my judgement & did not. It is securely packed & no damage can I think come to it or loss unless there should be a fire on board or the vessel would sink. Otherwise the company must be responsible, and at all events percentage of chance in an insurance must be against the insurer. I hope the Morans are right well & that Mrs. Moran has been or will be shortly able to pay her promised visit to Fanny & my mother. I owe them a heavy debt of gratitude for their kindness to me as their house was to me everything but my own home at 1729. Please give Moran the 17 francs owing to him. Billy is now living with me. He will leave though this week for Germany on a sort of a visit. When he goes I will settle with the old lady & then make up my accounts. Crepon is off to Brest awaiting the arrival of his family[,] who are all coming[,] having left N.Y. on the 8th of June. As he has been away 7 years I can imagine the general joy. I have received Maggy’s letter telling me about Max’s race. I hope he will be as fortunate in the grand one. The sultan of Turkey is coming & according to a French paper, the honorable president of the U.S. His Excellent Superfluity Andrew Johnson Esquire. The mail starts this afternoon, but I haven[’]t any more to write even if it I. [No continuation found.] 130

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1. No doubt a reference to the landscape painter Thomas Moran (1837–1926), then living in Philadelphia.

A list of his expenses, this letter included a prolonged account of how he was duped out of five francs by an English con artist, followed by comments on various topics.

Paris[,] June 28. 67, Dear Mother, I will again make up my account of expenses. It seems to me a good while since I have done so, as it was before the boys came. These are my expenses since then .65 color 1.00 knife pot paints 2.00 a canvas 2.00 " 1.90 color .60 color .75 soap .20 color 1.00 exhibition .60 paper .95 color. .50 card of races. 5.70 color canvass & brushes 7.00 color 1.00 canvass 5.00 charity alias folly 10.00 theatre 5.00 mending boots .80 new chimney 1.00 photograph of Dumas .50 hair cutting

105.85 balance 6.70 washing .30 candle 2.00 servant .90 canvass .45 oranges 1.50 wine & biscuit 2.00 raisins & figs .70 stump leather 6.25 stockings 2.00 handkerchief 1.20 color 1.20 binding for coat 2.60 letter paper 2.00 Closery 1.00 Closery .35 oil .50 hair cutting 33.00 Moran’s picture 5.50 canvas & color 2.50 Versailles 1.00 Pamphlet Voltaire 131

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.60 mahl stick 1.00 mahl stick 1.40 canvass 8.50 stamps postage 1.20 paper & charcoal 45.00 rent 105.85

.40 color 1.00 soap 45.00 rent till July 5. 5.70 washing .15 candle 231.75

Besides those expenses I have spent about one or two francs in sending Crepon[’]s letters out to him in sending letter to Billy Crowell in England. Another item I do not put down is a cent or two to buy soap at the studio & milk to fix drawing. Also the Tribunes that come to me[,] each of which costs me 6 cents sous or .30 centimes, I did not get any during about a month & have missed some single numbers. The papers I have sent home cost a few pennies & the postage a few more.  w Moore seemed to understand my position here as student. Sundays & evenings were at his service but he never bothered me at other times. He told me that as I talked for him & showed him around[,] &c that I should not pay anything at all. I told them that if I was to be their companion I would pay sometimes, for although it might be true that I would not have been dragged into these amusements if it had not been for them, still I enjoyed them & should bear some part & so I paid once in a while. We dined always together & eat more expensive things & more of them than I would have done myself, but as they paid oftener than I did[,] I do not think it cost me any more on the whole than usual. The items in my account that may interest your curiosity are 5 francs for charity. I had just seen Moran off & was walking home & feeling as if I had lost a good friend. A man of about thirty seeing by my hat I was American ran after me and called out[,] O sir[,] can you speak English[?] Yes. Have you anything that I can do for you to earn some money[?] Do you want a clerk, does your father want one, or can I do anything else[?] I will be your servant for a while if you want one. I am a stranger & can[’]t find employment. I have been to restaurants to see if I could be a waiter but they only want men speaking French & German. Telling him no[,] he asked me as a favor to take his card & show it to anyone I know of or 132



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should meet. He told me he would not care at all for himself[,] he was a man & could go out of Paris & work in the country[,] but he had his wife with him & they were starving. They had eaten but 4 cents worth of bread & a cup of coffee between them all day, and they owed the landlady 2 francs for the bed last night & it was getting dark & he had not yet found anything to do. I could not help feeling in my pocket, but on opening my pocketbook I had no silver[,] nothing but gold. He spied my little five franc piece & looking so sorrowful that I almost felt like crying. He said if I would lend him that he could pay his bed that night & get a good meal for his poor wife, and he would surely find something to do the next day. He would not of course promise to pay me in a few days but would do it before a fortnight. I gave it to him[,] & he shook my hand & cried a little[,] and as we parted I felt certain he would pay me. My only possible suspicion arose from his being an Englishman and saying Clark instead of clerk. About a month after I concluded it was lost & put it down in my expenses as charity. Kramer came in one day soon after & said, I regret so much not having had any change with me this morning. A poor Englishman[,] a stranger here[,] is out of employment. His wife & he only had 4 cents worth of bread & a cup of coffee to eat all day. He gave me his card[,] etc etc. He wanted to be my clark [sic]. Kramer gave it to me. It was written by the same man & had the same address which I concluded must be a true one. I told Kramer not to give him any money. I went to see him but he was always out. Finally I got a Sunday morning with nothing to do & went to see him, Billy Crowell was with me. It was about ten o’clock in the morning & Mr. V. Aldred Esq[.] was in bed yet with a woman to represent his wife. He brought us in & asked if I had found him a clarkship. I told him no[,] that I came to see about my 5 francs. He thought it was a mean piece of business to ask 5 francs from a man as poor as he was starving. I doubted his poverty. He showed me his wife[’]s petticoats and hoops all ragged & in holes to prove it & a letter to prove he was honest. I told him the best way to prove it would be to give me back my 5 francs. He would do it as soon as possible.When[?] Before a fortnight. The fortnight is up again next Sunday & I think I can stop further operations of his in the American quarter by laying the matter before the police. I told him that I was not the only American he had asked for loans. He 133

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said certainly not & was indignant that I should suppose that my little 5 francs had been keeping him & his wife all that time. No[,] he had at times condescended to be a guide. To take people around & around over the exhibition to tell them the same things over & over. Him who had enjoyed a fortune of 500 puns [pounds?] a year. Billy Crowell can give you a better description of the man when he sees you, I would willingly give 5 francs more to meet the low spirited little Englishman out of ear shot of the police.  w One Sunday we all went to the races. The card I bought was the card with the names of all the horses. No one has ever mentioned the photograph of A. Dumas I bought & [two pages missing here?] of reform. I would rather take Fanny to the Closery [sic] as a spectator than see her a half stripped actor at a ball, was it the Emperor’s.  w I hope you got the letter which will explain to you the item Moran’s picture. Last Sunday I went to Versailles to see the palace & pictures with Billy Crowell[.] I had gone before with Sammy Moore. Then we did the thing more in a business kind of way. The Voltaire pamphlet with wood cuts I sent on to Billy Sartain.1 I will send also two important papers by this mail to Mr. Gardel. Please tell me if you receive them. They contain a new piece of business transacted in the senate. I have not had a tribune for some time. I have got an account of Max’s triumph [and] also a note from Fanny enclosed hardly a letter. Congratulate Max for me enough to last till I can write him a letter. I am very glad he has beaten Street so. My bank account. I forgot when I last sent it to you[.] I will therefore run it backwards and you will see where to begin. I have drawn June 15 250 fr May 11 300 April 4 200 March 4 300 Feb 9 250 & so forth Add the 50 fr[.] Moran gave me for his picture. 134

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I have in my pocket yet 181.50 francs, and all the rest has gone for my daily food.  w The ladies of Paris have fine skins by keeping them clean. I doubt if powders & enamels are used here in anything like the quantity at home. They are afraid of spoiling their skin. What would you give to know how? They only clean their faces once a day like we clean our drawings with a piece of bread. T.C.E. 1. We do not know which Voltaire pamphlet Eakins acquired, but this entry at least indicated his interest in the French philosopher.

Eakins offered his father a lengthy report on his meeting with Caleb Hallowell and his wife, both Quaker friends of the family. Thomas took them through the Louvre, where he observed, in a mocking tone, the couple’s stereotyped response to the works of art on display there. Sharing a meal with the Hallowells gave Eakins an opportunity to comment on their naive behavior.

Paris[,] July 12. 67. Dear Father, I went twice again this week to see the Rev. Mr. Elvin H. Smith but he was out both times & must by now be gone to England. I received Sunday a note from Caleb Hallowell telling me he was in town & I went & found him Monday night. He is with his wife & Thomas Reese[,] the weakest minded[,] stupidest little puke I ever saw in my life. Caleb told me he had had a splendid time[,] he had put Europe right through & had seen more & stored more into his (Caleb[’]s) mind than most people would have done in a year. They had spared no expense[,] he said[,] but always kept couriers & when they got into a town they would get the best team of horses to be found in it. In fact they had put the thing through, put it through, put it through. They had been indefatiguable[,] indefatiguable[,] indefatiguable [sic]. 135

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He had had no trouble with his French or Italian except from the confusion of the two together but if he had rested in France all the time he would have mastered French entirely[,] he has no doubt. Indeed[,] he is sure he would have put it through. Thomas spoke very fine German[,] & a minister or king or some great man was very much delighted with it. The only regret they experienced was that in town they had mistaken a hotel & had put up at a cheap one & the great man had asked them where they were staying. In every other town they staid at the A No. 1’s but it was always the way. He said he would not have missed cutting a splurge in that town for ten times the money it would have cost. After he was blown out he confessed to me a little weakness. He felt he might not appreciate the old masters here (painters) or catch their beauties at first sight as easily as if they were pointed out to him. He had[,] though[,] appreciated the old Italian ones. He was I think a little ashamed for he told me a dozen times that this was the only point on which he was not strong perhaps. In fine[,] he invited me to take him through the Louvre the next day & I appointed one o’clock that I might run home after school & put on my good clothes. He took notes down all the time. That[,] I would say[,] I think that a very pretty statue, Out comes the note book “Venus or Gladiator found at ———, very fine.[”] Then Thomas would giggle & say if it was his he would scrub it with soap & sand. Mrs. Hallowell would look at it through her specs & say[,] O how beautiful & Caleb echoing beautiful[,] beautiful[,] beautiful[,] would go to the next. He was most interested[,] though[,] in two vases which threw sound from one to another like a whispering gallery. He thought they must be near a hundred feet apart and appealed to me. I knew he wanted a big number & thought the distance twice as great. Besides[,] he said[,] we are deceived by distances in this vast place[,] & so he put it down in his note book with an average estimate. Amongst the pictures I would say[,] now this picture tells a story[,] there is an idea in it. Then he would call his wife back! Anna[,] I tell thee

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there is an idea in this picture. He spoke in a tremendous loud voice always & we attracted great admiration. Beauty of course he cannot see or feel but a number or a historic interest which I have always conceived to be the lowest sentiment of the human mind delights him. We saw all the statues, pictures & drawings of the Louvre between 1 & 4 o’clock & he had notes of most of them. There is a fine portrait by Rembrandt[,] Which [is] the man with a hat on. Yes. Out comes the lead pencil. Portrait by Rembrandt[.] Dark rich picture. I told him yet there was no black in it according to Gerome. No black goes down in the note book. That will be enough of this stuff to tell you about. You have read Pickwick[’]s notes about the dog pointing to the sign post. Caleb[’]s wife stopped some time at a window to peep down into a courtyard. She would have thought a great deal more of me if I would have assured her that the little boys she saw were dukes & marquises & invented names to them but I only told her I didn[’]t know. Finally the guard told her to let those curtains alone & they drove her away. They asked me to dine with them which I did for politeness. He suggested the Royal Palace to dine at[.] I said yes & told him I could show him a restaurant. But he knew one already. We sat down[,] & he told me to just make myself at home & call for anything I wanted. & this without my contradicting, he repeated so loud & so often that I told him it was my pleasure to eat just the same things they would eat as it would be more like home to me. He then said I would please order three soups which would be enough for all four. This I did & the waiter says what wine. One bottle[,] says I[,] of common wine. Caleb heard wine & wanted to know what I was saying. I told him one bottle. He said very good & that I must drink the most of it as they drank very little wine. Caleb eat the most of the soup & told me if I liked fish to call for some but he didn[’]t like it. Neither did I[,] so he suggested roast beef & potatoes which I read to him on the bill of fare. He thought three portions would be plenty as his wife eat very little & I ordered three portions & added altogether. After a while they brought three bits of meat on three plates. Caleb was a little put out & told me that where he had been before two portions had been so much they had to leave a great deal & asked me if I had said together. I then thought I had better explain. I said we were in a very cheap restaurant & they had

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made calculations of just how low they could afford to give us food & could not therefore stand a combination as they could in American or English ones. Caleb[’]s wife[,] though[,] was not a bit hungry and took half of his meat & potatoes. The young man[,] hearing the word cheap[,] lost his appetite & would not eat his meat[,] although I gave him a long explanation of how everything in [page missing?] It is a queer thing that each man’s vanity is his greatest weakness. The only weakness I know in my friend Harry Moore the deaf mute who can[’]t talk with his own family is that he tells every body with a smile that he is not so deaf as a post. He is affected slightly by putting his teeth on the sounding board of the piano[,] though not agreeably[,] and is startled by a cannon shot that shakes his belly. I would put Caleb Hallowell & Elvin Smith Rev. & Gilbert Combs in a little bag & if I had to draw one out lottery fashion I would not feel around. I think better of myself in remembering that such people as the Waughs[,] Sartains[,] Charley Boyer, Mr. Gardel[,] Mr. Holmes and other true & big men have admitted me to their friendship. I have a good deal still to say but the mail goes soon.You don[’]t like that excuse[,] said Billy Crowell[,] but yesterday evening I found lodging for & showed around a couple of high school boys who brought a letter from Dave Evans. But this was not necessary as I well remember Guss Stone. He is a fine boy. Sam Moore knows him. Anyhow my letters home are longer than those I receive altogether. [No continuation found.] The next letter was a short note to William Crowell.

Paris[,] July 15. [1867] Dear Billy, Yesterday Sunday night, I got a letter from Fanny saying it was going by a steamer on Wednesday & that Bill Sartain starting Saturday would be in Paris a few days after it. All well & plenty of letters for you T.C.E.

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Eakins was careful to gear his letters to the interests and understanding of the recipient. Such was the case with this communication to his Aunt Eliza, who was interested in sewing. In this letter, he reported on the dresses of Parisian women.

Paris[,] July 17, 67 Dear Aunt Eliza, I am sending again by this mail another batch of stupid grammar stuff & I am sorry that I did not learn dressmaking as well as grammar in my Zane St. school. I have looked for the past week at every woman’s frock but I can[’]t remember the niceties of any one. On the whole, there is not near so much dressing here as at home. I have never seen a long frock in the streets or a gaudy one, but they all dress very plain. At church the only perceptible difference between the duchess and the laborer[’]s wife is that the duchess is the cleanest of the two. Pews are unknown, but each one takes her little praying stool and all sit together. But the washwoman goes home in an omnibus & my lady in a state carriage mounted by flunkeys. These footmen & coachmen dress up like monkeys[,] always with long white stockings & high hats with pompoms in them and they often powder their hair. They are low dogs & very insolent to honest people. They put on great airs & when they stare at me I always laugh in their faces. They are the only men I can never respect. The ladies of the court are said to dress very grand & to wear very low dresses which commence somewheres below the breasts but I have never been there[.] There are not wanting too stories of immorality connected with this court. I have seen the Empress a great many times & once when she came to the school I could have touched her had I reached out my arm. Her dress was a gray worsted I think and she wore a sack & bonnet. Her frock was short so that we saw her legs when she got in her carriage. I have a sneaking idea that her frock was cut bias fold. [No continuation found.]

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In this communication to William Crowell, Eakins dealt with routine business, especially his anticipated meeting with William Sartain in Paris.

Paris[,] Thursday[,] July 18. [1867] Dear Billy, [Crowell] For fear you have not got the letter I sent you Monday[,] I will tell you over that Sunday night I got a letter from home saying that Bill Sartain would start for Paris the Saturday after the Wednesday whose mail brought the letter, & that he would arrive here a few days after it. I looked for him all yesterday & will expect him tonight again. No money is come yet but Bill may bring some[.] I can[’]t form any plan before seeing Bill Sartain who will tell me what my father wants me to do. I will write again as soon as he comes & you leave me some address with Mr. Heser if you leave him that you may hear from us. There are 8 letters for you already. T.C.E. 46 rue de Vaugirard In a letter presumably to his sister Fanny, Eakins philosophized briefly on the medium of poetry, with special reference to the role of words.

[summer 1867] [Dear Fanny,] The more one learns I think the more one sees to influence. Indeed[,] everything in the world seems to hang together & leave its effect on everything else, and so one falls back more on his prejudices & feelings so as to use the knowledge gained from everything else to the solution of a new problem, and we cannot be too careful about putting in trash. A poem may give you by communicating a man’s feelings his judgments & experience of years & you become a part of him. How well Dante knew what a word was.You can feel their force almost as he did. 140

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Send me some more of A.E.L. poetry if you see any.1 It is very different from Dante & nevertheless you may learn from it, what words are not. You owe me a good many letters I think for this one & continue to write once a week as I have always done. Give my love to Joanna & Amy & Ida, & Emily[,] who has written me a letter which I have not answered for want of time, yours is so long. Bill Crowell is well. I got the second copy of the draft with your writing on it. Send me news of Uncle Emmor[,] the Lewises[,] Delaney[,] Wynn[,] Mr. Gardel[,] Charley Boyer [No continuation found.] 1. The meaning of “A.E.L. poetry” is unknown.

Eakins wrote a long letter to Fanny, covering a variety of subjects. He condemned the objectionable “Dr. Guthrie,” who wanted to win Fanny’s affection. Eakins was particularly offended by Guthrie’s telling lies about Gérôme. He went on to speak of photographic likenesses of his family and news of his friends.

Paris[,] July 23 [probably 1867] Dear Fanny, I have through Bill Sartain your Dr. Guthrie letter. The impudence of those pimps beats most anything I have yet heard of. I blame myself for bringing the man ever to the house or rather allowing him to come, but I will not free you from blame if you allow his impertinences to continue. I wonder he got so far as to make a habit of asking you to play for him because he was out of sorts or in a bad temper, as if his temper was supposed to be of any account to you or as if you were to soothe him like a slave when he put himself out of humor. When he spoke to you about Miss Haas you should have said that you did not allow anyone in your presence to speak against an acquaintance of yours & if he had not immediately stopped you should have bid him goodnight & left the room. Be sure of this much of his character. He will speak against you just as much as against the others after you rid yourself of him & more in the 141

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proportion that you may be better than them, and the longer he is allowed to stay & the more he can find out of your family affairs the more plausible will he be enabled to paint his little lies. Do not give him the number of Emily Sartain’s house or even her last name as he may then go to the directory. Your ever having listened to an impudence allows him he thinks to try another equal to it or a little very little greater, but it has now already proceeded much too far.You want firmness. Next time he commences, stop him immediately.Tell him if you want that you are not saying it to hurt his feelings but that he has discovered an impudence that you will support no longer & that you have foreborne heretofore to say anything[,] hoping that he would have had the good sense to stop it himself But be sure not to palaver with him or say a word more. Then if he adds one word you will leave the parlor[,] & Poppy will come & order him away & as he is not accustomed to going away when told[,] he will kick him out & expend what little good nature he may have left in not hurting him. I am sorry to see you make a mystery of him. It is twice you have used that word. He probably was never married at all & his present woman is probably no more his wife than the others but the thing should not excite the curiosity of our family.We know already enough to know that he is out of place in it. I shall commence to worry if I do not hear that he is forbidden the house.  w His Gerome story is a lie from beginning to end. Gerome did not jump into fame right away but made at first very bad pictures & portraits which he sold very cheap. It is not a couple of youths taking their cocks to the fight, but a boy & girl kneeling down opposite one another & setting the cocks to fighting. The idea of such a man as Gerome playing such a trick on his father is beneath contempt & here Guthrie fails in attributing to others his own character.  w Harry Moore & family are gone to Switzerland. There was a little muss between Mary Moore’s Dutchmen. They both wanted to marry her & 142

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Mrs. Moore then had to forbid their music & the Wednesday night party was broken up. Therefore my night was no longer regular but I stopped in to see them every once in a while and my relations have suffered no change. They return in October. Mommy’s likeness is very fine[,] the one without paint on it, and I don[’]t think there could be a more beautiful photograph taken. The other is miserable. How glad I was to get them I need not & cannot say. Maggy’s is good, better than Uncle Emmor’s with its shoulder screwed way up but both would have been better without the dabs of paint over them, which spoil the form & take away from the natural color. I am mighty glad to get them all & only say this to govern in the choice of those I hope yet to get. I have none of Aunt Susan, or Charley or Delany but I need not specify. Only when a friend goes & gets a likeness[,] I bespeak one but would be sorry to send him on my account. I am glad to have little Caddy’s but some day I hope to see the other. Give Joanna my best thanks for hers which is an additional proof of the goodness she has always shown me & that I will never forget, & many a pleasant recollection is brought up on looking at her beautiful picture. Be sure to go see Ida often and send me news of her continually.You have not even told me what was the matter with her or even how sick she was after saying she was sick. I do not remember my saying anything to Sammy Moore about your mentioning religion nor even do I remembering [sic] your speaking of it. I did[,] though[,] read the greater part to him of your letter which had his sister’s news in it as I would have wanted him to have done the same. [No continuation found.] In this letter, Eakins condemned all but two English painters, perhaps an extension of his general dislike of anything English.

Paris[,] Aug 2. 67 Dear Father, As it seems to be your desire that I should go to Switzerland, I will do it as soon as possible so as to be returned with Billy Sartain by the time or 143

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soon after that his father may get to Paris, or even before that Billy can run over there & see some of his relatives of merry old England. It is now holyday & I have been running around town & enjoying myself with Billy & Stone & Thomas. Twice I have been with Billy to the Exhibit[.] He thought that it was my prejudice that had told everyone that the English art was so far behind all other, but when he saw for himself & came to one name after another that he knew so well either from engraving or from praises in English papers[,] for English is our language[,] and saw the mean work they turned out he looked sick & said he could never have believed it without seeing it. Switzerland, U.S., Italy[,] Spain[,] Greece[,] Russia[,] Japan[,] every nation outstrips her & he would not look at the English pictures any more but walked around outside the circle whenever he had to pass their department. The only artists of merit in all England are two[:] One Orchardson we had found in a French magazine & a Phillips whom the English always run down in their papers as a very inferior painter.1 As a whole he agrees with me that the French far exceed all the others in beauty correctness variety of subjects & in having no limited fixed school or manner of doing a thing but giving their attention to doing it. I have been writing to Billy Crowell frequently but have not found out where he was till last night when I got a note from him dated the same old place[,] Schweidnitz[,] & telling me to write to him to Vienna this week or Munich next week. I wrote immediately telling him Bill Sartain & I were anxious after him & that we would meet him in Geneva if that suited him. I then directed the letter very plain in both French & Dutch [sic, read German] & the letter itself is written very plain so that the post office men will not be bothered with it or suspect any deep laid plan to overthrow all their governments, & put a twelve cent stamp on it & if it has good luck it will get there next week some time.When the answer comes we will probably start. Bill Sartain & Gus Stone & Bobby Thomas are gone to Versailles today to see the pictures [No continuation found.] 1. This referred to Sir William Quiller Orchardson (1832–1910) and probably Thomas Phillips (1770–1845).

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Eakins reported on his boat trip on Lake Geneva with his friends William Sartain and William Crowell.

Geneva[,]Aug. 10 [1867.] Dear Father. We got off after all in a great hurry. Our old woman played us an ugly trick to try keep [sic] us a day or so longer. The wash was kept back for the first time in my experience here & the woman herself did not come home till twelve oclock at night but I insisted on making bill out & we started next morning at 5 o’clock, thus euchreing her plans, but I was not enabled to make out accounts or anything or even send my letter already written. I am now sitting under a tree by a public fountain with Bill Crowell & Bill Sartain & at 2 o’clock we start in a steamboat up lake Geneva to Villeneuve or Villanova I guess on our american maps. Switzerland is so far very beautiful[,] bright clear sky & american trees. Yesterday I had my first swim for the season in lake Geneva[;] water warm & pleasant. I am very clean. Southern France is much more like America than the cold bleak foggy rocks of Brittany. Geneva lake is very beautiful but Seneca Lake is better except that it has no Mount Blanc behind it. I was thinking over Dutch names for bread & wine & beds but I find that nobody speaks anything but French here, even the poorest and most ignorant. Very few even understand Dutch. Bill Crowell is heavier than I ever saw him & when he is stripped he looks as if he could hit a fellow a good poke; Geneva water is blue like Niagara water. I drew out 200 francs before starting so as to have a little gold & we all three will depend when that is gone on Bill Sartain who have [sic] a sort of movable check that give him gold in any town where there is a banker. The following is my complete list of checks. 6 24 4 10 11

Nov. " Dec Dec Jan

250 130 250 200 200

2500 500 1000

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9 4 4 11 15 20 7

Feb Mar Apr May June July Aug

250 300 200 300 250 200 200 2730

4000 2730 1270

My expenses for last month & for Switzerland I will make out when I get back to Paris & have plenty of time. Now everything is hurry. [No continuation found.] Eakins reported on his experiences with the rural population of Zermatt, Switzerland. He found these people dirty, smelly, and retarded, the result of inbreeding in his view, and he had no sympathy for them. For different reasons, he condemned the English people he encountered in his travels.

Zermat[t], Switzerland Savoy in France or Italy [ca. August 15, 1867] Dear Father, Our route on leaving Geneva was to go up the lake to the end. We staid at Villeneuve all night & started next day to Martigny by rail. Next day we got to the top of Col de Baume by walking on our way to Mount Blanc & then next morning we walked to Chamonix & after dinner went up to the big glacier called Mer de Glace which we crossed. We got down at 9 o’clock & next day we came back to our starting point Martigny by another & beautiful route and loafed all next day at Martigny for Bills’ (both Bill[’]s) sore feet. Next day by rail to Sion & stage to Visp or Wispach or Viege as it may be called & on foot to the town 146



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of Stal[missing]. Slept there & today have arrived at Zermatt but can[’] t go further for the rain set in. Geneva & its lakes and mountains are beautiful & as far as French is spoken so are the people as well as intelligent but here is the most God forsaken place I ever saw or hope to see. The people are all either cretins or only half cretins with the goiter on their necks. They live in the filthiest manner possible[,] the lower apartment being privy & barn combined & they breed by incest altogether. Consequently goiters and cretins only. If I was a military conqueror & they came in my way I would burn every hovel & spare nobody for fear they would contaminate the rest of the world. When you ask them a question[,] they grin & make idiotic motions. Jesus Christs on the cross are at every 50 yards with lots of blood agony. We saw a congregation waiting for church. This is week day. They go to church every day. The women were laughing as usual and picking the lice off the children[’]s heads till the priest came. The hats the women wear are as stupid as possible[,] a band with gold or silver edge surrounding the crown. They all have big faces and the heads run lower than those of the flat head indians but don[’]t stick out behind like theirs. They are dirty as they can be & so have become contented as they can never become dirtier. They stink[,] their houses stink worse, the water of the valley stinks, & the valley itself stinks except in a few places[,] for instance[,] the big French hotel we are now in. Out in Poland and down in Italy they have the cholera[;] it is to be hoped it will get up some of these valleys. An earthquake some years ago was a godsend in destroying half of them. The rocks thrown down the mountain sides are the biggest loose rocks I ever saw[,] almost young mountains in themselves. We meet of course crowds of Englishmen. The only bearable ones are those who have lived in Australia a long time or were fetched up at Cape of Good Hope in Africa[,] or the little girls too young to be prudish & English. The latter might be tamed if got away from the disagreeable associations, but it would not be worth the trouble unless to one who could find neither an American[,] French[,] Italian[,] Spanish or Chinese. Now it[’]s raining worse than ever & the hotel is full of English. They are great hogs, so different from the French. *N.B. The women aforesaid are not contented & no more the men. They [sic] minds are not even capable of this sentiment. I mean to say their ancestors were contented to be as dirty as possible & they are as 147

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dirty as possible only because their ancestors were & they never would think of a change even if no trouble to make. Even the children are frightful ugly. When a woman comes along leading a cow or sheep of ordinary intelligence[,] you ought to see how intellectual looking & spirited the animal is alongside the woman by contrast.  w Coming from Chamonix by Mount Tête noire we saw soldiers with their carbines & with [illegible] hunting up a Piedmontese Italian who had murdered a priest the night before. He went and told the priest his mother was dying[,] to hurry come confess her & unction her that she might slip into heaven. The priest started & when they came to a bad place, the man beat him over the head till he killed him. The assassin is not found & I hope he won[’]t be if the suspicion of the people with regard to the priests doings & Italian’s girl are correct. Chamonix is in French Switzerland nothing like this dutch valley we’re in now. My love to everybody. I will be glad again to get back to Paris only to hear news of you all. And glad to see a Tribune too. I read by a Geneva paper that Johnson has turned out Stanton after in vain requesting him to resign. It must elevate Stanton very much & tell me if it may not make him the next president. Fanny[,] be sure [to] write to me about Ida. I hope she is now right well. Give her my love[;] I wish it would cure her. Don[’]t forget Mrs. Lewis, and write about your trip. T.C.E. Eakins reassured his father that he was improving in his grasp of the tools of the artist—color and anatomy in particular. He was getting better at his studies from life and also in composition.

Paris[,] Sept. 8, 67 [or 1868] Dear Father: My hard work since I have been back here is telling on me & my studies are good. Since I am learning to work clean & bright & to understand 148

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some of the niceties of color. My anatomy studies & sculptures, especially the anatomy[,] comes to bear on my work & I construct my men more solid & springy & strong. It makes one catch forms quicker & the slight movements of the model don[’]t hinder or worry me, only show me plainer what I am doing. So I am in good spirits & am sure now of one thing, being able to learn [to] paint from life better. Now I am going to give a great deal of my time to composition, working only after nature during the school hours. Boulanger will come to correct till the return of Gerome.1 [No continuation found.] 1. Gustave Boulanger (1824–88), an academic artist specializing in Oriental subjects, was a good friend of Gérôme.

Eakins wrote to his father of his concerns about spending so much of his money. He insisted, however, that his study in Paris was worth the expenditure. He also described his new studio, where he would “practice composing.”

Paris[,] Friday[,] Sept. 20. [1867] Dear Father. Billy Sartain parted from me last week but in the beginning of this week I got a letter from him describing England[,] his meeting of his father and brother there & a determination to come back with them this coming week to Paris to see the Exhibition again with his father. Your letter to me has given me the greatest consolation in lifting from me my only great anxiety[:] that from spending so much money even with strict economy, and so far passing the calculations I had made to myself, for prices have more than doubled in the short time Crepon has been here & much more than it since the student days of Schussele & Bailly. It is so long since Mr. Gardel has lived here that he would be frightened at prices. I do not know exactly what made me betray an uneasiness in my letter of which you speak. It was probably a rainy day or I had been seeing some disagreeable person or thing. But certainly [word 149

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missing] was a momentary affair like that, and not to a homesickness that could be dispelled by a momentary visit. I love my home as much as anybody & never see the sun set that I do not think of it & I often feel lonely, but I can learn faster here than at home, & stay content & would not think of wasting the expense of a voyage for a few weeks pleasure. You miss but one from the family[;] I miss all. Then I need not speak of my happiness in seeing you when you take your run over here or even in its contemplation. I hope Caleb [Hallowell] has come to see the family according to promise. You will all have so much fun in listening to his blowing[,] especially after my little hints I gave you. I am going to give up my room here & you will now direct letters to me 64 rue de l’Ouest, where I have just got a studio. The studio will enable me to commence to practice composing & to paint out of school[,] which I could not do before. As soon as I can get knowledge enough to enable me to paint quickly I will make pictures, but I have been only 4 months at the brush & can[’]t do it yet. The studio is right close to Crepon’s just across the yard & he has very kindly lent me some furniture & casts & many little things besides obtaining a reduction of price for me. He has been my best friend here. He has lived here 8 years now & will very probably go to America again next year. At least every one advises him to & I join in, although for selfish reasons I would give most anything to have him remain. I will write fuller particulars next time if again I don[’]t leave the letter writing till mail day. I again send a paper & commend the reading of the editorial commencing Quelle que soit l’opinion que l’on ait [= no matter what opinion one may have] [No continuation found.] Eakins told his father of his independent experiments with color.

Paris[,] Sept 21, 67 This month I am working at my own studio. I practice composition and color. Gerome told me before I left to paint some bright colored objects: lent me some of his Eastern stuffs[,] which are very brilliant & I am learning something from them, faster than I could from the life 150

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studies.The colors are strong & near the ends of my scale of colors, such high & such low notes & this has taught me a good many things that I might not have paid attention to. If I had only been painting flesh, where the colors are not strong but very delicate & clean. I remember many a trouble that I have got into from trying to play my tunes before I tuned my fiddle up. This year will probably be the last that I will go to school regularly & hope before next summer to be able to paint a life study, as well as anyone in the class, I think I can if nothing happens & I can keep my usual good health. [No continuation found.] Eakins indulged in a discussion of rhythm in the writings of Dante, Byron, and Longfellow; phrenology; and spiritualism. He concluded with an expression of deep interest in and sympathy for his sister Fanny.

Sunday. Sep. 24. 67. Dear Fanny, Your letter speaking of Mrs. Lewis’s sickness has given me great concern and for many days past I have been anxiously awaiting & wanting another letter[,] though almost dreading it, and although as you know I never was over fond of Sally Lewis[,] her trials and fidelity so magnify her virtues that they hide many disagreeablenesses. I got a glance at Longfellow’s translation at Lucerne but do not remember anything about it except that it had a yellow cover & was the same size as Lord Byron & was if I am not much mistaken of the Tauchnitz edition.1 “All who have read it & whom you have heard speak of it say that it is not the thing itself[,] although the rythm [sic] was the same as in the Dante yet it does not run smoothly[,]” you say. I cannot believe that it would be possible that the rythm corresponds or indeed that your learned friends even know how the rythm does go in either of them. Byron[,] who was no mean rymster [sic][,] made a poem on the three cornered style with long lines but with his own thoughts but if Longfellow has made a pretty literal translation from another language & from such terse poetry as 151

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Dante’s he is a wonderful man if he has got any rhyme at all in it or any metre either. I believe the whole thing impossible, if not, I believe Longfellow far greater in ryming than Dante or anyone that ever lived or ever will live. As it is he has written most beautiful poetry himself far better than any Englishman of today can[,] even Tennyson the poet laureate and poetmaker to the queen, and I think it likely that his is the best translation[,] except there may be perchance some good prose one. Mr. Pennington[,] aged 30 years[,] is if I remember right a very nice sort of a man & if he lends you other books he will show himself still nicer & always much obliged to him and be careful not to leave finger marks on them. How much would you give to box my ears[?]Your spelling is again falling off, and in your last letter you spelt Annie Tomlinson’s knee nee. I think I never saw a finer description of a bore than your account of your visit to Mr. Holman[,] which I must recopy for fear you forget it. Emmy[,] Mrs. Tolis & I were around at Mr. Holman’s last night looking at the wonders of his microscope. In the midst of the microscopic discussion (joke)[,] phrenology was some how or other started & Mr. Holman with whom it is a hobby explained his theory[,] showed us skulls of a dog snake human being[,] &c[.] Spiritualism finished up the evening & altogether we had a very pleasant instructive visit. Why didn[’]t the man find some poor little Sunday School to amuse with his theories and the reporter who hadn[’]t been there would have ended up his morning article the same way, altogether we had a very pleasant and instructive visit. We understand the learned professor will give another SEANCE next Wednesday evening when he will measure the heads of some of the audience which he will afterwards compare with those of a snake[,] toad[,] ass[,] &c. Many prominent individuals are we understand using [exertions?] to have the professor continue those lectures . . . the whole Fall. As it is we wish him . . . Proceeds for . . . of the Charity School[,] St. Marks Episcopal Church of England. My poor dear sister[,] how plain I see you miss me almost as much as I miss you. If I was home I would take you to see Joanna & we would have a good romp or we would get Harry Lewis & Aunt Tinnie in the kitchen & have a dance, or we would go hear some music or have fun in

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a thousand ways. But never mind[;] as soon as I learn to paint we will never be apart very long at a time. [No continuation found.] 1. Eakins was referring to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s translation of Dante’s Divine Comedy, published by Tauchnitz in 1867.

The next letter was an account of commercial photographs of masterworks of art and their role in guiding the procedures of living artists.

[ca. October 1867] [Fragment of a letter to his father.] Immediately on receiving your letter about finding out about the models of which Mr. Holmes spoke to you & ended by going to see the inspector general himself. I send you the list of the subjects already issued. They are photographs from the finest models, statuary of the Greeks, paintings & drawings of the Italians, a few French & Hollanders. They have been photographed with the greatest care by skilled men aided by eminent artists & every one that exhibits the least defect is immediately destroyed. They are the finest specimens of photography I ever saw. It takes a long time to make them as the artists go all over Europe to select the objects to be photographed & only about 33 or 34 are already out. Mr. [Rabaisson?] proposes to make it about 150 to complete the series, & promises that the last shall equal the first. The cost is 8 francs a piece. If Mr[.] Holmes should decide to buy any[,] I would try to get them before pasting down so as to lessen the cost of transportation or try to send them home by some friend like De Berg [sic, read deBourg] Richards[,] whom I had placed under obligations to me.1 The list I send will hint very well the average selection. The statuary heads would be the most appropriate to buy for Mr[.] Holmes & maybe one or two whole statues. The Raphael & Michel Angelo things are sketches not pretty drawings but strong rough unfinished [and] very interesting to any artist

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but hardly to a beginner who does not yet know nature enough to appreciate short hand notes of it.  w I am going to send a paper to you & Mr[.] Gardel & the list separate for precaution. After I came back for Switzerland I sent letters to you for Amy[,] Ida[,] Max Schmitt and others. Did you ever get that batch[?] I just got a letter from Billy Crowell but have not time to answer. [No continuation found.] 1. F. deBourg Richards (1822–1903) was a Philadelphia painter and etcher.

Eakins described his positive feeling for “the greatest men in the world.”

Oct 15. 1867 [Recipient unknown.] It has been my good fortune to have spoken personally with some of the greatest men in the world known in Europe & America alike. Dr. Dunglison, Pancoast, Gérôme and through my associations to know very close the habits of others.1 Jacques, Couture, Troyon, Gounod, RobertFleury & others, without exception they are the simplest-hearted and mannered people in the world.2 They can frolic, some can be intemperate in a hundred things or get drunk or what not, but impossible is it to be great & waste time on imposition. [No continuation found.]

1. Dr. Joseph Pancoast (1805–82) was a surgeon and an anatomist and served for thirty-five years on the faculty of Jefferson Medical College. 2. Charles Emile Jacques (1813–94), a French painter and graphic artist, was a follower of the Barbizon school. Constant Troyon (1810–65) was a French animal and landscape painter. Charles Gounod (1818–93) was a noted French composer of operas. Tony Robert-Fleury (1838–1912) was a French academic artist who specialized in historical compositions and portraits; he was also a noted teacher.

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This letter was mainly an unsympathetic report on F. deBourg Richards, a popular Philadelphia painter, and his wife, an aspiring pianist, who visited Eakins in Paris.

Paris[,] Nov. 1st, 67. Dear Fanny, Saturday before last I got a letter from an artist F. de Berg Richards telling me I was more likely than any one else to know the whereabouts of Mr. Sartain & would I please inform Mr. Sartain that he would leave London for Paris Saturday & would it be too much trouble to Mr. Sartain to meet him at the depot so as to take him to some hotel[,] he being a stranger & having with him his wife & two small children. Mr. Sartain was in England[,] & so I went out to a depot & waited for a train but he had not written either the railroad or time so I came home & got a call from him next day. He was nearly all day in reaching my place 5 squares off. Sunday night I went to see him & found him & family cooped up in a mean English house where they were paying over 40 francs a night. Next afternoon I had to spend finding him a hotel & restaurants & I dined with them that evening & after supper took Mr. Richards out to buy him postage stamps & toys for the children. He is about a head taller than me & as helpless as a child. He is a very good hearted sort of a man[,] a most miserable painter & yet with such an exquisite taste that he sees faults in the color & drawing of the best pictures in the world, and he also once wrote a book. His wife is a foolish good natured[,] large doll baby face woman & worships her husband & dotes on music[,] of which she brought with her about 5 pecks[,] & her name is Susie. She said she would die if it was not for music & also the same if she did not get a piano right off[,] which she did the next day but one. According to a promise I went to see them last week & spend the evening[,] & Mr. Richards gave me a catalogue of the exhibition to read in which he had ticked off the pictures that he had liked[,] and afterwards Mrs. Richards made the piano go & sung. It was the only time in my life that I suffered from noise. I like to hear fire crackers & guns go off, and although I may

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not be fond of hearing a man sharpen a saw or file a tooth or a wet finger drawn over glass, still I do not suffer, but oh that music. She played the [torn page] Redowa[,]1 which was composed & dedicated to her & her playing, & some wal[t]zes dedicated to her husband & others[,] of which I did not see or hear the dedication but may have been dedicated to his pictures. I like to hear beginners[,] a feeling so daintily & timidly for the keys they want to strike[,] but her practice has given her a confidence & horse power of execution that is marvellous. She does not modulate herself but keeps hitting as hard & as fast as she can from beginning to end. Her husband asking her to sing for us[,] she said she couldn[’]t & that he knew she had hardly sung since leaving home that[,] etc &c etc. but after she had made all the excuses she thought of nobody saying any more or insisting she commenced of her own accord. Her singing was more wonderful than her playing & much louder. The first song was in English but I did not catch any words. The second was an Italian song which she said was to an infant sleeping. I should hope dead. There was the piano accompaniment which could be heard when she took breath, otherwise the police would have forced the door in spite of the door keeper[’]s protestations. As it is stupid to not say anything at the end of a piece unless you have tears in your eyes[,] I had some trouble to think out something appropriate but found it at last and told her that her voice could fill a large opera house & after turned to Mr. Richards & assured him that I had heard many an opera [Paris, November 1, 1867] singer without half his wife’s voice which pleased him very much. She is going to perfect herself in French this winter & already says wee to most every question you ask her and as a predicate c’est tres joli [= it is very nice] which she pronounces to ravish one. But she told me that her knowledge of the Italian would interfere with her French for when she went to say quelq’uechose [= something] [sic] she would say quell kee koes because the Italian was quell kekosa. She asked me if it wasn[’]t so & I said yes qualkekosa & she said yes qu a V e l kekosa with a new compromise vowel just half way between the two & this showed me a quickness which I did not suspect except in her fingers & we were both much pleased & the husband too & soon after I left, but not until 156



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Mr[.] Richards had given her a lesson in French by holding his nose a tremendous big one & talking as fast as he could.We laughed very much & this incited him to new efforts but he stopped soon after we had stopped laughing. Tell this to Charley Fussell. It is a picture to imagine. He has two little girls[,] the oldest of whom anyone should be proud to own, & she is very beautiful & with a just proportioned nose. The children go to school in day time & have a nurse at night when father & mother go to opera & theatre[,] which they are going to do every night this winter. At day time they have been going to the exhibition. She has her piano & will probably have a master & also a French one. They spend money quite freely[,] have a house in Philadelphia & all the product of his paintings which Mr. Sartain says are very bad. I never saw any myself but ask Charley Fussell. I was careful not to say anything to Mr. Richards about Mr. Sartain when Sartain got back to Paris for I was not sure that Mr. Sartain wanted to see him but they met in the exhibition & were glad to see one another. Henry is married to an English girl he loved about ten years ago. She is very pretty[,] a quiet timid behaved little girl & I hope Henry will forbid her to go with Hattie. I think much more of Henry for his constancy & every one I predict will like his wife. Last night Mr. Sartain invited me to go to the Opera, & we heard a most beautiful opera called Mignon. It is the Mignon of the Goethe man with the plot changed for Mignon marries Wilhelm Meister & the old father becomes Count again & they live happy & don[’]t die at all. Mr. Sartain is busy every day & all day at the exhibition[,] which was to have closed today but waits till Saturday. He went up in the balloon. He is right well. Tell Emily that I will speak to her father about the Montmartre business as soon as he is done with the Exhibition & that if he will not have time then I will see to it myself & think it no trouble as it for her & one I have never heard but good spoken of. Mr. Sartain has no fixed plan yet except to go to Strasbourg to Mr. Schussele.2 I have got Billy Crowell’s letter & draft[;] I am glad he was not sick in crossing. I am sorry that there is a muss about the fish house but glad there is a crisis for Charley’s sake.The marriage story is very funny [and] likewise that of Billy[’]s weakness in his wits. The only ugliness is the vexation such things give to little girls like Katie but I hope that they will reflect that to be spoken ill of by such people is always the truest 157

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compliment they can pay them. I send two papers by this mail. Fanny[,] the mail! Give my love to my friends. Dear Father, I am going to try write you a letter next week but this week I have been so much with Mr Sartain in the evening I have had no time. I am vexed that Mr G. should again run after the slut. As the dog returns to his vomit so the fool to his folly & I cant just now think of anything nicer to say & appropriate. [No continuation found.] 1. The music for a popular waltz step. 2. Christian Schussele (1824–79), an Alsatian who had taken up residence in Philadelphia in about 1848, was both a noted academic artist and an instructor at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts. Eakins may have learned something from him at the Academy.

A detailed description of a French velocipede and an account of the time that Eakins spent with John Sartain in Paris.

Paris. Friday[,] Nov 9. 67 Dear Father, last week I got your Press sent to my new place. The story of that velocipede is altogether impossible, & that of the Emperor’s decorating the fellow & that of fetching dirt to dump down in the gallery is very romantic but not true.They have[,] though[,] a very fine velocipede here which is very common. It is beautiful in its simplicity. It has only two wheels[,] one right in front of the other & a steel spring on top of them on which is a saddle for the rider. The front wheel is turned to steer it by a cross piece in the hands & the rider makes it go by working his feet on two little cranks setting out from the front wheel. The line from the cross piece to the saddle[.] I didn[’]t mean to make but can[’]t scratch it out & the cranks are too long. The man sits on the saddle but he has to get 158



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it going before he jumps on, by running or even walking or else he would fall right away. After he is on[,] it seems to be under complete but a good control. A bad rider makes a line like this & I saw one very skilful fellow go for one like this a square in a gutter not faster than I can walk & then afterwards come out of the gutter & tear down the boulevard like a race horse. The alphaltum pavements are so hard & smooth there seems to be hardly a limit to their speed. It is becoming very fashionable[,] & last summer early in the morning there were races by princes & dukes around St. Cloud & the Woods of Bologne[,] & so others must follow their example. This species of velocipede looks very funny the first time you see it but I suppose a hoop would too if we had never seen one. The whole thing [is] made of steel weighs but a very few pounds. For Paris it is much better than skating. We are having fine weather for a wonder. Two or three times I feared the great six months storm was coming but they were only false alarms. If buying my india rubber coat has done all this I will consider it a cheap bargain even to myself. Mr. Sartain left Wednesday morning for Strasburg [sic] to see Mr. Schussele & Henry & wife Tuesday at midnight for England to spend a couple of weeks with his wife’s folks before returning to America. They may all be at home before Christmas. Henry certainly. I had a very nice time when Mr. Sartain was here & found great pleasure in taking him about in the afternoon or evening & I generally dined with him. On Sunday we went to Versailles[,] all of us[,] to see the pictures & grounds and did not come home till supper time. Mr. Sartain will come back to Paris & I will then take him through our school. Last night just as I was about to write my letter Shinn came in. He has been down in Brittany[.] We dined together & then walked down the river in the evening. It was a beautiful moonlight night & [I] never saw Paris look so fine before. I have yet some things to say but must write a note to Emily. T.C.E. Eakins encouraged his sister Fanny to persevere in her study of the piano. To make his point, he drew complex analogies between mathematics and music. He also wrote of the activities that he and John Sartain shared in Paris.

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Paris[,] Nov. 13. 67. Dear Fanny, After a little over a week of not getting any letters, they are beginning to pile in & I only hope they will go on coming at the present rate. They do not come in the inverse order, that is last year’s now & vice-versa but they don[’]t come in anything like regular order. The last one[,] however[,] is all right announcing Bill Sartain’s arrival. It is in its place I believe. I am glad he is home safe & so well. Among your letters is your dolorous one about your music. When you get so awful low spirited just go hear some fashionable young lady play a flash piece & then go take a walk to Fairmount or a row up the river. I don[’]t know anything about music except it should be like other things that I do know and yet I will try to give you advice or encourage you in your own ideas by telling you mine as you seemed wanting me to say something for nearly all sisters put great faith in their big brothers. If you try right hard I think you will understand what I am going to say. When I was studying mathematics I had a good deal to do with curves of a certain kind of which I forget the name. Here is an example.

Draw the straight line AB & another AC on which lay off any distance AX. Draw then ever so many lines from the point C intersecting the line AB & from the line AB keep laying off always the same distance towards C. If you then draw a line through all your dots you have the curve XY. Now the peculiarity of these curves is that they keep getting closer & closer to the straight line but would not touch it if they went on forever. There is an infinity of these curves[;] some start almost some straight for the line & wheel suddenly this way might keep off a long time & suddenly go up but they all of them keep getting closer to the line all the time but can never touch it. Piano playing is made up of hundreds of things but the whole is motion & can of course be represented mathematically. We will take some 160



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of them. Let going along this big line AB be piano playing perfect[,] which no man ever did[,] ever could or should ever want to. He had better cry for the moon. It would be of more use to him. Suppose the fellow at O knows nothing at all. Now being able to trill with the third & fourth finger would certainly be a help on towards perfect playing in the line AB. CD is perfect trill playing and the fellow is soon running close to it but if he plays forever he can[’]t do it exactly. He is still very far though from perfect playing AB. Now knowing the scales would be a good thing & would give him another hoist & his new curve would soon be running near parallel with CD.Then he learns Mozart[’]s & Beethoven[’]s Sonatas[.] Look at his curve soon running near parallel with GH & now so close to it. He will soon start up again with something else[,] &c &c. Now this man was very foolish to waste so much time on his trill. He ought to have started on the most important thing & kept only to those curves and parts of curves that are taking him up the fastest to AB. The important thing advances him in all the little things without his knowing it or it giving him trouble & besides as he gets right close to AB how much better is he able to judge of what he wants how much clearer does he see all the curves where they are going fast to AB where slow, & if he finds himself in want of a part of a curve to help him on[,] why he looks back & takes a piece of it just where it is coming almost straight to AB. When you feel that you are working hard & don[’]t seem to be improving fast, look out you are on one of these curves in its slow part where it is going on forever without touching. Look out for these beaten tracks which at last are hard to get out of. Don[’]t think that you are the only one that has been down hearted. I have often wanted to die & I feel now plain it was my stupidity. I was playing my trills drawing from plaster casts. As you approach perfection in your playing[,] your progress must necessarily be very slow at last imperceptible but if you see people far far ahead of you yet so that your straight line that your curve will never reach is still far behind them[,] you must find a new curve[,] a new 161

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way of practise. Suppose you play from memory every day. It is likely that will push you on fast for a while in a new curve. Practice reading at sight. It has been learned. All the great musicians have done [it]. Try transposing at sight. I have heard that done. I will warrant you that if you do these things for a while you will now get faster than by simply playing. Play duets with Charley. When at last you are near perfection I imagine that even little tricks if entirely new in going straight to AB for a few minutes would help more than an hour of old fashioned work. Skating is a very very simple thing to music & how much do I not owe to fooling on skates, to skating over rough ice, to hopping on one foot to awkward unusual motions that none but the young undignified dare do but such tricks ought never to be seen especially in music. One who composes music will have a considerable advantage in playing over one who does not[,] & if Carl Wolfsohn makes compositions too[,] you must not want to play exactly as well as he does without being able to do the same unless perhaps you had fifty times the practice. [11/13/67] Charley is of course your best adviser & he can see what most you want. Your judgments must decide the shape of the curves but be sure that they all belong to the class I pointed out. If you don[’]t quite understand this I think Poppy can help you. I am sure I have done a great wrong to the Holmans. When you said very interesting & instructive visit[,] spiritualism[,] microscope[,] &c[.,] I at once thought more people of the thing Toles stamp & Tillie Barnes. If they love little children & their neighbors & are good natured, & kindly in disposition, stupidity is but a light detraction from such loveable qualities & I would feel pleased in paying him so cheaply with a little attention the large debt humanity owes him, and if in giving in the day time to a little child six cents worth of ice-cream for its five cents he makes the child a very very little happier[,] he merits more than if he had preached the most intellectual spiritualism sermon ever made or armed a regiment of pontifical zouaves or made a great scientific discovery, that there were two stomachs or three bladders in a louse which he found in the heads which were his hobbies.

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Friday I have a great deal more to write about but can[’]t find the time for Mr. Sartain came back yesterday morning from Strasburg & took me with him last night to see the Opera La danse blanche by Boieldieu & this afternoon we spent in the galleries of the Louvre & this evening go again to the Opera to see Romeo & Juliette[,] the new opera of Gounod. Mr. Sartain is right well & Schussele better. Mr[.] Sartain will I think be back before the middle of Dec.[,] certainly in time to give you your music before Christmas. Give Charley the circular I send on today. If he wants to buy any of the music I will do it for him & then if he is not in too great a hurry he had better wait till I can send it on by some friend. I had your music weighed & it would have cost about 13 francs to send by mail. In my last letter I got a draft from Poppy but have not even time to thank him for it. If Mr[.] Sartain gets off soon you will have a long letter next week[;] I certainly commenced this one in a sufficiently distended style. Yesterday afternoon we visited the school & Mr[.] Lenoir showed us all over it. I send two papers for Mr[.] Gardel. Give me news of Mrs[.] Lewis & my friends. TCE. A long letter, this one dealt primarily with two subjects— both students at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts. One was a “disagreeable boy” who offended his fellow students, and the other was a jokester who played clever tricks on the public.

Paris[,] Nov [1867] [mid-November and November 22, 1867] Dear Father, Mr. Sartain dropped in on me one morning last week & on Sunday morning he left for London. If Henry is ready he will sail Wednesday tomorrow [and] if not will wait a week or so for Henry so as to come home together. We had a holyday all last week so I was at leisure to go around with Mr. Sartain the two or three days he stayed. I managed to

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help him with my French to do business he could not possibly have done by himself & he considered himself so much my debtor as to make me dine with him & take me every night to the opera, and a motion towards my pocket book gave him such real unaffected pain that I had to desist entirely. The last I saw of him he was thanking me & at the same time carrying off under his arm about 4 pounds of music for me, besides his umbrella[,] his carpet bag[,] his shawl[,] & a roll of prints he could not fold. He has several times proposed taking me to England & London which he probably knows as well or better than any man living. He wanted me to come as his guest, telling me he invited me[,] &c &c., and the strongest excuse that I had to make was my school although of course I would never think of putting myself under such great obligations to any one but my father. At the same time I never want to go to England & nothing but such company ever could induce me to set foot in that country. When Mr. Sartain found we had holyday all the week he regretted he had not known it when he would have come back sooner & taken me off willing or not or rather tried to. Before I forget it, I want you to lend Mr. Sartain or give him a book I used to see at home written by a man named Tom Taylor about people in London. It will[,] I am sure[,] be prized very high by him as he will remember personally many of the people described. I spoke to him once about it, when he was telling me anecdotes of some of them. I took Mr. Sartain to see those photographs that Mr. Holmes was wanting so that he might tell Mr. Holmes his judgment on them. I know few people I had rather trust in than Mr. Sartain. One day we went to the school & Mr. Lenoir showed us all over the palace & showed us Gerome[’]s studio also. Sunday when Mr. Sartain was leaving it rained very hard, the first time in a long while but it cleared up again Monday & we are having such weather as is almost unheard of in Paris. Old people though[,] Crepon says[,] remember cold dry winters when even the rivers were frozen & snow stayed on the pavements but it[’]s very certain that a child one year old don[’]t. Thursday night In hopes it may give you some amusement & idea of French boys I must tell you how we came to have a holyday. I’ve just this minute got letters from you[,] Fanny & one from Mr. Gardel. — 164



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There is a disagreeable boy in our school who by want of every gentlemanly quality had made himself extremely disliked by all the school. If by moving an inch before commencing his drawing he could let two others see the model he would not do it if he could make sure he had the right to stay there, and he was the meanest drawer in the studio. He ran & told tales to the bureau more than once for which he has been severely punished in past times. In short he was so disagreeable it was a pain to have him alongside of one. A short time since he insulted Jacques’ girl & when he came back to the studio he had his ears boxed for it by Jacques before the whole class. He then ran & told at the bureau that Jacques hindered him from working all the while[,] which was a lie[,] & the inspector came to the studio & gave Jacques a warning. After school a meeting was held and it was decided that the fellow[,] the Dollbaby we call him[,] should be driven ignominiously from the studio. Next day he did not come but he entered the day after that. On entering he was at once thrown & tied & laid in the corner till the model’s rest. Then he was buried under the box we have to set casts on, on which were painted glories & so on to make a tomb of it & we sung the De Profundis & some other grand old church tunes of the dead. He was smothered under this for an hour till the next rest. Now he was tied to an easel upside down or crucified as it is called & blindfolded so he could not see who should commence & they cut off the right hand side of his hair & the left hand side of his beard. Then took the handkerchief from his eyes & a procession was formed & each one stepped in front of him & painted his face as best suited him vermillion[,] prussian blue or yellow, some made new eyebrows for him. In short he would have put to shame an Indian on the war path. Next we sent to Cabanel’s & Pils to tell those studios to come to their doors to see a fellow who had complained 4 times to the bureau. Then a long line was formed & he was kicked out of the studio. All the boys ran after him. He passed Cabanel’s & that studio poured out sixty fellows all hooting him & next Pils[,] which turned out its sixty. The guard was overrun & hurried down with the crowd & instead of rushing across the court & out into the street the Dollbaby again took refuge in the bureau. What a crowd! Nearly every fellow had on his coat or hat or breeches[,] an impression of someone else[’]s palette. In a few minutes the model was up again & all was work. After [a] while the inspector came up looking very angry & told two of our fellows[,] Jacques 165

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& another[,] to leave the studio. The others tried to reason respectfully with the Inspector[,] telling him it was not the two boys but the judgment of all the school[,] but he would not retract & the boys said it was not right & he wanted to know what business we had to interfere for our comrades & they said all the world & words got higher & higher, the inspector had to leave & for about five minutes there was a French hullaballoo. The model was sent home[,] they sung the Marseilles hymn which every Frenchman does naturally under an excitement, they threw things about [and] in short did what none but the French can do. When reason was restored they agreed they would all go see the Director of the School. We all went 60 of us. He was not at home. Then the boys thought maybe they might go see the inspector again.We all took off our hats & went into the bureau & they commenced to address him with much respect. It was superb the expression on the faces of all the other officers of the bureau but the inspector. Some of them put handkerchiefs to their mouths & blew their noses[;] none durst look at his fellow officer for but a few moments before they had seen the wild Indian come tearing in & they must have contrasted it with the 60 innocent young men before them who filled all the bureaus & the staircase too. The address to the inspector commenced with the most studied politeness & when he accused us of drawing him out without noise we could not but complain of a certain harshness in his manner[,] as they nicely expressed it. Maybe you want to say I did not act like a gentleman. Indeed we would hardly say that. He was fast losing his temper. You have insulted me in your studio. We did not mean to[;] we thought the contrary. That I was insulting you.Yes. Leave my room. Good morning[,] sir[,] said all with out hats almost sweeping the ground, No reason to say it[,] says he. & then he added[,]You have insulted me in your studio & now you come here to insult me in my own bureau.You came here to tell me I was no gentleman. We are sure of it[,] we all answered in chorus & then as we could not see the director we decided to go see Gerome[,] our best friend. We had a good deal of fun there of course. Most of us waited down at his door while a dozen went up to explain the matter to him. While we were standing we saw some police coming for it is against the law to assemble without a permit from the police. The boys saw them coming & told me to get out quietly to the outside & talk English to them. I got carelessly near, & the sergeant stepped up to me & asked me 166



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the meaning of all this. I at once replied in good English.What[?] said he. I repeated & told him a whole lot besides. This was getting very amusing & interesting when the others thought it would be wise to explain the thing as they were under Gerome’s window & on such a peaceful mission[,] which they did[,] & the police asked us very politely if we wouldn’t just walk up & down a little. While we were in the middle of the street an [sic] very nice looking gentleman with a decoration on his coat[,] seeing our crowd thought there was a man hurt or horse fallen or some other thing of interest[,] worked his way finally into the very centre of us. He then saw there was nothing & that we were all acquainted not strangers drawn accidentally. We then all raised our hats respectfully. The old man turned around & round[;] whichever way he looked there was nothing but bowing & he could not get out. At last a happy thought struck him so he raised his own hat & bowed many times backing out all the time when a way was at once opened for him. He walked off then[,] much to the amusement of the bystanders[,] who saw the point & more especially the cabmen belonging to a stand right opposite. The old man could not help looking back several times but every time he looked off came every hat even when he was a square off & then he turned off giving one last look at 60 bows & returning one himself. We made friends with the cabmen & sat down in the middle of the street to draw them when the others came down with demonstrations of great joy. Gerome promised us that our two comrades should not be turned out, as they had no more to do with the thing than the others as it was the vote of the majority that carried. He said he trusted us to keep order in our own studio & was sure we would never be unjust in a grave question. He did not like the inspector business & said he could not try to prevent our studio being closed but he said our two boys should not leave. He put on his hat & left his work & went down to the bureau & and [sic] arranged that Jacques & his friend could stay away two weeks & the whole studio one week. The Dollbaby came back Monday. Without one word the box was lifted & pointed to & he went into it of his own accord. It was shut down & after school was out it was opened. Tuesday he came again. Same performance. Wednesday he came & hung around the gate till Gerome came out. Then he told Gerome how they made him go into the box. Gerome shrugged his shoulders & bid him good morning. Gerome has since given notice to our treasurer that if ever 167

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there is another complaint entered at the bureau to let him know within 24 hours. He thus takes the trouble on himself of all disputes but he has the right to strike any name from the list of his scholars & if he wanted to could prevent him from entering any other school of France. With all his ill nature the Dollbaby has not a grain of intelligence but it is to be hoped that his half grain will point him the wisdom of staying away. I hope you will not waste any sympathy on the nasty little brat. I am not fond of injustice & I know every circumstance & neither am I cruel but I don[’]t think he got half what he deserved for they did not hurt him. I never have seen the least injustice in any measured voted for & no one has ever been hindered from working who wanted to & attended to it. Once a week’s privation of the studio would have made me blue when I had my little room where I could not work. Now it is no matter.  w Once last year I went to a welcome breakfast out of town with Shinn & sent you a long description[,] which I am not sure you ever got. My own welcome money went to pay for it. This year we have a great deal of money on account of the news & we are all going next Sunday to Vincennes[,] which I have never seen. I expect much pleasure for we will have our best & oldest pupils with us. There is one fellow in particular[,] Bricard[,] I must tell you about. He is very tall & handsome & thin [&] wears eyeglasses & kid gloves & clean clothes but has in spite of all this most wonderful talents. He is the strongest wrestler in the class, he can talk Spanish & English[,] can jump higher & run faster than anyone else & is not a bad painter. His witty sayings are funnier than I ever heard in my life before. Last time he went to a welcome breakfast there was a few cents left & passing a cook shop the boys saw a cooked goose’s drumstick for just the money which they must needs buy. Bricard bought it & carried it in triumph. He offered it to several children very politely[,] who were frightened & ran away. He saw a fine dressed lady about to be handed in to her carriage by a footman in livery. He ran up to her, begged her pardon for the great liberty of addressing her[,] assured her of the most impossible respect[,] kept bowing to her & then offered it to her. She replied with an equal politeness. She regretted having dined but the attention was so unexpected[,] &c[.,] which in turn filled his bosom with 168



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regrets. They parted in great politeness & the lady seemed to think it remarkably funny. His next customer was an old priest. Father[,] said he[,] I am come to offer thee a small expression of my regards & then showed him it. The old gentleman looked at it [and] then at Bricard’s earnest thoughtful face[,] then down at the goose’s leg[,] which he touched with his fingers to make sure of its genuineness or that he was awake. When he got breath he declined & the boys all think the old priest is trying to this day to know what it may have portended. On nearing a fashionable street[,] says Bricard[,] hold on boys[,] I know a good trick. He went ahead[,] got into the middle of the street[,] spread his handkerchief out & then kneeled down & held up his goose’s leg in front of him & prayed to it. Carriages stopped & people gathered around. Soon the boys approached & made fun of him and laughed[,] which made him furious & he dashed among them brandishing his instrument, & when they stopped he again knelt down & held up his goose’s leg before him to mumble at. O poor young man! So distinguished looking. So scrupulously dressed. So handsome. O what a pity. Religious excitement! What a shock to his parents.What a distress to his friends! Our boys got several lectures for having laughed at him from the bystanders & having made him furious & when at last the policemen were coming, some of the boys knew his friends & persuaded him to come with them in showing respect for his goose’s leg & the bystanders explained to the police how a poor young man insane had just been found by his friends who were looking after him. Soon after Bricard found a hungry little child to whom he offered it in such a way that it was very glad to take it & went off eating it as a great treat. It[’]s been a long time since I have written one of these foolish letters but it may give you an idea of the French boys, doing a thousand deviltries from mere overflowing of their spirits; but at the bottom the kindest, best-hearted fellows in the world. The Dollbaby is mixed blood. In a Frenchman I have yet to see ill nature. T.C.E. Friday 22 Tell Tom Moran that the Commission promised to make out a certificate for me to day[,] Friday[,] to get his picture in free of duty & I will send it then as soon as possible & it[’]s likely it will be the first one in America 169

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from the exhibition. I will write to little Caddy next week if I can & make another long letter for I have more to tell you just now than time to do it in. Mon cher ami, Je vous sais bien gré de la petite lettre que vous avez eu la bonté de m’écrire, car, quoique breve, elle m’assure que je ne suis pas oublié de mon cher ami. Moi aussi je suis tres faché que tant de mes lettres ont été perdues. Je n’ose écrire de la politique dans ce temps-ci, de peur qu’elles ne soient detenues toutes, neanmoins je mettrai toutes les semaines à la poste des journaux tout en espèrant que vous en recevrez la moitié. Il ne passe pas un jour que je ne pense à vous. T.C.E. (Translation, 11/22/[67]) My dear friend, I am grateful to you for the brief note that you have been so kind as to write me, because, though brief, it assures me that my good friend has not forgotten me. I am also very angry that so many of my letters have been lost. I dare not write of political matters in these times out of fear that all of my letters will be confiscated; nonetheless, each week I am sending by mail writings in the hope that you may receive half of them. Not a day passes that I do not think of you. This next letter was a friendly note to John Sartain.

64 rue de l’Ouest Nov. 24. 67. Sunday morning Dear Mr. Sartain, I was very glad to get a letter from you just now. I have again settled down to work[,] the school being reopened. We are still having fine weather[,] no rain[,] no fog, and this morning the sun is shining so bright & innocent no one would suspect him of having played us such a trick last winter. I have a letter from Gastaldi but do not dare send it to London for fear it won[’]t get there in time.1 So you will have it in Philadelphia. My love to yourself, Henry, & his wife[.] Thomas Eakins. 1. This was probably a reference to Andrea Gastaldi (1810–89), an Italian history painter who studied and was popular in Paris. 170

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What follows was a combined letter to his mother and Aunt Eliza, together with ones to his sister Caddy and his father. To the first pair, he wrote that he moved his living quarters from the damp ground floor to a higher-level residence and studio in the same building; to Caddy he spoke of animals on display in Paris. He concluded the letter with a message to his father stating that he was finally holding his own in Gérôme’s class.

Paris. Nov. 67. Dear Mommy & Aunt Eliza, I have no fashions to tell you just now about for the people of Paris are thinking more about bread and prison than fashion. So I will tell you about my housekeeping for I have again moved. My first studio was on the pavement one step below the ground paved with brick & the walls with dark bluish color. It was a nice large studio & I thought I could live there very well: but it was impossible to keep it clean. I bought a big broom but the way the dirt would stick in those bricks was a caution. I had to spread a piece of carpet down by my bed to tread on for if I trod on the bricks I had to go wash my feet. Then I had to be very careful to tuck in the bedclothes well at night for if they touched the bricks they were soiled too. One day I found that the wall had the same effect on them & then I made up my mind to wash the wall where my bed was. Sculptors had had my studio before me & a sort of dust had settled all over the wall. It took me nearly all day to scrub a place big enough for my bed, & I think that after I had worked for about two hours right hard & had skinned my little finger that if anyone had come to me & offered to clean house for me & all for nothing I would not even have got mad. Crepon came in & put up a big curtain all around my bed for me so that I was not on the whole very uncomfortable, but my trouble after all was to keep dry. I thought it would be very easy with a fire, but the fire would go out sometimes at night or I would be away all day, and although I never got a cough or other sickness I was apt to have a cold in the head. Crepon[’]s little baby got sick & the doctor told him he must get away from his quarters to an upstairs place, that besides the danger to his wife & child he might find himself someday with rh[e]umatism. 171

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Crepon told the doctor how he kept fire going all the time but the doctor say [sic] that that did not do much good although some and told him no one ought to live on a ground floor. When I heard all this I began to think of myself & concluded I had better leave my quarters too. So I have taken in place of my old studio an upstairs one in the same building. I am now rather more 64 than 62 rue de l’Ouest. Crepon is looking around for a new house but has not yet been as lucky as I was. Having a child it is very hard to rent a room in Paris. Children interfere with the comforts of close neighbors & children seem to have no business to be in Paris for it is not the fashion[.] They should be given to common ignorant strange women to nurse, one of whom has just been sentenced to prison for killing little babies & keeping on charging for them weekly[,] months after their death when she pretends they are just dead. The place I am in now is perfectly dry and comfortable. It has an nice wooden floor of oak[,] which may be waxed if one likes but I’m sure I’ll never take that trouble; but what is so good about it is that when one takes the broom the dirt don[’]t stick fast but slips easy along the floor and put all in a pile. The studio is not so large as the other one but plenty large enough. Over the entry is a little room just big enough for my bed & then another place for my clothes & writing materials. I go to bed up a little ladder & there is a door and balcony which will prevent me from falling down into the studio if I should take to sleep walking. This little room is papered & I can easily keep my bed & everything perfectly nice.  w Dear Caddy, There is a great big garden at Paris with cages & wire fences in it & these are full of animals, so that it is like a menagerie, only you don[’]t have to pay to go in. There are elephants[,] lions[,] tigers[,] bears[,] hippopotamusses, rhinocerusses, camels, snakes, wolves, monkeys & a great many other kinds of beasts. I went there last week, and saw some boys throwing bread in to the zebras. A zebra is a horse with stripes all over him so that he looks as if he was painted. There are a great many little birds at Paris that are very saucy. When the boys would throw the bread the zebras would run after it as fast as they could but very often the little 172



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birds would be flying off with it before they got to it and this made them very mad & the boys always threw it near the birds on purpose to make the zebras mad. When the zebras would see the little birds flying away with the bread they would turn round & kick at them. Once the boy broke off a very nice little piece of bread & showed it to the zebra for a long time & made him anxious. Then he threw it way off & the zebra ran after but a little bird was flying off with it up above his head when he got to the place. He was so mad at the bird that although it was so high he kicked after it, and he reared up so much to do it, that he kicked himself over and fell down so that all the people laughed at the foolish zebra.  w Dear Father, I am surprised that my letter about Mr. Holmes should miscarry or delay or that you should be without a letter from me for so long as I write very regular. If your next letters say nothing about it, I will write over again what I had to say to Mr. Holmes. I thought my studio downstairs would do but not keeping dry I have changed to one upstairs[,] which costs however 200 francs more[,] although considerably smaller, and my rent is 850. I received your cheque for 1000 francs for which I feel extremely grateful & I will be careful not to waste any of it. I will soon send you another account of my expenses. I am right well and hard at work but in the dumps the last of the week, for I made a drawing on my canvas according to Gerome[’]s directions for Wednesday & then he said[,] not bad[,] that will do, now I will mix your colors which you will put on. I have not been able to make them gel together & have got a devil of a muss & will get a good scolding tomorrow morning. Crepon has furnished my studio completely with Sante’s[?] things & some of his own as he will not probably have room for them when he takes an up stairs place. He even had a bedstead so that all I have bought is my bed & mattress covers. I am perfectly comfortable & would be happy if I could make pictures. About that I am not so downhearted as I have sometimes been. I see much more ahead of me than I used to, but I believe I am seeing a way to get at it & that is to do all I see from memory. I believe I am at least keeping my place in my class & have made friends with the best paint173

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ers. Gerome is very kind to me & has much patience because he knows I am trying to learn & if I stay away he always asks after me & in spite of advice I always will stay away the antique week and I often wish now that I had never so much as seen a statue antique or modern till after I had been painting for some time. I send to Mr. Gardel two papers. I hope he may get them. My tribunes were stopped on account of Italian matters but I got another one lately & hope for one today. I was looking for letters today but none has come. Tell Max I will answer his letter the moment I have time. Give Mr. Sartain the letter I write him & one Emily sent him after he had gone. I paid 25 francs for Moran’s picture which went home in the Fulton Wednesday last. I got a paper that will take it in to him free of duty. I believe it will be the first picture home from the Great Exhibition. [No continuation found.] This was a chatty letter to his father dealing with a variety of topics: his friend F. deBourg Richards’s illness, his care by his wife and her stupidity, and a young artist’s noble action in carrying a woman who had sprained her ankle.

Paris[,] Dec. 6, 67. Dear Father, I have not to day a great deal to say & it is lucky for I have but little time to say it in. The papers that I send this week will be of the greatest interest to Mr. Gardel or any one caring for France. The Monitor has the big speech of Thiers the historian. I am worried to find an extract from Johnsohn’s [sic] speech saying if Congress does any thing even according to law which he judges to be bad for the nation he will take on himself to save the nation or something very like it. I wish they would try him the first day for treason. I missed a good many Tribunes because Greely don[’]t criticize the Italian question in the Catholic Government point of view but rather as an opposition paper & the post office people have stopped the poisoning of my mind so innocent. Mr. Richards of whom I wrote to Fanny some time ago has been very sick with inflammation of the intestines which was dangerous. He was 174



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taken to bed Saturday. Wednesday I stopped in as I had not been there for so long a time to ask after their health as a politeness. He was in bed & looked as if he was about to die & had been suffering every night intensely that long while. They were very glad to see me & I went immediately & got them an English Doctor, the old friend of Dr. Hornor’s. Write me soon something about Dunglison.The Richards knew a young man whom they met on the vessel but who was like them a perfect stranger in Paris. Mrs. Richards had found him but did not know my address. The doctor prescribed several remedies & I ran about to get the things for the young man could not speak a word of French nor the Richards neither & besides he was a little tenny-henny from Connecticut with a charming Boston critic education. He could not have told the French Doctor about the English one coming but he forgot the grammatical construction & some past participles. The man Richards[’s] wife is such a silly woman that I never supposed she could be of any good or would if she could; but she had not been to bed for four nights. The children who were passably good of course became bad when the mother’s hands were full & so cried after her all the time. The young jack is come out here to study medicine. He staid with Mr. Richards all that night. I showed him how to make the fire to by putting pieces of wood on it. Last night I staid there & Mrs[.] Richards got a good sleep & will sit up herself tonight.Tomorrow night he will want no watching for to day he was able to eat beef tea. He had a bad fever all the time and eat ice all night which must be broken up. Then the room had to be kept warm all the time by a French fire which must be attended to every quarter of an hour. I took much trouble in their behalf but Mr[.] Richards is so thankful for it that I will never regret it. When he gets well again I will be careful not to go there but very seldom. Mrs. Richards told me how she would like to study French. She thinks she is awful fascinating & she would like me to read French with her. She imagines that her delightful company would amply repay my waste of time. Good lord I never saw such a stupid loot of a woman in all my life. Her only good that I know of is her kind unwearied attention to her husband that almost made her thin. Cooped up in their Paris garret they have wished themselves a hundred times in America where there is water[,] a heater & people that talk plain. 175

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Dear Mommy, What an unromantic thing a fat woman is asleep in bed. One might to him self imagine houris [= seductively beautiful woman] Paradise Turkey, &c. but to see a big lump of bed clothes[,] then a lump for the head sticking out wrapped in a night cap[,] then to hear snorting[,] &c &c &c. If I ever marry a fat woman I will have one house for me & another for her, Dear Father[,] this puts me in mind of something else. An young artist of Paris very celebrated & belonging to the big bugs was at a company at a country seat a little way from Paris. A young lady fell & sprained her ancle [sic] so she couldn[’]t walk & the young man was the only one strong enough to carry her. He carried her to her carriage & the company all returned to Paris. Then he carried her up stairs. He is very powerful but he confessed that she got heavier & heavier the higher they got. The houses are very high here & scientific people might attribute the increase of weight to the rarefied air & specific gravity. He is a proud young man & proud of his strength[.] He reached the fourth flight & did not like to drop her before the ladies & gentlemen who were all following up stairs with candles & so made a desperate resolution to continue & braced himself for the effort. This damned rarefied air in the upper regions manifested itself by another phenomenon. He could not stop it. It was a dreadful long phenomenon. He dropped the woman in her bed & retired immediately. It is wonderful what little romance there is in real life compared with novels. Next day he showed his true noble French character. He visited the same company[,] introduced the subject himself[,] made a joke[,] laughed & ended the embarrassment forever.  w When I was recounting to you the jolly tricks of our boys on a spree I forgot the principal one. Some old washerwomen were going home with big bags on their backs. The boys took them from them & insisted on carrying them themselves through the streets & trotted along[,] & the old women after them[,] & then claimed as payment a hug from all these old women. [No continuation found.] 176

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This letter consisted of a lamentation on Mrs. Lewis’s death, followed by a negative report on “The Guthrie Man” (Dr. W. E. Guthrie). Eakins spoke approvingly of Adam-Salomon, a talented Parisian photographer and sculptor.

Paris,Thursday[,] Dec. 19[,] 67. Dear Mommy, The news of poor Mrs. Lewis’s death affected me very much, and came to me very unexpected. Although I had abandoned the hope of ever seeing her again in perfect health, still the last letters I got were saying she seemed cheerful & so much stronger after every operation[,] & so I did not expect to hear of her death. Her unnumbered kindness and self-denials which she has always made so willingly for any one of our family loom up brighter still now that we can never repay them to her any more. But here I am speaking of myself for Fanny has told how you have nursed her exactly as she would have nursed you had you been sick. Sally must be terribly lonely as her mother seemed the only friend she cared for and I feel she will naturally look to you now to take the place of her mother in part. The task will not be a difficult one & the greatest trouble I am sure will be to foresee what she wants so loth will she be to trouble any one. Times of great sorrows brighten a character like Sally Lewis & hide her little jealousies & coldnesses which were perhaps but virtues carried too far by a seclusion from every young person. The loss is the greatest of course to Mr[.] Lewis for he has lost the tried companion of so many many years & the mother of all his family but he will have more strength to bear with it. I think there was never a family more devoted the one to the other and with reason too[,] and each one will in a measure forget his own sorrow in trying to bear the burden of the others. With her disease I suppose death was a relief & that she suffered more than she was willing to admit to those around her but it was hard she should have taken a disease just when her sons could have been such a great comfort to her. I do not know when Thanksgiving day was in America but I think it must have been about the time of her death or great sickness. How different must have been our homes from 177

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the old Thanksgiving days that I always spent at their house until I left my country. Dear Father, Since my last letter home I have had several misfortunes[:] one to get sick [and] the others visits from the Guthrie man. My smartness that I was flattering myself I had did not prevent him from playing me a good trick. He stopped in a carriage one afternoon & asked me if I would not go with him to see some fine photographs at a friend’s house[,] which I accepted. He took me to Salomon’s the sculptor, well known at Paris[,] a friend of Couture of Gérôme[,] etc.1 He walked in to the parlor[,] accosted the wife[,] asked after the health of the daughter & then assured me she was an estimable young lady[,] told Madam what an excellent & amiable sister Fanny [was;] I had hoped that when he was gone I would still continue my visits to the house, got shown through all the studios of Mr. Salomon, got a taste of excellent Spanish wine sent him by Pereire the banker, asked Madam for a card that I might easily find the house again[,] which she gave me[,] saying something about happiness not over distinctly. After we got out he told me that this man was renowned for sculpture & photography[,] that he had the fault of every one that had not received a classical education[,] namely that he could not talk connectedly and was very foolish; that great men like Pereire[,] &c.[,] who wished him well for services rendered them but who could not of course invite him or his family into their houses on account of his awkwardness & very low extraction[,] showed him attention by sending a present of a few dozen bottles of wine by a servant. As the man lies habitually but as truth may sometimes be got by comparing lies what was my surprise at discovering that he had known these good people but two or three days & had come on the part of some relative in England or Scotland a photographer to worm out of this kind old gentleman some secret in the photographic art. I am well now & tomorrow I will write a letter to the lady assuring her I never dreamed of intruding into her family & asking her to forget I was seen in such company. This I owe to myself[,] family & Gerome but more especially to the lady herself. He took upon himself to advise Crepon to be a photographer as there was a great fortune to be made at it, without knowing Crepon[’]s ca178



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pabilities as a painter[,] said London was the place for genius, France perhaps for schools[,] America good for nothing at all but business[,] its people disagreeable[,] &c &c. excepting my lovely father and sweet sister. Crepon knows America & took its part & Guthrie rendered himself extremely disagreeable to Crepon the first time they met. He once took advantage of my being at the other side of the room to rush up my ladder to my little bed room & when he got half way up he made his excuses that he must see how I slept. My bed was not made up & had a strong temptation to take away the ladder[,] which I did not. I think aside from his curiosity he wanted to see if there was room for himself & wife if they came to Paris. He tried to find out as much as he could about Crepon & his wife & testified a great desire to see his wife. Monday night he had reason to suppose I would be out so he came to see me as to get into Crepon[’]s. I had already given Crepon an idea of his character[,] his desire to see his wife & hinted to him it would not be necessary to invite him to supper & breakfast to have him & as he knew I would be out Monday night we concluded both that he would come to see me then. Sure enough at 7 o’clock a tap preceded by no audible footsteps. Mrs[.] Crepon opened the door. Mr[.] Eakins is here is he? No[,] he lives up stairs. Crepon then said[,] He has gone out & will not be home this evening. Mrs[.] Crepon took up her child & made a retreat into the far corner & Guthrie came moving in & untying his scarf & then seated himself. You wish me to give him some message[?] Yes[,] I will write. Crepon gave him a pencil. Mr[.] Crepon[,] I have come to see you. No[,] you are mistaken[,] Sir[.] You mean you are come to see Mr[.] Eakins. No[,] to see you[;] does it surprise[?] Very much for we are strangers to one another. I have met you at the room of my friend. If you both desire I will again come there at any time[.] Crepon’s wife was in the corner huddling up her little naked baby, the bed was uncovered[,] the table not cleared away & Crepon was so cold that Guthrie could not get anything out of him[,] not even an introduction to his pretty wife & so he was forced to leave. After he got out[,] says Mrs[.] Crepon, Oh Lucien[,] how could you speak so cold & to a friend of Eakins. He is no friend of his & I don[’]t like him. Well[,] says she[,] I hope not[.] I never saw such a Jesuit head[;] I declare he frightened me as he came sneaking into the room with his ugly head down amongst his shoulders. He made a frightful impression on me. And his beautiful morality, his Jesus Christ 179

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& Bible & then his advice to Eakins to seduce respectable married ladies. This conversation lasted nigh onto half an hour when a sudden idea struck Crepon[.] I bet he is at the door[,] said he. He rushed across the room. The doctor was just tumbling up stairs. He yelled out I told you so to his wife & ran for the candle & got back before the doctor could get up the first flight even it was so dark. He looked at him & then came in & shut the door. After while the doctor again tapped at Crepon’s. He was very pale & his voice trembled. I fear Mr[.] Crepon I have been disagreeable to you. I was not sure Eakins was out so I have returned to try again. But I told you he was out[,] Sir. You will be kind enough to give him the paper I wrote[.] Certainly[,] as I offered before. He could think of nothing more to say & so left. [No continuation found.] 1. Antony Samuel Adam-Salomon (1818–81) was a French portrait photographer and sculptor. He also made photographic reproductions of works of art.

Eakins addressed Emily Sartain in a reserved voice, disputing her claim that he had become cynical as a result of living in Paris.

Paris[,] Dec. 20[,] 67. My dear Emily, I got your long English letter last week just before the closing of the mail so you get your answer New Year’s & not Christmas. Happy New Year[,] Emily[,] to you & all the family[,] who by this time must again be all together. If as you say you have felt hard sometimes towards me I have never returned that sentiment. If ever I said it has been a long time since I had a letter from you or your last letter was so short it was not to find fault with you but tell you the pleasure I still got from your letters. Some of your reproaches make me think you want me to answer them: for instance, “It seems to me that if you had taken as much trouble to remember to tell me each time you had seen Father[,] etc[.,] what you had talked about[,] &c[.,] as you have to give all the particulars of the way in which different Americans make fools of themselves I should have 180

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etc.[”] I always sent general news of your family to my family. Particular conversations could not possibly have been interesting but I would surely have written to you direct at any time of their whereabouts for the month hence if I could have known it better than themselves. They were very erratic[,] had no plans very fixed except general ones that I wrote home in my home letters that any one can read. I have thought over your reproach of my being cynical. I think it unjust. Understand me[,] I do not think you unjust for making it, but am thankful to you for speaking so free. I think I easily forgive any amount of folly which springs only from want of sense and is not mixed with ill nature. But what I hate is imposition & hypocrisy and affectation, of which I saw a big share last week. Dear Emily[,] Please excuse me from writing more. I feel so stupid & prosy from having been sick & it is getting dark so I want to hurry to the post office. I’ll try to write you more at length next time. There is one thing though very funny in your letter[:] I insist that the duties & responsibilities of men & women are equal[,] etc. Tell me truly[,] how hard did you set down your pretty little foot after writing that[?] You never learned that from yourself[,] Emily[,] or my mother or your mother or next door at your sister Helen’s. Happy New Years to you. Go to our house and eat a big piece of mince pie for me & an extra slice of plum pudding at your own house[.] Thomas Eakins. This letter was a report to his Aunt Eliza about his Christmas activities in Paris.

Dec 27. 67. Dear Aunt Eliza. I got Poppy’s & Fanny’s letter on Christmas Eve. I am a thousand times obliged to you for your kind present. Crepon has so furnished my room that I am really in want of nothing just now except a little looking glass which I look for when I go out. I guess it is a good thing to go without a looking glass for a month or so, for I am sure my face was never so clean before or got so many scrubbings as it has lately for fear it might be dirty. I believe there is nothing very remarkable in the way of fashion this win181

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ter. I was at the Closery last night but for want of fashion I remarked the sadness with which some of the poor young girls tried to be merry & attractive. I spent Christmas at Mrs[.] Moore’s. It was a very dull day[,] rain & fog[,] but we had a turkey. Only there was no cranberry sauce for cranberries are not known in France. Last Christmas Kriskingle [sic, read Kriss Kringle] didn[’]t come to me & I felt very lonely but this time he gave me an orange & a paper of goodies & when I woke up & looked at the big toe of my stocking all scrunched out with the goodies I felt real jolly. The only drawback to my pleasure was Crepon’s absence[,] being gone with his wife & child to spend the holy days with his father & mother & sisters. After I got dressed I had to go across the river to get some medicine for poor Mr[.] Richards & by the time I got back it was time to go to dinner. I eat my goodies all up before I went out. They did not make me sick for there were not a very great many of them. Maybe if I had been better I would have got more. I suppose Caddy got twice as many in her stocking for she must be old enough now to be a pretty good girl. In two weeks by the time you get this letter I will be looking out for one from home telling me all about Caddy’s stocking. I hope she has learned my old trick of hanging up mama’s big one. I do not like the French Kriskingle as much as the American one, for he hasn[’]t got any ministicks or mint drops or lemon candy or jump jim crows. There are so many chimneys in Paris I wonder he don[’]t lose himself. Every room has a chimney all to itself.The French people don[’]t hang up their stockings like Americans either, but they put out their boots or wooden clogs around the fire place[.] So I guess he knew I was an American. I wish he had put a big buckwheat cake in my stocking. It was cold here two weeks ago & there was skating on the fountains. The most fashionable way to skate here is to sit on a sled & push yourself along with two sticks with nails in the end. These are hired out & gentlemen amuse themselves a whole day that way. How they would open their eyes to see Maggy on the good skates. I hope she will write to me about skating. I am right well now & I am going to see the Bonheurs to night. An old friend of mine & Fussell’s comes to see me every once in a while. Poole of Baltimore. I like him very much. Ramsey comes with him. He is a pretty nice fellow but not so nice as Poole nor can he paint so good. They study at Bonnat’s studio. I fear they will never get into our school

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for even Frenchmen are now getting turned out when they don[’]t improve enough. My love to all my friends. T. Eakins. The next letter was a report on Gérôme and his entourage going to the Near East in search of subjects for painting and photography. Eakins continued with negative remarks on deBourg Richards’s wife.

Paris[,] Dec. 30 [1867]–Jan 3. 68. Dear Father. Gerome is going to Egypt[,] Syria & Turkey with Lenoir[,] one of his pupils & one of my first & best friends at the studio[,] & Bonnat whom Mr. Sartain & Bill will remember for his Italian pictures in the big Exhibition & Berchere who made about three fourths of those beautiful Arab pictures & Persian ones there.Thus there is mourning in France among students. It seems the preparations must be very extensive. They are running from legation to legation for permissions to travel through all these countries. Lenoir was telling me about the first one they went to he [sic] Gerome & Goupil. The man was out & only his little puppy left. Gerome explained his business. Humph[,] I don[’]t know.You are witnesses for one another[,] I see. Then he looked very mysterious. Where might you live if you please? 6 Brussels St. Humph Humph. Your name? Gerome.What profession? A painter[,] Sir. Painter[,] painter[,] o yes painter but what kind of a painter? A house painter[,] by God. Lenoir then had himself registered as painter & glazier. Goupil afterwards reproached Gerome for his temper & told him it was ridiculous for him to go travel with such a title. Never mind[,] says Gerome[,] I’ll put some architecture into my pictures. This put me very much in mind of Mr. Holmes & his hired girls & I laugh every time I think of it. I fear you never got my letter giving Mr. Holmes the explanation of the paper I sent him with a list of subjects of models. Mr. Sartain will tell him how good they are. I went to see the inspector general himself. They will make about 250

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altogether. The list I sent was as far as they had gone. The idea of them was to replace in a measure Juliens [sic, read Julian’s] lithographs among the very beginners who pay attention to how the thing is done rather than to the thing itself. The beautiful photograph shows nothing but the few broad simple tints. At the same time they are I think too expensive to be used in the every day schools[,] costing 8 francs a piece. They send their artists all over Europe for the subjects & destroy a dozen plates to every one they keep. In fact they are almost too nice to use. You speak to me of a long letter mamma wrote me. I got a little one promising me to write another next week. This last I never got & supposed afterwards that Mrs. Lewis’s sickness prevented her from writing it. If it is lost I am very sorry for I like so much a letter once in a while from my mother. Things are going on all right now at Paris[;] that is[,] there is nothing extraordinary been happening lately. Poor Richards is recovering very slowly but it has been bright & clear lately in the middle of the day & he has been out once for a short distance but he looks very sick[,] his energy is all gone & he lies on his back nearly all day & has pains. The doctor told him to go right back to America. His wife[,] though[,] says she is determined to see Italy & Rome & Switzerland. He adores his wife[,] whom I dislike excessively[,] says it is wonderful how that woman is good to him[,] how she is worth her weight in gold, how cheerful she has borne with his sickness[,] &c &c &c. Her plans are to put her oldest child about four years old in a nunnery or other school or impose her on Mrs. Weber in Germany to keep while she would take the other with her traveling. I told her Mrs. Weber had children of her own & probably could not take care of her child. I don[’]t know[,] says she, my husband knew her husband in Philadelphia but even if she can[’]t we can put Florence to any school. Other children have done so before. Florence is a pretty delicate child, but so weak that sores often come on her body & the doctor has ordered her to take cod liver oil every day. The other child[,] the young one[,] has mean pinched up features & the temper of a lap dog. Every time she cries Florence is whipped for teasing baby or looking cross at baby or not kissing baby when she looked so pretty at her. I once saw their little school playing in the garden. Baby was crying as usual & Florence carrying her as well as she could and the little French girls all offering assistance. They did not see me & the affection showed made me think a good deal of Florence, and I afterwards told it 184

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to the father & mother. The mother was quite hurt & told me Florence must have seen me [No continuation found.] A fragment of a letter to his friend Eugene A. Poole, this correspondence dealt primarily with U.S. velocipedes.1

[late 1867–early 1868] [Eakins to Eugene A. Poole] After five minutes or so she surprised me by pulling them out & giving them to me. She’s as sharp as a New England girl.  w I intended to write to you right away of course but I am awful lazy in regards that department, & so put it off from day to day till now. I hope Bridgman’s velocipede isn[’]t broke yet & that the rain hasn[’]t washed the temper out of it. There is nothing like rain for washing the temper out of me. Maybe my backbone is stiffened with starch like a shirt bosom. Any how I hate rain worse than the devil & it has rained everyday without exception since you left. I never saw such weather at this time of year. I have seen Wiley several times but he was always talking earnestly with the one eyed man & didn[’]t see me in the street & so I didn[’]t stop him. Roberts is gone to America so a sculptor told me. Bill Sartain is working up at Bonnat[’]s & is in high glee & making progress. Bonnat helps him[,] not hinders him. We got Bridgman’s letter yesterday Saturday & Bill will hunt up the papers tomorrow. There is a velocipede school just opened opposite our house & it has a big sign up[:] American velocipedes. Can Bridgman do the pretty on his yet? Could he chase a wood chuck along a worm fence on it yet? Can he make it go too? How many sprained ankles & broken shins are there amongst you? Write me soon[;] don[’]t leave things as I do. Did you get your money all right the next day I sent the kid gloves by post too for I found it was better & cheaper than by express. Thomas Eakins. 185

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I thought I had run out of subject but reading Bridgman’s letter I see riots mentioned. There was lively work out on the Boulevards. They built a barricade opposite Deforges & another down by the Madeline [sic]. The cavalry charged the crowd and a good many . . . [No continuation found.] 1. Eugene A. Poole (1841–1912) studied at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts and with Bonnat in Paris. He specialized in moody, tonal landscapes.

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v Eakins told his father about the problems he was having with painting—particularly color. He confessed that at this point, Gérôme’s teaching hindered rather than helped him.

Paris[,] Jan 17, 1868 Dear Father, I am working now from memory & composing. I make very bad things but am not so downhearted as I have been at times when I was making a drawing from the model not good[,] not bad but wishy washy generally. When you make a thing mighty bad & see how bad it is, you naturally hunt to improve it, & sometimes find a way but it keeps staring you in the face till you do. When after painting a model I paint it from memory & then go back & do it again, I see things the second time, I would not have seen if I had staid at school painting on the same canvass all the week & maybe getting more and more tired. Color is becoming little less of a mystery than it was & more of a study in proportion. When it ceases altogether to be a mystery and it must be very simple at the bottom, I trust I will soon be making pictures. One consolation is that I am composing[;] it was hard to begin, I felt I ought to know more, but now I am at it & whatever I can gain in it, is straight towards making a selling picture. Anyhow[,] I think I am working now in the best way. Gerome did not scold me that day, you asked me about, but just painted my head right over again & this I take as an insult to my work, and tribute to my perseverance & obedience that week. I had a clean canvass, clean brushes, clean outline, clean everything, but I am sure I would have learned more slathering around. These things will be done so easy after knowing how to paint. A beginner in skating may learn faster by rolling over rough ice, than by very slowly studying out a complicated turn, which he may never be able to learn but which a good skater may easily do the first time he tries it. [No continuation found.]

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In this joint letter to his sister Fanny and his father, Eakins dealt with skates and skating, his attending an orchestral concert, and a trip to Versailles.

Paris[,] Jan 31, 68. Dear Fanny, I just got your sore foot letter which was detained so long I feared I would miss my weekly letter. I hope it will be well long before you get this letter & that you will have had plenty of skating. I think[,] though[,] you commenced complaining about the ice too soon. I have often seen a winter run up to the middle of Jan. without a bit of ice & then afterwards I have skated all February & part of March. Here I hope the spring may be coming in earnest. It is warm & the sun is shining very bright & it has not rained near so much this month as it did last. I wish we could have a private telegraph from 64 west St [rue de l’Ouest] to 1729 Mount Vernon. I must wait a week or 2 days at least now to know whether or not your foot had commenced to get really better two weeks ago & if you should forget to say anything about it until this gives you notice there is a month more to wait. I hope Maggy will write me a letter soon & be explicit to tell me all that she can do now on her skates & how her new skates please her and how they are fastened with one long strap or many little ones. With a bone & a shingle & a few shoe strings & a day’s work I would make the best skate in Paris as far as I have seen[,] except those of a Philadelphian called Johnson who is a little fool. I haven[’]t got the least bit of news to tell you so I[’]ll tell you a story of a peasant I saw in a paper [illegible]. He went to a lawyer because some one left him an inheritance. He heard a ticking under some papers & so he quick took off his wooden shoe & slammed it down on the papers. Never having heard of a watch[,] he thought it was a mouse. It was done so quick the lawyer couldn[’]t stop him in time & so the watch was mashed flat. I went Sunday before last to a concert way near the end of town near the Bastile [sic]. The orchestra is reckoned the finest in the world at present & I heard them for 15 cents. They played a Haydn symphony & a Beethoven thing & something else & then the whole of Midsummers 190

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night’s dream[,] which I never heard the whole of before. There were a hundred little fiddles & 12 great big ones but it don[’]t make a bit more noise[,] only it seems fuller & I guess if one fellow plays a little high or low the other fiddles average it. Crepon is back and is up in my room [?] to day. Tell Mr[.] Sartain I have got his Gastaldi letter[,] which I will translate to night or tomorrow & I will write to him next week. I sent Emily Sartain two letters a good while ago but the answer must have miscarried. Maggy asked me to tell her about that welcome breakfast. I forgot all about it and now I can hardly remember the incidents. We went out to Versailles in the cars[,] walked & ran & skipped about 7 miles[,] got our breakfast[,] then walked about 15 miles in the country[,] then had enough money left to get supper. So we got supper & we had plenty of fun singing and playing tricks on each other & the stupid country people for in France country men are not like ours at home but more like Pennsylvania Dutchmen. After supper[,] when we were going along pitch dark night[,] we sang the Marseilles hymn to frighten them out of their beds & continued till we got so near the railway station that we feared the officers would hear us & telegraph to Paris to put us in the lockup. One man ran down half asleep holding a candle out in his hands with the funniest stupidest look I ever saw but one of our boys ran up & blew his candle out[.] We got in the cars & arrived in Paris at midnight after a great deal of fun & then many of the boys French like went to take their places near a scaffold to see a man[’]s head cut off. They waited in the rain & fog all night standing in one place in a crowd but they didn[’]t cut his head off that day so they had to go another day that same week. Dear Father[,] The time after you asked me about whether it was necessary to write near the Luxembourg on my address you sent me a letter with [No continuation found.] In another joint letter—to William Crowell, Fanny, his Aunt Eliza, and his sister Maggie—Eakins addressed such subjects as money owed to him, skating, mince pie, privies, and breads and cakes.

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[Late January 1868?] Dear Billy, I sent you a very exact amount of your debt to me & in two other letters acknowledged the receipt of your draft. I don[’]t think I could make it up again but I know that it was between 2 & 3 francs of 20 & minus not plus. I waited a week to see if Bill or you would write anything about the disposition of the draft & then concluding the 20 francs was to pay your debt to me I drew it[,] kept the 20 & turned over the 250 fr. to Mr. Sartain[,] who gave me his receipt for it. I am a thousand times obliged to you for your goodness in copying out that interesting article from the Tribune. Greeley did not publish it in his weekly[,] at least not in the last one I got.1 I will read it to Crepon[,] who has just got back [since] I know it will excite him. It did me & I am not a Frenchman. The French are composed of the smartest men in the world & the most low ignorant & besotted, the most earnest & the most frivolous & vain. Dear Fanny[,] I am sure I don[’]t know why I am commencing to address you on this sheet for I am sure I have nothing to tell you. Still I like to write to you because you take such trouble to always write to me. Amy is back but she had doubtless already seen you. She is anxious to practice with you again at playing duets if you can spare her the time[,] which I hope you will try to do. Don[’]t forget to go see Joanna once in a while for she is a fine girl[,] if not much of a skater. I hear from a Philadelphia paper the river broke up. I hope it is only to give you a fine sheet of new ice for after all a park is nothing to the fine open river with its woods & sky & sunset[.] I had another piece of mince pie the other night & at another place. A French cook has been to NewYork & makes mince pies & buckwheat cakes. He is much cheaper than Madame Busy is but still dear enough in comparison with where we schoolboys all breakfast & dine together but I will go there again some Sunday morning. Dear Aunt Eliza, I had occasion to go to a three penny back house in the Latin quarter. Billy Sartain knows it. The woman I guess will never get rich. She has three privies for men and two for ladies & in place of the sixth she has 192

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a chair & sits there all day. When I went in she was eating her dinner[,] principally cabbage[,] & seemed very glad to see me. Some trades are sweeter than others. Dear Maggy, Did Mommy make ginger breads this year & cut holes in them with the pepper box lid[?] Also did she put those nasty little fennel seeds into them[?] Also how many Dutch cakes had you? [No continuation found.] 1. Horace Greeley (1811–72) was a noted American journalist and political figure.

This letter to his father included a note to Fanny and a transcription of a letter from Bertrand Gardel, his Philadelphia French tutor. Much of the letter to Fanny addressed the subject of ice skating. Eakins also reported on the times he spent with the Bonheur family and a new book by the painter Thomas Couture.

Paris[,] Monday night[,] Feb ’68 Dear Father, Friday before last I missed the mail[,] which has so often threatened me[,] & so you got my letter by another mail[,] & last Friday not having anything to say I have waited over again for the same mail & some week I hope I may have enough to tell you to fill two letters & so get back to my old day & not miss my week. The letter from Mr. Gardel that you spoke of I read with a feeling of great sorrow and gratitude to him for his kindness to us. I’ll copy it for you in hopes it may give you an insight to [sic]. J’ai lu avec plaisir les quelques lignes que vous avez eu le bonté d’[inserer?] pour moi la lettre destinée à votre excellent père. Je ne saurai vous remercier assez des feuille parisiennes que vous me faites si gracieusement parvenir et dans lesquelles je me retrempe tant dans la langue que dans l’état actuel de mon pays. Vous avez raison de laisser au Figaro le soin de me tenir au courant des évé193

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nements de tous genres. Je commence a être furiesement fatigué de la monotanie qui m’écrase ici et pour y mettre un terme j’ai sagement décidé d’aller m’egayer à Germantown. Ohe! vous riez mon bon ami, et vous avez raison. Il me semble vous entendre dire. Il est fou à lier mon pauvre G. et vous avez encore raison. Mais, un moment, je crois avoir entendu aussi un [illegible] [.] Il a raison lui aussi Il veut s’embêter au point qu’il dira ma foi! Je n’y tiens plus et il enverra tous au D. Vous trouvez que je divague [?] mon cher[.] Eh bien! attendez quelque temps et vous verrez qu’il y a souvent du génie à savoir marcher du mal au pire si au delà du pire on apperçoit l’objet désiré. Paris. J’ai assez causé à mon endroit et je vous vais terminer en vous souhaitant une bonne année santé plaisir et succès. Adieu Votre ami dévoué B. Gardel My impression on reading the letter was such as I wrote you. It seemed to come from a desolate heart trying to hide its sorrow under a thin mask of playfulness assumed from unwillingness to show it even to a friend or, Then the indecision in it. The promise to let me know more soon[.] His going to Germantown to amuse himself sagely, sagely underscored by him. Sage means different in French from English. It applies chiefly to virtue not wisdom. I [sic, read It] should perhaps translated virtuously. Thus if I speak to a child[,] I say be a good girl & I’ll give you a mintstick[,] I’ll say sois sage. A young man is sage if he keeps a mistress but wild if he has half a dozen. The genius that marches from bad to worse looked as if a step was to be taken. Then his going to worry himself out (s’embêtre) tells he cares for nothing more in this world & will send everything mildly to the devil, and perhaps escape to him for relief himself. Poor good old man, a little very little cunning but so very very weak. Those women have doubtless practiced some lasciviousness on him and now hold him through a fear of exposure, he valuing so highly his honor while theirs is heightened by anything on the contrary that they could have to do with him, and they will try to get his money from him 194



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by marriage or any way else they can devise. If he makes a will in their favor & they kill him . . . you have his stomach and intestines examined by Dr. Rand.1 Give Maggy my compliments on her skating. I had no idea she was far enough advanced to try that fancy touch on one foot. Roll outside inside, then turn backwards & out again forwards. Even to try such a thing shows great progress. I remember doing it myself but I admit that I never did it over graceful & more than once on my backside. It wants a strong ankle, & nice balance. If you get a chance on the river get Maggie to roll over the very rough ice as you did me when I was little. That makes a fellow steady. When I come home Maggy I guess will be able to show me some new turns I never saw. I will practice them under her instruction & show to her & her only a few movements I never saw any one do but myself. Dora Evans must be a star at skating now. I remember we skated together with all the old skaters of Philadelphia[,] Van Huck[,] Sullinder & a dozen whose names I never knew. I am glad Fanny & Maggy seems to like Bobby Pharo so, & I can[’]t recommend him to[o] highly to them. He is a real boy, so rough & good natured & sensible. I know his high hat could never have changed his character. When one sees a little more of the world[,] he learns to despise vanity & affectation & show politeness & use less knowledge & parrot talking[,] especially if he manages to see some real big men & know them. Dear Fanny[,] You wrote me a nice letter but I don[’]t know what I shall tell you. Skate as often as you can with Bobby Pharo & if a fool of a man upsets you tell Bobby & he’ll upset him in a minute for you as nicely as I once saw him do down at the same park one night winter before last. Give my love to Mary[,] which she has always had. Skate as much as you can & get some fun out of it. Don[’]t be afraid to tumble or try funny things. I had rather be able to cut a ring backwards than to talk Greek better than Mr. Demosthenes & ten times rather know Chinese or Japanese than Greek.2 Spring must be set in. Sunday was a beautiful day & I didn[’]t work at all but went out into the country with Poole & staid all day. Once or twice a week in the evenings I go to the Bonheurs and they let me come 195

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into the sitting room: We drink cider. The old lady & daughter[,] the painter[,] knit and scold their big brothers for not putting on a collar or a clean one. They smoke & nurse the cat[,] and if a fellow don[’]t want to talk or don[’]t feel like it he sits and looks into the fire & feels just as comfortable as he can knowing he can[’]t go to bed without turning out into the cold again. Their sitting room is very much like Pharos’ and I often think of Mrs[.] Pharo & Anna & Mary & always darning stockings & the big brothers they used to have no [illegible] & for Bobby we take Germain[,]the youngest brother who is very little but will never be any bigger only he’s got gray eyes & Bobby’s are black but they have the same disposition.3 They are very kind to me & will always remember them with gratitude. Tell Bill Sartain that Couture has written a book on art.4 It is curious & very interesting[.] I had read it as soon as it came out. I have bought it for him & will send it on to him soon, in a week or so[,] having lent it to an artist who was very anxious to see it. I suppose he will be most ready to paint again when it arrives. Tell Mr[.] Sartain that the inventor of photograph steel plates has not printed any of his plates since we saw but one day he was ashamed to keep me waiting longer & hunted up some copies which I send him by this mail, but I’ll write to him soon.

T.C.E.

[Translation.] I read with pleasure the few lines that you had the goodness to include for me in the letter destined to your excellent father. I don’t know how to thank you enough for the Parisian papers that you so graciously send me and in which I savor so much in the current state of affairs of my country. You are right to leave to the Figaro the task of keeping me informed of all sorts of events. I am beginning to be fed up with the monotony that crushes me here and, in order to put an end to it, I have wisely decided to go to Germantown to cheer myself up. Oh! you laugh, my good friend, and you are right. I seem to hear you say he is as mad as a March hare[,] my poor G[,] and you are right. But, one moment, I believe I heard an [illegible]. He is also right. He wants to go to seed to the point he will say[,] my God! I can’t stand it any longer and he will send all of us to D. 196

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You find that I am wandering, old man.Well, wait some time and you will see that there is often some genius to know how to walk from bad to worse if above the worse, one perceives the desired object. Paris. I have spoken enough of my surroundings and I am going to end, wishing you good health, pleasure and success. God keep you Your devoted friend B. Gardel 1. B. Howard Rand, MD, was a teacher at Central High School and later served on the faculty of Jefferson Medical College. 2. Demosthenes was a celebrated Athenian orator and statesman of the fourth century BC. 3. Germain Bonheur (d. 1882) was Rosa’s half-brother. 4. The book was Méthode et entretiens d’atelier (1867).

Eakins gave his father a lengthy explanation of his aesthetic theories, stressing, via a boating metaphor, his faithfulness to nature. He also spoke of entering Augustin-Alexandre Dumont’s sculpture class.

Friday, March 6. 68. Dear Father, I will be again running out of money about April 15th when my rent day comes again. I will try make out my account next week, if I have too much to talk about this time.When earnest people argue together it will generally be found upon reflection that they are all arguing on the same side of the main question with some misunderstanding in a trifle, and so I look on the argument between you on the one side and the crowd on the other against you, for I cannot conceive that they should believe that an artist is a creator. I think Herbert Spencer will set them right on painting.1 The big artist does not sit down monkey like, & copy a coal scuttle or an ugly old woman like some Dutch painters have done nor a dung pile, but he keeps a sharp eye on Nature & steals her tools. He learns what she does with light[,] the big tool & then color[,] then form and appropriates them to his own use. Then he’s got a canoe of his 197

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own smaller than Natures’ but big enough for every purpose except to paint the midday sun[,] which is not beautiful at all. It is plenty strong enough[,] though[,] to make midday sunlight or the setting sun if you know how to handle it. With this canoe he can sail parallel to Nature’s sailing. He will soon be sailing only where he wants to[,] selecting nice little coves & shady shores or storms to his own liking, but if he ever thinks he can sail another fashion from Nature or make a better shaped boat he’ll capsize or stick in the mud & nobody will buy his pictures or sail with him in his old tub. If a big painter wants to draw a coal scuttle he can do it better than the man that has been doing nothing but coal scuttles all his life. That’s sailing up Peg’s run among mud & slops & back houses. The big painter sees the marks that Nature’s big boat made in the mud & he understands them & profits by them. The lummix [sic] that never wondered why they were there rows his tub about instead of sailing it & where he chances to see one of Nature[’]s marks[,] why he’ll slap his tub into the mud to make his mark too but he’ll miss most of them[,] not knowing where to look for them. But if more light comes on to the concern[—]that is[,] the tide comes up[—]the marks are all hidden & the big artist knows that nature would have sailed her boat a different way entirely & he sails his as near as he can to how nature would have sailed her’s according to his experience & memory & sense. The stick in the mud shows some invention he has for still hunting these old marks a plomb [sic] line to scrape the shore and he flatters himself with his ability to tell a boat mark from a muskrat hole in the deepest water, and then he thinks he knows nature a great deal better than any one else. I have seen big log books kept of the distances made in different tacks by great artists without saying a word about tides or wind or anything else the length of a certain bone in the leg of a certain statue compared to the bone of the nose of a certain other one & a connection with some mystic number[,] the whole which would more mystify the artists that made them than anyone else. Then the professors[,] as they are called[,] read Greek poetry for inspiration & talk classic & give out classic subjects & make a fellow draw antique not see how beautiful those simple hearted big men sailed but to observe their mud marks[,] which are easier to see & measure them to understand. I love sunlight & children & beautiful women & men their heads & hands & most everything I see & some day I expect to paint them as I see them and even 198



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paint some that I remember or imagine[,] make up from old memories of love & light & warmth[,] &c &c. but if I went to Greece to live there twenty years I could not paint a Greek subject for my head would be full of classics[,] the nasty besmeared wooden hard gloomy tragic figures of the great French school of the last few centuries & Ingres & the Greek letters I learned at the High School with old Haverstick & my mud marks of the antique statues.2 Heavens what will a fellow ever do that runs his boat a mean old tub in the marks not of nature but of another man that run [sic] after nature centuries ago & who the fools & historians & critics will have run his boat in the marks of an Egyptian boat that was after a Chinese +(a+b+&c) x. . . . Nature at last or maybe God like intelligence or atmospheric effect or sentiment of color lush or juice or juicy effect[,] etc[.] (see newspapers or Atlantic monthly magazine). No[,] the big artists were the most timid of themselves & had the greatest confidence in Nature & when they made an unnatural thing they made it as Nature would have made it had she made it & thus they are really closer to Nature than the coal scuttle men painters ever suspect. In a big picture you can see what o’clock it is afternoon or morning[,] if it[’]s hot or cold winter or summer & what kind of people are there & what they are doing and why they are doing it. The sentiments run beyond words. If a man makes a hot day he makes it like a hot day he once saw or is seeing[,] if a sweet face a face he once saw or which he imagines from old memories or parts of memories & his knowledge & he combines & combines[,] never creates but at the very first combination no man & less of all himself could ever disentangle the feelings that animated him just then & refer each one to its right place. I must go to school now. I got admitted yesterday to the studio of Dumont[,] the sculptor in our school.3 I am going to model in clay every once in a while. I think I will thus learn faster. When I am tired of painting I will go to the class & be fresh & I will see more models and choose. The sculptors are not so noisy as painters. They are heavier duller looking boys proverbially. I was well received & spent 15 francs on them to give them the welcome! They tried to make things pleasant. As I can now talk good enough to understand all they say & make them understand me[,] it is not like when I went into Gerome’s first when I did not understand a word of slang[,] which we always talk and very little French too. Love to all my friends. [No continuation found.] 199

Chapter 3 1. Herbert Spencer (1820–1903) was a British philosopher, who apparently exerted some influence on Eakins. 2. Henry Haverstick was a teacher of Latin and Greek at Central High School. 3. Augustin-Alexandre Dumont (1801–84) was a teacher of sculpture at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts. Eakins spent a brief time in his studio in 1868.

Eakins explained to Fanny why he did not wish to be engaged to Emily or even to have a close relationship to her.

Paris[,] March 11. 68 Dear Fanny[,] I am not engaged to be married to Emily Sartain & never was, & had I felt disposed I should not have thought of doing so without consulting my father & mother. I hardly know what to tell you or how much you want to know[,] not knowing myself what for. You show me very great concern in the manner of your writing to me. There was love between me & Emily which exists still on my part but it never had the intensity of my love for Mary Pharo or Louise[,] her cousin[,] or Mary Adams or Marty Bowen & is about the same as I have for Johanna & Amy & Ida[,] any of whom would be preferable perhaps as a wife. Emily had very often said she would never marry & she was much older than myself & I could afford to be more intimate with her than the others & her house being pleasant to go to I was oftener there than with the others. When Emily knew I was about to sail for Europe she wrote me a letter of sorrow at losing me but which gave me an indefinite idea that maybe if I would ask her to marry me she would say yes. I parted from her in NewYork[,] she being there, with much sorrow augmented by my having left mommy & everyone else but Poppy[,] whom I was to leave next day. After I got here she commenced writing me very kind letters about what was going on at home. Once she asked me not to marry a certain friend of ours but suggested she had no right to advise me as I was en200



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tirely free & my own master[,] to which I replied that she was right, at the same time feeling a little annoyed at the seeming want that I should try & bind myself to her. This at once made me extremely cautious in what I wrote & she complained of great coldness in my letters[,] which complaint was well founded. Soon after[,] the same subject being introduced more pointedly[,] I reminded her of her expressed determination never to marry & gave numerous reasons why I should not engage myself to anyone under any circumstances. To this I got a spiteful little note telling me to direct my letters to Miss Sartain & not Emily, for the sake of politeness. Soon after she again commenced writing me every once in a while about home & the people I knew & what she thought might interest me & this lagged on till a month before Christmas. I wrote immediately a letter in answer & another one the next week but I have received no answer & the correspondence seems stopped. It hurts me for Emily to have written that but it is better that I should do so than that you should demand those things from her and it is necessary to understand my answer to your second indefinite question whether I expected to engage myself to her at some future time[,] she knowing that I so expect. I do not have such expectations & having written very explicit that I would not engage myself[,] the initiative must rest with me where it belongs. It has been a long time since marrying has run in my head & I can only deal in probabilities. If I ever marry it will likely be with a girl of southern feeling[,] good impulses & heart healthy & able to bear strong beautiful children. I promise you only never to run after a New England she doctor1 but I might look hard at an Italian or Jersey farmer’s daughter. But these are idle dreams. I must think of my painting. God grant, you write me, that what you wrote be not wrong. God grant that what I answer may not be wrong. Consider how studiously you should keep from every one this knowledge but your mother. Emily is very sensitive as much so as yourself and has already suffered much from it as I remember long long ago. As to my insisting on your reason of which you make mention I will not, but rely on your judgment as to whether it is interesting to me or right for me to know. I never thought you knew Emily very well. Once you were very bitter against her[,] which I hardly liked. Afterwards, you had an extrava201

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gant admiration for her which I never encouraged. Her insanity is great people, her trouble smartness and her virtues you know as well as I do. [No continuation found.] 1. This was undoubtedly a snide reference to Harriet Judd Sartain, Emily’s sister-in-law and a successful homeopathic physician.

This letter incorporated one of Eakins’s detailed accounts of his expenditures, with explanations of each item. Of particular interest was his purchase of a “very fine book” by François Rabelais. He ended on a note of optimism in regard to his progress in art.

Paris[,] March 17. 68. Dear Father, I am in hopes you received my last account dated Jan[.] 9. 1868. when I made the entry in my book that I had in 900 francs in bank & in pocket 415.30. Since then[,] Jan[.] 9[,] my expenses have been Canvas (large) 39.50 Opera Gorga [sic, read Gazza] Ladra 2.00 Coke 15.50 Rent Jan[.] 15 212.50 Brushes 1.00 Fagots 2.00 Washing 3.45 Cravat 2.75 Photographs for Stereoscope 4.50 Soap 1.00 Paper and ink 3.85 Coat short tails 40.00 Opera Faust with Moore 3.00 Photographs for Stereoscope 2.50 Mending boot 8.50 Brushes. 4.00 Paper 1.00 202

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Photograph of Couture Opera (Martha[)] Fagots & Charcoal Washing Opera Elisire d’Amore Pantaloons & vest Water colors & brushes Saucers Coke Washing Paper & color Canvass Book (Couture) Trip to Ecouen Looking Glass Grapes Opera Don Juan Ecouen Colors Charcoal Closerie de Lilas Masked Ball Postage Stamps Welcome money to sculptors Collection for Martin Washing. " Blouse for modeling in To the clay-fund Rabelais Colors & canvas & brushes Washing Modelling saddle & blocks Tax on windows

1.00 1.25 2.00 3.15 354.45 4.50 34.50 5.50 1.75 14.90 2.00 2.10 24.30 7.00 1.80 3.00 3.00 2.00 1.70 3.20 1.30 6.00 8.00 15.00 5.00 2.00 3.50 5.00 13.00 524.50 524.50 1.75 18.00 1.60 28.00 14.50 588.35 203

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On Jan[.] 8 I had left in bank altogether counting in Aunt Eliza[’]s 500 francs 900 francs. On the first of Feb. I took out 300 & on the 5 of March 300 more so I have now left in bank 300 francs besides in my pocket 177 francs.The rest all went to my eating[,] a regular expense & a paper now & then to Mr. Gardel & pennies to beggars or musicmen. Opera with Moore. I went with Moore to a 1 franc opera but he got the head ache & must go to the 3 franc place but I wouldn[’]t let him pay for me. At the Operas I have spent 4 francs[,] they were the Italian 2 franc operas & I paid for my friend as also at the Ball at the Closerie of Lilas & he pays for me every other time. Collection for Martin: Martin is a poor boy of our studio who barely earns his living making drawings on porte monnaies [= purses or pocketbooks] & his spare time he comes to school. One of our boys went by accident to see him & found he had no work & consequently nothing to eat & that for two days. He fed him & came right to school & told us & we raised a subscription. A good painter starved to death in Cabanel’s last year. He was always laughing[,] hid his misery & no one suspected the truth but the surgeon who examined his dead body. Rabelais was a writer[,] priest[,] doctor of medicine & hater of priesthood. He wrote a very fine book[,] which I bought & am reading. The grapes were for Miss Haldman [sic, read Haldeman,] who was sick.1 The tax on windows comes once a year. It makes us feel that we owe the sun light to the imperial government. My entering in among the sculptors has subjected be [sic] to expenses which will always last & I always have the right to them even if I should stay away years. I have too a stock of canvas so large that I can keep dry ones & so I won[’]t have to buy any more & there is a considerable expense done away with. In my amusements I have gone to the opera principally to hear Adelina Patti & it is not probable I can ever hear such singing again as such singers do not come except at long intervals. The masked ball I was curious to see[,] never having seen one & my companions going. I have tried to act in moderation without being liberal like a poor man or mean as a rich one. Spending your money[,] which came to you from hard work[,] I am touched by the delicacy of not wanting the items but only the sum left, but I will nevertheless continue to give them as I have always done. 204

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I am less worried about my painting now than at one time last spring & consequently am in better order to study. I see color & I think I am going to learn to put it on. I am getting on faster than many of my fellow students and could even now earn a respectable living I think in America painting heads but there are advantages here which could never be had in America for study and I will improve more this year than ever before. But I am a little child yet alongside of the big painters around me and fear I will be for some time yet, but I will try my best. [No continuation found.] 1. Eliza Haldeman (1843–1910), a painter, was a friend of Mary Cassatt. She and Cassatt studied together in Paris.

This letter consisted of a favorable account of a ten-year-old female model at the Ecole.

March, 1868 Dear Father I have little time to write, the bureau sent word we could keep our model till 3 o’clock, very unexpected, I staid. Our model is a little girl ten years and four months old, a most beautiful little creature. She has posed ever since she was three years old, her little brother nine years old poses too, and the money that the children & parents who belong to a theatre, earn, enables them to give their children an education and good feeding. She can write very well and has very sweet manners. She is very modest & timid, certainly not about her nakedness for she is the same naked as dressed. The first few days she did not speak at all, but now she knows the most of us by name and when her time of repose comes, she runs around the room to see the studies[.] We have had her now two weeks[,] she knows us pretty well, we can see her character, and I don’t think I ever saw a nicer little girl. [No continuation found.] 205

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This was a note on Dumont, the sculptor.

April 1868 Dumont the sculptor is a stout old gentleman, much older than Gerome. He is like a father to us. He tells them “work more with our fingers and brains and less with tools.”

In this letter to Fanny, Eakins combined a critical evaluation of the musician Carl Wolfsohn with observations on the mandolin and music in relation to painting and other subjects.

Paris[,] April 3[,] 68. Dear Fanny, I am glad you have found out the humbug of the man Wolfsohns.1 I have lost much time in imagining people great who are not so & who only called themselves so, and yet I am hardly sorry to have received the education that all these fools have had if for nothing but to despise it. But if I had not had it I would be again misled & hindered from advancement by words which replace the want of sense. Do you remember a criticism on Wolfsohn’s playing in a New York Tribune I once showed you[?] It was an critical[,] superhumanary [sic] analytical[,] hypothetical notice on the touch of Mr. Wolfsohn in playing the sonatas. It is a lucky thing for us that we have such a friend as Charley & above all for you for had you had Wolfsohn maybe you might have been playing like Miss Les Raymond, but I am sure you would never have her pretension with it. I guess Jarvis is another kind of man altogether. He is so ugly to begin with. This is much in his favor for there is nothing like that to take the nonsense out of a man. An ugly girl[,] though[,] will often still imag [sic] herself beautiful & be hindered by an imaginary beauty. What an advantage musicians have over painters. The works of the great men can be printed & what is printed is just as good as the manuscript that comes from the hands of the author & can be multiplied. 206

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The other day I heard playing on a mandoline. The man was a very good player & could imitate with it violin playing & drums & soldiers marching &c besides playing tunes in many odd ways. A mandoline is a short guitar like [Eakins sketched a mandolin here] a ladle & is played with a quill & with the fingers too. It must have been brought into Europe by the moors for it is altogether like an African instrument. Wednesday night Bonheur invited me to go to the opera to hear the magic flute. He did not have to pay & they sent a man with us who opened the door & gave us the very best seats in the house. I had never heard the opera before & I am sure I caught all the tunes & many of the beauties. I often hear old church music too by Weber & Mozart & such men & played by men that I suppose are fully up to their trade and I can understand that too & I begin to think that music must be just like painting. Any true person can understand beauty so strong & so simple & complexity is dirt & weakness. I hope [Earl] Shinn has not lost Caddy[’]s little box. Looking over my account to day I do not see it down. So I must have forgotten to get Mommy to put down on my account just after the photographs 7 1/2 francs as I will do in my book now. There is nothing at all unusual or interesting in Paris. I am right well. Give me news of Uncle Emmor & Morris & Aunt Susan. It[’]s been a long while since I have heard anything about Delaney. Do tell me something about him if it[’]s only that he spilt some milk or got reading the paper & forgot to serve us or. Is Caddy good friends with him[?] I hope she showed him her baby’s box. TCE. 1. Carl Wolfsohn (1834–1907) was a German-born pianist, conductor, and teacher who emigrated to Philadelphia in 1854. He moved to Chicago around 1873.

Eakins covered a variety of subjects, ranging from an attack on Christianity and the writings of his friend Earl Shinn, to swimming and sailing and Harry Moore’s brother’s deafness.

Good Friday. 1868. Dear Fanny, Did you understand anything in my last letter[?] If you did you are smart, for I don[’]t think there was anything in it at all. I was so sleepy 207

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I could hardly see and after I put the letter in the post office my sleepyness turned into an awful sick head ache that put me to bed before dark & without my dinner but next day I was right well. My remembrance of the letter was that I was acting as a sort of drunken mentor & Pickwick & episcopal minister.  w I was at Versailles a couple of Sundays ago & I saw a priest judging a game of marbles that the little boys were playing & teaching them how to knuckle down.What would daddy Chambers say of that[?] I had green pease at least two weeks ago. They come up from Marseilles & cost no more than in summer or very little. The sun now gets up before six o’clock & little birds sing & fight & make a general noise so that I never oversleep myself but get to school always by 7 o’clock. To day there was no meat to be had because it is good friday & for breakfast they gave me cod fish as salt as brine[,] which I could not eat[,] & little Bonheur told me to come to his house to dinner to night[,] which I will do. When I was nearly done [with] my breakfast the restaurant man himself fetched me piece of cold mutton. The servant assured me there was not a bit in the house. She did it for the good of my soul. Most people think they will go to hell if they eat meat on good friday & others that don[’]t believe in it at all never eat it before & don[’]t like to begin & would rather take a dose of castor oil than a nice piece of beef[.] Of all religions the christian is the most intolerant & inconsistent[,] & no one without living here can know what a frightful war it wages against everything that is good. Your last letter told me about Paddy’s & Sheely’s day. You ought to have known better than to go out on either of them. I am glad you treated Shinn well, but be sure you don[’]t admire him for anything but his good heart & want of vices for he is very very silly. I am not surprised that Katy plays better than Amy for she has a good teacher & being naturally above the level never debased herself by frequenting what is called society. Shinn signs himself enfant perdu [= lost child] in his letters which he writes for the bulletin & makes french in them & although he never connects more than two of the foreign words together he sometimes still manages to get them wrong. I wonder what per cent the sprinkling of such trash enhances the money value of news208

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paper correspondent. If a Frenchman put foreign words in his writing I am sure there is not a paper in Paris would print his stuff even for nothing. I suppose your skating is now wound up. Grease your skates before you put them away & maybe it wouldn[’]t be a bad notion to sharpen them & not wait till the skating [season] again.You & Maggie ought to go to Jansen[’]s & learn to swim this summer. He warms the water the first of May I think.You boat so much that you ought to know how to swim. If you swim well maybe Poppy will take you sailing once to show you how nice that is for it is much better than rowing. Mr. Lenoir has just sent me an invitation to come to his house & dine with him Wednesday next, so I will write him a note that I am coming & put that & this in the post office together Do you ever see Johnny or Lidie Leary[?] I received a draft all right for which I am infinitely obliged. Harry Moore’s brother is on here from California. He is a chemist & is come to complete his education. He will probably go to Germany next week. He is as deaf as a post but talks very well.You would think he was a little affected in his speech & he has a childish voice but you would not suspect his deafness. He understands by the motion of the lips & not only English but a little French & a good deal of German. He lost his hearing when ten years old by a scarlet fever. [No continuation found.] This was a two-part letter—one part to his father, and the other to Caddy. Eakins told his father how much of French academic painting disgusted him, and reported to Caddy on a donkey ride near Paris.

Friday. May 9 1868 Dear Father, I sent by last mail a catalogue of the Exhibition of Fine Arts for Shinn which you will please give him the next time he comes.1 There are not more than twenty pictures in the whole lot that I would want. The great painters don[’]t care to exhibit there at all. Couture[,] Isabey[,] Bonnat[,] Meissonier have nothing.2 The rest of the painters make naked 209

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women, standing[,] sitting[,] lying down[,] flying[,] dancing[,] doing nothing which they call Phrynes, Venuses, nymphs, hermaphrodites, houris & Greek proper names. The French court is become very decent since Eugenie had fig leaves put on all the statues in the Garden of the Tuilleries & when a man paints a naked woman he gives her less than poor Nature herself did. I can conceive of few circumstances wher[e]in I would have to make a woman naked but if I did I wouldn[’]t mutilate her for double the money. She is the most beautiful thing there is [in] the world except a naked man but I never yet saw a study of one exhibited. It would be a godsend to see a fine man model painted in a studio with the bare walls, alongside of the smiling smirking goddessess of waxy complexion amidst the delicious arsenic green trees and gentle wax flowers & purling streams a running melodious up & down the hills[,] especially up. I hate affectation & what you may stand in a child is unbearable in a man[,] and so one is pleased to escape such a mass of trash & run back to the old Louvre pictures.You have no idea how bad the old so-called masters[’] work often is, but travel was hard & they studied nature & did all they could in earnest, but if their names were not signed to their things nobody would think of buying them. Nowadays Bostonians talk chiaro oscuro[,] demi[,] semi[,] translucent[,] atmospheric[,] phenomena[,] & a man with the fine sentiments of Benjamin Hallowell wanted me to post him up about painting & the masters during an afternoon.3  w Dear Caddy, Last Sunday Poole came to see me and Crepon proposed we should all go to Montmorency[,] which is about as far as [the] Wissahickon & there are some trees there.There are not many trees in France & none that are full grown except in gardens. Mrs[.] Crepon went too & the baby too in its little coach. There is a hill there & people go up it on donkeys. A donkey is a little bit of a horse with great big ears. We hired two[:] one for Mrs[.] Crepon[,] & the other for ourselves. We were going to take turn about and hold the baby on it for that would save the trouble of pushing the baby up hill. I got on first because Crepon is not accustomed

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to riding & Poole has such awful long legs he didn[’]t want to get on first before so many people because you have to hold your legs up or they touch the ground because the donkeys are so little. When I got on & held my legs up I told him to go but he didn[’]t so the old lady whipped him with a great big stick & pulled him but he wouldn[’]t go. So she said that if I got down & walked past the house he would, so we did it & I got on again[,] then he tried to run home but I wouldn[’]t let him because I was so strong I pulled his head back with the bridle & kept it pointed up hill. Then the old woman whipped him more & scolded him & asked him why he was so naughty & obstinate but he saw how we were all laughing & thought it was funny to be naughty so the poor old lady told us we must excuse her donkey that he was not often so bad & she had to take him home again & lose her quarter of a dollar[,] which would have bought her dinner & some nice hay for the donkey. Donkeys like hay very much. I think it tastes to them like bread & butter. When I saw the old lady afterwards she told me he had not been naughty long but had walked very nicely up hill with a little girl on his back soon afterwards. If I was the old lady I would buy a wooden donkey with wheels which would be easier to pull up hill than the live one.

When we got up hill we bought some milk & Mrs[.] Crepon gave hers to the baby but we drank ours & then we went and played hide & hoop & Mrs[.] Crepon sat on the grass & watched to see that we didn[’]t peep because that would not be fair & when we were tired of playing that we played leap frog[,] which is a very nice play for boys but little girls can[’t] play it. 211

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When we had eaten our supper we walked by moonlight to another little town & got in the cars & came home. The baby did not cry because it was asleep. [No continuation found.] 1. The Salon of Paris. 2. Louis Gabriel Eugène Isabey (1803–86) was a French painter specializing in landscapes and marine scenes. 3. Benjamin was a member of the Hallowell family, friends of the Eakins clan.

Eakins offered a brief discourse on the inferiority of the art of the Salon and negative comments on royal tastes.

[late May, 1868?] Dear Father Don[’]t imagine I was speaking against Frenchmen or their art for great painters are everywhere[,] especially amongst the French[,] but I only speak of this yearly exhibition[.] There are three or four fine pictures in the room of honor—a splendid Doré[,] Gerome[,] Rodriguez & two or three others I have forgotten.1 The rest are the trashiest stuff in the place. Portraits of the nobility. The nobility are supposed to have taste[,] therefore they are supposed to know where to have their portraits made. They would be offended to see their faces anywheres but in the room of honor. Artists must not offend nobility.There is a picture of the Empress with a most beautiful & costly frame to it.The Princess Mathilde is quite an artist.2 It says in the newspapers she condescended to descend from the throne to instruct & elevate the people. She was medalled for her pictures some years ago. They would not elevate an orrang [sic] outang. I didn[’]t send you any letter without a stamp. It may have fallen or been pulled off. I didn[’]t get so poor as that. [No continuation found.] 1. Gustave Doré (1832–83) was a noted illustrator and painter who also tried sculpture. 2. Princess Mathilde Bonaparte (1820–1904) was the daughter of Napoleon’s brother Jerome Bonaparte.

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Eakins wrote a note to Emily concerning their plans to be together in Paris.

Paris[,] June 11. 68 Dear Emily I will be very glad to see you so soon. It has been a long time since we were together. There are several ways of coming to Paris; Dieppe & Newhaven the longest, Folk[e]stone & Boulogne, & Calais & Dover the shortest, but surest to make everybody seasick. To see France you will probably choose a train coming to Paris in the evening. I will meet you at the depot on your arrival and if such is the wish of your friends, I will have two rooms engaged. Write to me the route and train you take & the time it is due in Paris & this two days before you start if you can for French mails are often irregular. If you are in doubts name two or more trains but at different hours. Thomas Eakins. Eakins wrote an argumentative letter to Emily, who had tested his tolerance and patience. He defended himself against her accusations of such misdoings as allegedly stealing from the government.

[Paris, n.d., ca. July 20, 1868] My dear Emily I intended answering you the next day[,] having written & dispatched what I considered more important but the model was unexpectedly detained & the next day I had to help Crepon move till ten o’clock at night & next day I feared you would have already left Interlaken some time, & for this I have not written till today & I will send the letter through Mr. Fenwick[.] I was touched deep by your loving interest in me & was going to try [to] laugh you out of your ridiculous fears for me who had already with213

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stood through a love a temptation that belittles St. Anthony alongside of me & correct some errors of your judgement on me not through my own judgment[,] which you confess weak[,] but my perfect knowledge of my own Paris life & defend my vicious companions as you were pleased to call my friends[,] whom you had never seen & I love. This morning I received your letter from Interlaken & how thankful I am that I did not expose tender feelings which are always weaknesses to cold reason. I have never judged a man by his clothes as long as there was anything else to judge him by & then I naturally give preference to a well dressed man. I never thought of Mr. Howells speaking to you of me & had as lief he would say bad as good. It never en[tered my] mind that you were dependent on him for money, but in travelling even with men it is always in the power of one to annoy or even insult his companions & vexations are not wanting. Two of my friends & always friendly to one another even in their separation[,] neither knowing a tongue but his own, travelled all over Europe[,] one two days behind the other. It is very proper in [sic] you to think of your cousins & relatives of Europe sooner than me or any other outsider in case of annoyance or trouble & you say they would take better care of you than I would but I flatter myself they would not have put more good will in its for I would have given my life to defend you had it ever been necessary. Writing nonsense, a strain that you will not answer, a stupid thing, crazy, a fool. There are no loving terms nor too mild & it would have broken my heart to have said so much to one who had ever loved me, but when you set your head against mine any day the comparison comes like a compliment after despite that you tell me you would still find plenty to back you. But weak as I may be (& I hardly know if it is a crazy man or an idiot that I am[)] [page torn] am still sensitive & one sentence hurt me. In speaking of cheating my country’s government[,] you say that you Emily Sartain think I am as likely to do it as he is. Although you request me to make no explanations[,] I take the liberty of disobeying you here. I tell you he boasted of stealing both from the government & from the little thief that stole for him[,] cheating him out of his little bribe[,] which 214

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he got out of paying by commencing to expose the fellows shortcomings[,] which he himself caused. Me, I never cheated the government or anybody else to my knowledge[,] thus yet remaining an honest boy or fool as you read it. Therefore it wants but little generosity on your part to suppose that I am less likely to steal than he is because one is a trifle less delicate according to what we read after once commencing. I hope you have written that line with no consideration & hence require you to retract it immediately by saying simply that you do not think I am as likely to steal from the government as he is. Now you heard him tell the story as well as myself. It may have escaped your attention or you may want to conceal it for the sake of Mrs[.] Howells, but if you still value her friendship just trust this once my feeble intellect & do as I say with no explanation or excuses[,] or I will write to Mr[.] Howells himself to prove to you that I am not lying & that will keep at least one little ornamental way that I do not find in your letter. Of all your letters I have but one & that I must show it to my father to quiet his worry that perhaps you would not be receiving all the happiness you had anticipated. Please direct it to me in Paris Rue de l’Ouest 64 or rue d’Assas 90[,] for the street has just changed its name so that it may reach me before next Monday[,] July 27. If within three days after that to Genoa then to Naples but I cannot give you further directions. I have kept this letter back[,] hoping to give you better directions from a letter from my father which I got today but he only tells me he is in Zurich & well but I don[’]t care to keep it longer [No continuation found.] Eakins penned a short note to Caddy on the subject of birds, followed by a long letter to his mother. This letter concerned the closing down of the Ecole for vacation. He also spoke nostalgically of American fruits, tomatoes, and cold sodas.

Paris[,] July 24 / 68 Dear little Caddy. The little birds I used to tell you about in the Garden of the Luxembourg are now grown as big as their mommas[,] only their tails are not 215

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yet so long, so they ought to be ashamed of themselves now to keep running after their mommy all day long. All the little bugs and bread crumbs they catch[,] they eat up but when they see their mommy with a bug[,] they run up to her & make her give it to them & the momma does it[,] although sometimes she gets hungry herself. Next year the little birds will be mommy birds. Birds do not suck titty. Dear Mommy, I have not heard yet anything from Poppy since I last wrote to you when he sent me a few lines but I will soon look out for a letter from him. School breaks up to morrow & I am anxious to get off as things are lonely here. Nearly all my things are moved to Crepon[’]s new studio so I have little more than my bed & the bare walls, and my companions have all left me. I have painted every day at school but can[’]t work in the afternoon for I keep thinking all the time of seeing Poppy & Fanny again. Nearly every night we have seen some one of our comrades off going to his home to see his father mother & sisters for our boys[,] are very few of them Parisians. I suppose you would laugh to see us all a hugging & kissing one another good by but that is the French way. All our set are gone but me & Farrand but he never dined with us[,] having relatives here[,] & so I eat my dinner all by myself & wonder what our boys are doing in the [sic] homes, which were so bright to them all. One lives on the sea side & saw it ever [sic] day of his life till he came to Paris & he gets sick towards the end of the year to see it & hear it again & others live in the south where they have blue sky all day long & others in the Pyrenees amongst the Spaniards & the thunder storms. The medical students have to stay yet some days & they all go off together & I see them at nights on the boulevard St[.] Michel & around the Odeon & Luxembourg dancing through the streets[,] jumping & climbing & playing tricks on one another & every one is as happy as a little child because the schools are breaking up. The only difference is we will all be glad to get to work again after the vacation & children are always sorry. Did I thank Charley for his drawing board[?] It is a mighty fine one. They don’t know how to make drawing boards in France, & it will be always very useful. The winter seems to be coming again[,] although it is still hot for there is hardly a leaf left in the Luxembourg. They had many of them 216



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turned before Poppy came & were already commencing to fall & grapes are ripe & in market for 12 & 14 cents a pound. Plums too are here full ripe & abricots [sic] that taste something like the little drying yellow peach that comes last of all at home. I wish I could have a good home dinner in the middle of the day[,] squashes & gooseberry pie.The gooseberries here are very large with stickers on. They taste just like ours but the poor Frenchman never thought of cooking them or how good they would be made into a pie.You ought to see Frenchmen stare when I call for raw tomattoes & put salt[,] pepper[,] vinegar & oil on them & eat them raw. An American soda water man has just opened a place & he did Poppy several good turns for Poppy was famishing I don[’]t know how many times for a drink of something cold & one night last week when we were walking out I asked 3 of my boys to come get a drink of soda water it was so warm & so they came & thought it was the best thing they ever tasted. The French never use ice & it seems awful cold to them. Some few Parisians know what ice is but even for them it is extraordinary & it is a surprise to see any one drinking anything with ice in it. Emily Sartain is at Luzern for I saw Mr[.] Howells’ banker[,] who told me so. I can[’]t tell you how much I dislike that man Howells & I guess Fanny & Poppy do too. The winds now are quite strong & I think the hot weather is now all over. It is never near so hot here as at home[,] although to see the Frenchmen a wiping their faces & groaning & swearing you would think the thermometer at 110 in the shade. When I start to Italy I spend about 3–4 hours or so in the railroad cars. There’s a pleasant prospect but at the end of it I see Poppy & Fanny again. I wish you were there too without leaving Caddy or being sea sick. I have no news from home since Poppy left but carry some letters to him. Give me news of Uncle Emmor & all our friends & my love to all. Now I will put this in the post office & go to dinner. [No continuation found.]

Eakins wrote a letter to Caddy about fleas, together with one to his mother about the beer and pictures he saw on his travels in Munich. Enclosed was a letter from Fanny, then visiting Thomas, to their mother, describing their walks.

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Munich[,] Aug 24. 68 Dear little Caddy, A flea is a little black thing that hops like a grass hopper. If you ever get one on you you must spit on the end of your finger and quick dab your finger on him. The spit keeps him from hopping fast. Then run up into the garret and put him in the vice a[n]d screw it up so as to flatten him out. When they are squeezed out very flat they don[’]t care to bite people any more. If an Italian or Dutch flea got on you[,] you would not have to go all the way up to the garret but you could crack him in the nut cracker, for they are bigger than ordinary fleas. Dear Mommy, I am now well and strong as can be. Yesterday we went out & looked over Munich. It was Sunday & a great many Dutchmen were shooting at mark. They seem to do that & drink beer all day. The beer here comes in covered glasses or earthen mugs[,] the smallest size being a quart. I drank a small one this morning & Fanny a half a one & Poppy I won[’]t say anything about. We went to see pictures here and we found some Spanish pictures here that I never knew of & which were very beautiful. The Dutch pictures & statues are not much compared with those of other nations. Munich is quite cool compared with Venice & the other Italian cities we have left. [This part was not in Eakins’s hand, and was probably written by Fanny; see above.] Mainz.Wednesday[,] Aug 26 Dear Mommy, This morning we start down the Rhine for Düsseldorf.Yesterday we saw the celebrated ruins of Heidelberg. We started out early in the morning and until dinner time we were tramping about through the woods and into the ruins. We had some splendid views and enjoyed the day very much. It was pretty hard work climbing the big hills but coming down was fine. They have fine hard paths almost all the way down and there is scarcely anybody walking on them. I took hold of Tom’s arm and we skipped almost all the way down[,] laughing like two big children. The 218

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hill was steep and every now and then we would be obliged to stop for Tom’s skips would be getting about 1 yard high, and I could not jump so. When we got about half way down a number of girls completely surrounded me, each one poking a bunch of flowers under my nose and holding up grapes & pears. We made a bargain with them and got some of the finest pears. [No continuation found.] Eakins described to his father his negotiations to ship a collection of vertebrate remains from the Loire Valley. This was to come from a Mrs. Poirier in Paris to Edward Cope of the “Society” (the Academy of Natural Sciences in Philadelphia).

116 rue d’Assas[,] Sept. 18/68 Dear Father, I have at last a letter from Edward Cope giving as his excuse for not writing a journey to Chicago which cannot make two days more in a mail.1 I do not know him personally but he is a friend of [Earl] Shinn & a Philadelphia Quaker. Therefor[e] he must be honest & a man that means his word, but he is slow[,] careless & thoughtless and is a poor secretary whatever may be his attainments in science. Mrs. Poirier got a letter from him last May telling her the bargain was concluded & I had another asking me to attend to packing & paying [for] the collection.2 She is a poor widow woman & kept rooms in Paris from day to day[,] expecting the money or at least some news. Her family live in the country & a sick father 75 years old was needing her care. Before leaving Paris I made a complex arrangement between my banker[,] his banker & the shipping agent to delay the matter no longer than was just necessary in case an order came. On my returning to Paris she sent me a note requesting an interview & I found her still in trouble[,] still keeping her room, still paying Paris prices for food and neither of us having yet a word. She wanted my advice which was to consider the best of her other offers[:] that of Mr. Agassiz.3 She said she would wait yet a week for an 219

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answer to her last letter, both of us having several times written. Then I put her boxes in the ship office for she had made up her mind to not keep her rooms any longer. Cope’s answer did come. He said he was sorry his delay had inconvenienced her[,] that he too had been inconvenienced & had had trouble in collecting her money & specified how much he had already in paper, that he had made a journey of 1200 miles & so on. This letter written to a foreign lady was on thin paper[,] both sides filled & so careless that I am sure that police could not read it. It took me an hour to decipher it although it was in my own tongue. If he went to select school in your time he does you no credit. His letter to me tells me to ship the boxes by way of New York[,] mentions nothing of insurance that I wanted to know about & wrote to him about & tells me to avoid the express Co. of De——— & Co. (Illegible) for fear they should make a reprisal for former bills to him unpaid[,] which he considered extortion. He promises to make a remittance of money on arrival of boxes[,] though not the whole amount as part is not collected. But as I can not conceive the society to be more anxious for their collection than Mrs. Poirier is for her money & the end of the affair & as I too am anxious to see the end of a business that has given me much trouble & made me a witness & part of much greater than my own, I will with her leave send the collection by the first steamer that may reach New York after the 6 Oct. I will insure the Collection at its full value & direct the company to collect on delivery. The collection will be safe in the New York office of Lherbette Kane & Co. instead of in their Paris one & still under our control. Do you know this Edward Cope? If you do go see him[,] please[,] if not too much trouble. If you don[’]t, see Shinn and make inquiries. Find out about the Society.4 Is it the large Society of which Prof. [Benjamin Howard] Rand used to be secretary? In short give me such hints as may be useful in fixing my mind & acting promptly in the event of another delay. I will answer Cope’s letter as soon as I can tell him what vessel the collection will go in & please acknowledge to him my receipt of it. The weather still keeps good for Paris. Only about 3 drizzles & 2 thunderstorms since you left. Thomas Eakins 220

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1. Edward Drinker Cope (1840–97) was a noted American paleontologist who was associated with Philadelphia’s Academy of Natural Sciences. 2. Little is known of “Mrs. Poirier.” She operated a rooming house and apparently owned a collection of remains of mammals, birds, and fishes from the valley of the Loire, which she offered for sale in 1868. Eakins was the middleman in this transaction. 3. Surely a reference to Louis Agassiz (1807–73), the noted Harvard scientist, who may have bid on Mrs. Poirier’s collection for the Museum of Comparative Geology in his institution. 4. “The Society” undoubtedly referred to the Academy of Natural Sciences. Dr. Benjamin Howard Rand (painted by Eakins) had indeed been its secretary.

Eakins offered a measure of concerned advice to William Crowell in regard to marrying Fanny. He also revealed his own ambivalent attitude toward love, marriage, and children.

116 rue d’Assas[,] Sept. 21, 68. Dear Billy, Your letter enclosed in the family letter we received at the bankers & I commenced reading it out loud and got as far as[,] I love Fanny & have done so for a long time[,] when I quick shut it up, saw on the back Benjamin Eakins & felt embarrassed at reading in my father’s letter before him & Fanny what I took to be a first declaration of your love. When I got home I gave Poppy his letter & soon after he gave it to me as mine & it taught me what I never even dreamed of. On investigation of all your confessions I fail to see much occasion for self condemnation. It seems now to me very natural you should love one another[,] only it never before entered my mind, & I am sure no one can blame you to keep on loving each other all your lives. As for marriage[,] that is another thing[.] Fanny is not yet fully formed & you yourself would probably not wish to marry before you had your profession. If you had prevailed secretly on Fanny to promise to marry you & no one else under any circumstances with or without the consent of those who love her & have nourished her from a child you would have merited all the wretched meanesses & cowardices & treacheries to which you treat yourself.

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And to me it is easy to understand what you don[’]t, the conception of any engagement other than the love you bear each other necessarily implies & the wish of my father for secrecy. If you become cold to one another or one of you should change their love for another or a sickness or other accident of time’s chances should make your marriage undesirable, the word given or the bans [sic] published in the market house would limit your freedom & annoy.Yet there was no good in keep[ing] it secret from me though I guess at the delicacy that kept my dear mother from mentioning it. I feel deep now your suffering of last summer[,] the suffering of having having [sic] something on the mind all the time & hunting [for] the propitious time to say it[,] which the other unsuspicious never arrives & each minute adding to its weight. And as you must have watched close my humor[,] which must also have sometimes been bad & me not thinking of your having anything particular on your mind[,] I must have said many a thing to which you put other meaning than I intended or meaning where none was. If I had known all when we kept house at Crepon’s before we travelled[,] our love & interest in the same object would have drawn us closer & understanding each other there would always have been pleasure where there was sometimes anger or agony or undeserved contempt. When the time comes for Fanny marrying[,] if you are both in good health, how much gladder I will be if she chooses an old friend to me than a stranger. Yet without disparaging love I look upon love & marriage as two very different things [f]or one can purely & very tenderly love the wife of another as did Dante & Michael Angel [sic] & other good men. My influence with Fanny I believe considerable but as her loving or marrying will not lessen her love for me I could not even have the excuse of selfishness to interfere nor would I be a dog in the manger. The noblest & most beautiful sight in the world is the father & mother of strong children & the most ignoble & contemptible a bride & bridegroom. So be a good true boy & don[’]t change after & get out of your ugly habits of melancholy & of extravagant ideas[,] especially that of dignity[,] which is not truth. (If ever you become a first consul I’ll forbid Fanny flat to marry you & then you will have to cut my head off.[)] 222

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My greater age has habituated me to patronize Fanny & all she does or is interested in. In love I feel like Methusaleh [sic] for I feel my love days long over & they will never come again. Love has racked me & was tearing my heart when I was a boy & none suspected it, and if ever I marry it will be only for the delight of raising children for the love of children grows on me not to leave an unnatural void. Friday. What I wrote that last stuff about myself for I don[’]t know, or what connection it had with the subject, but there was some connection & I was going to say something I now forget but it was so late & I was so sleepy that probably it is not worth remembering for drowsiness connects things queer miles apart. All I want to say is that anything I can do to promote the happiness of my old friend & beloved sister will not remain undone. Write me a politics letter Thomas Eakins. This letter to his mother dealt with a variety of topics: Crépon’s troublesome baby, a book of drawings, Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables, the French political situation and its representation in cartoons, and the queen of Spain.

Paris[,] Sept. 30. 68 Dear Mommy, Crepon’s baby is the worst child that ever lived except that he don[’]t cry even when he hurts himself[,] which is very often. Yesterday Mrs[.] Crepon heard of a new kind of string beans. Said to be very delicious so she went & bought them & strung them & washed them & put them in a pan & on top of the table. The father turned the boy out of the room for touching his paints & he was very quiet so Mrs[.] Crepon looked in & he had climbed up on a chair & got down the pan of beans & was piddling in them. So Mrs[.] Crepon cried & then dressed & went to market a mile off but there were none left & the supper was delayed an hour. When she came back the boy had got a cord loose from the bedding & 223

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was choking himself with it so that his tongue stuck out. He piddles all day & I would match him against any pup in France. When he has done it he points at it & says see[,] which Fanny taught him. Next week school will begin & the boys will be back again. I am busy[,] though[,] & don[’]t think much about them except in the evenings. We have had two or three very fine days & all day today it did not rain a drop. The Luxembourg garden is very beautiful. I told you how the leaves were falling in July. In August it was bare like winter but the warm rains have fetched out new leaves which are very plenty [sic] & some of them are brown & yellow already. I send [sic] a book to little Caddy this week[,] one of the finest I ever saw. The drawings are admirable & you will be pleased when Fanny or Poppy will read it to you. It is a complete picture of what is called society & its lions such as Capt[.] Black with his insufferable stupidity & impudence. It will repay Aunt Eliza for Fanny’s not going to see the bona fide countess or Mrs[.] the Sec. Lenoir[,] which lives in a real palace & burns penny drips for want of gas for no one that is anybody & especially no one that lives in a palace there is that would not faint away at the thought of such a plebian concern as gas[,] which ruins complexions[,] &c &c & was unknown to their grandfather the count & his wife or concubine as the case may be. Did anyone ever hear of a lamp post rampant on a coat of arms or a gas pipe couchant. For a history of Paris life not the puppet show of society’s idiots you must read the Miserables of  Victor Hugo. As Poppy will recognize many of the spots around the Luxembourg & old Paris[,] it will be particularly interesting to him & it will tell Aunt Eliza so much about students & their ways, for Victor Hugo was a Paris student himself. Don[’]t commence reading at the wrong end of the book[,] although it is so written that you can skip any volume. As a novel it is of course as far superior to any English one as a Frenchman is better than an English man. I ought to have a letter from home to day but none is arrived so I fear you did not write or it has miscarried. I was sorry to see by your last one that you were going to look out for Poppy as early as the 20th. The vessel did not leave Brest till the 12 [sic] & took the long southern course so she could hardly be expected before the 22 or 23. I wish I had news of her arrival. I have been looking every day in the paper but there is no telegram from America at all. Papers here cost 3 cents & I have to buy 2 every day. So there will be one economy when I have news. Tell Poppy that Henry [sic] Rochefort has just had a 224

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duel. He was wounded slightly on the arm[,] only scratched, but kept sticking the other fellow till he was unable to fight any more. I hope he will kill the next customer. Victor Hugo’s two sons were his seconds. The water melon we saw in Brussels is the portrait of the judge who had just condemned Gill the week before for drawing something. This week there is a drawing of a bunch of grapes. Each grape is the head of some republican writer & the little judge is dancing on the wine press & looking next at this fine big bunch of grapes. Grapes are now most over in France, hardly any left but the white ones. I will send Mr[.] Gardel some papers now as they are in a revolution in Spain but as the papers are not allowed to publish any but official news & doctored they won[’]t be of as much use as American ones except to give him an idea of the opinions & wishes of the people. Friday. The Queen of Spain has had to run away. Gill had a drawing of her this week but the police stopped its sale[,] which is a great loss. She is living in France now with the king & her other man Marfori.1 The pope had just sent her the gold rose of virtue!!! & she had promised him 30000 troops & now the devil’s got the best of both of them. I got your letter of the 16th today & I was very glad to have it & I hope the next one will soon come & tell of Poppy & Fanny being safe home. Mr[.] Sartain will have to wait I fear some time in New York as he starts before the vessels have left a week. The parlor must be very pretty now. Get Maggy to write to me soon. Please tell Poppy to get the enclosed letter to Edward Cope immediately through his family or otherwise. He may be in New York or Philadelphia. Dear Fanny[,] You have seen more nobility than you know of. The cock eyed man at Mrs[.] Poirier’s is a French nobleman. Don[’]t you remember saying good morning to him & if you don[’]t can[’]t you by trying a little every other day. [No continuation found.] 1. Carlos Marfori was a favorite of Queen Isabella II of Spain.

Eakins made shipping arrangements for a collection of vertebrate remains on behalf of a Mrs. Poirier. His contact was Edward D. Cope of Philadelphia’s Academy of Natural Sciences. 225

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116 rue d’Assas[,] Paris[,] Oct 2.68. Edward D. Cope Dear Sir On receipt of your letter & the final instruction of Mrs. Poirier I saw to shipping the collection. It is insured for its full amount agreeably as I suppose to your wishes, as I wrote would be done in default of instruction to the contrary. When your last letter arrived speaking of strips nailed on the ends of the sides I could not attend to it personally as the boxes were in Havre, but the company will have it done if they consider it a usefull precaution. However[,] the boxes seem strong & from the manner of packing there can be no injury from a blow unless indeed the side was completely staved in. As it is not probable I will be in Paris when the money arrives, & as I have done now everything where my direct interference could avail, to wit seeing to packing & translating from English to French, the payments must be made, as I have arranged, through Lherbette Kane & Co.[,] the shipping agents & bankers. You will give them money enough to pay themselves transportation & insurance, & to Mrs[.] Poirier or her order the nine thousand francs which they will do. According to my advice & the wishes of Mrs[.] Poirier the money will be collected on delivery. She has suffered in anxiety & money by the unforewarned delays & is no less desirous of her money than the Society can be of its collection.1 The collection will be taken out by the Pereire, of the French line of Steamers, leaving Havre the 8th & Brest the 10th of October. Your presence or that of an accredited agent on arrival can prevent tumbling by the custom officers[.] Thomas Eakins. 1. The “Society” referred to the Academy of Natural Sciences in Philadelphia.

Eakins wrote Fanny in Old French about his progress as a student of painting. He was concerned that Emily had influenced his father to believe that Philadelphia was a better place for him to study and condemned Emily for her poor judgment in this matter. He concluded the letter with a note to his mother, in English, in which he warned against Emily’s false friendship. 226



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Paris[,] Jeudi 8bre [October] 29. 68 Ma chère Fanny, Je m’en vas [sic] t’escripve dans le bon vieulx français. M’est advenu ceste semaine trois lettres, dond [sic] une de nostre bon ami Billy Crowell et les aultres de nostre père et de toi. Je ne sçai rien de la lettre espaisse que la particulière ha escript à nostre père; car il ne m’en ha poinct parlé. Seulement parlant d’icelle m’ha conseillé de ne pas escripre au sien ami à New York pour vérifier une histoire, ains ha dict valoir mieulx laisser passer ces vieilles choses là pour ce que je ne recepvrois pas de response car elle alloit parler à ce sale escrocq là de sorte que’il ne me respondist poinct à ma lettre ce dond du reste je n’aurois esté moult marri. Ce pendent y ha un mensonge et force aultres et ne sont poinct avec ques moi.  w Certes ne suis encores grant peintre. Il n’y ha que deux ans que j’éstudie. Mais estudie avecques toutes mes forces et l’esperit que le bon Dieu m’ha donné et fais des progrès non moins que les aultres. Mon père estoit de moi content et l’est peult-estre encores; mais n’est à son aise et m’ha deux fois escript me conjurent de ne jamais faillir et me dict soubsvent elle et son frère estudier avecques Schussele d’après l’antique, d’après nature et d’apres je ne scai quoi encores et que aurois poine à marcher devant iceulx. De ce vois incontinent que la paöur n’est pas à lui. Crois-tu qu’oncques on faust avoir dict à mon père Schusselle estre plus grant maistre que Gérôme, Paris estre endroict mauduict pour estudier la peincture. Philadelphie estre bon lieu. Si tu ne crois pas n’es de mon avis. Y ha des femmes qui veulent tout gouverner et en prime place les hommes et d’aultant plus qu’elles soient faibles et incapable [sic, read incapables] de se diriger elles-mesmes. Et quand une femme ha ces furie-là ne connaist plus de bornes ni de pudeur, ains fourre son nez partout soi-meslant es affaires d’aultrui, respondist differends de familles, appreste ses plans, et ne considère les aultres que comme lui appartenant que comme les siens propres oustils pour reussir et non comme 227

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personnes ayant bon entendement et raison et sentiment. [Eakins went right on to “My dear Mommy”] [part of Paris[,] Jeudi 8bre 29. 68] My dear Mommy, I am sorry to see by Fanny’s last letter & Poppy’s too that Emily is at her old tricks again. However[,] the simplest plan & best is not to notice her & I guess she will tire herself when she finds it brings her no good. She has lost Fanny’s friendship for always & that of the rest of the family & thus her chance to study with Fanny[,] which certainly was a great benefit to her studies whether the studies in themselves were useful or not. She hurt herself long ago by her folly in the eyes of her father & brother. She broke with me who was always a good friend to her & now with a confidence to my father would force him to rule not only Fanny to her will, but I begin to suspect me too. This I take as so high handed that it is certainly no more than ridiculous, & when she breaks with my father & she must do by her excessive claims[,] for Will has often told me she never could keep a friend[,] she will have to seek a new field for conquest. [No continuation found.] [Translation.] Paris, October 29. 68 My dear Fanny, I am going to write you in good, Old French. Three letters arrived for me this week, one of them from our good friend Billy Crowell, and the others from our father and yourself. I know nothing about the thick letter that the person in question has written to our father; for he did not speak to me at all about it. Except that in speaking of her, he advised me not to write to her friend in New York to verify a story, but said it would be better to ignore these old matters because I would not receive any reply, since she was going to talk to the dirty old crook there so that he would not reply at all to my letter, about which I wouldn’t have been very upset anyway. However[,] it’s a lie and not the only one, and they’re not flattering. Of course I’m not yet a great painter[.] I’ve only been studying for two years. 228

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But I’m studying with all the strength and the mind that the good Lord gave me, and I’m making no less progress than others. My father was pleased with me and may still be so, but he isn’t at ease about it and has written twice to me, adjuring me never to fail, and he often tells me that she and her brother [presumably Emily and William Sartain] are studying with Schussele from the antique, from nature and I don’t know what else, and that I would have a hard time surpassing them. You can tell right away from this that he isn’t afraid. Do you think that someone ever gave my father to understand that Schussele was a greater teacher than Gérôme, that Paris is an accursed place to study painting, that Philadelphia is a good place? If you don’t think so, you don’t agree with me. There are some women who want to run everything, men above all, and all the more so because they are weak and incapable of managing themselves. And when a woman is possessed of this folly she knows no bounds or discretion, but sticks her nose into everything by meddling in other people’s affairs, puts in her word in family squabbles, plans her strategy, and conceives of others as belonging to her like her own means to success, and not as persons of good understanding, reason, and feeling. To his father he wrote a long, heartfelt defense of his progress in painting. He explained the need to eschew finish in favor of the fundamentals of pictorial construction—as Gérôme had advised. Study with Schussele at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts would be detrimental to him, Eakins said.

Paris. Oct 29.68 My dear Father, Your two last letters[,] though intended to encourage me to keep hard working[,] co[u]ld not but dispirit me a little by showing me you were fearing perhaps that I was not in the right path or had stopped working or some such idea. I am working as hard as I can & have always the advice of a great painter who does all he can for his scholars & of boys 229

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[illegible] friends who can paint the figure as well or better than any man in America. I have made progress & can equal the work of some of the big painters done when they had only been studying as long as I have, & as far as I have gone I see in their works that they have had the same troubles that I have had & the troubles are not few in painting. I have got to understanding much more than I did & though I see plenty of work ahead yet I am not altogether in the dark now but see it plain & sometimes how to catch hold of it. If I live & keep my good health I am certain now of one thing[:] that is to paint what I can see before me better than the namby pamby fashion painters. Whether or not I will afterwards find poetical subjects & compositions like Raphael remains to be seen, but as Gerome says[,] the trade part must be learned first. But with or without that I will paint well enough to earn a good living & become even rich. There is a common mistake made by those who do not know drawing & that it [sic] that one should have the habit of finishing studies. This is a great mistake.You work at a thing only to assure yourself of the principle you are working on & the moment you satisfy yourself you quit it for another. Gerome tells us every day that finish is nothing[,] that head work is all & that if we stopped to finish our studies we could not learn to be painters in a hundred life times & he calls finish needle work & embroidery & ladies’ work to deride us. His own studies are rough quick things[,] mere notes & daubs, but his pictures are finished as far as any man’s, therefore one will take his advice quicker than the work of a writer who knows nothing about painting such as Ruskin. I do not look on Bill Sartain as my superior in any way but my equal. My chance of study is surely better than his for his teacher is not to be compared as a painter with Gerome, & I can compare my work every day with the best work in all the world, & my associates in painting are[,] despite Emily’s great mind[,] superior to her in their knowledge of their art & therefore leaving me & Bill out[.] Gerome[’]s class is better than Schussele[’]s as I truly believe & more numerous too. I can[’]t help thinking that Emily has been talking to you about my affairs. Perhaps she would like me to leave Gerome & this naughty Paris & join their sweet little class & come & fetch her & see her home after it & we would drawey wawey after the nice little plaster busty wustys & have such a sweet timey wimey. I know she has had the effrontery to try [to]

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interfere between Fanny & you. Maybe she would like to go farther, God speed the day that I can stop my studies long enough to paint a good picture & relieve you of your share of an anxiety which should be nearly all mine, which in depression is harder than death to bear but which disappears in the joy of every progress felt or discovery made. I have not time to write more & I have written so hastily I don[’]t know if you will understand all I have written. Please burn this letter right away for part of it looks so like boasting[,] which ill befits me, but by which I have still hoped to reassure you a little. Please send Cope enclosed receipt. [No continuation found.] A letter to a fellow student, this reported on the activities of other young Americans in Paris.

[5 pm, 30 Oct. 68, Paris postmark] To Eugene A. Poole . . . painted, and it was not near as good as what you did last year. He asked me if it was not well in the character for he says Bonnat has been praising him very much for putting so much character in his heads. Well the girl is Lind’s girl’s sister[,] 17 years old[,] a nasty little bitch & the painting was a nasty painting & so there was a resemblance right away & I told him yes. Lind[,] Blashfield & Ramsey have taken a small house together near Boulevard Clichy. Mrs. Lind will do the housekeeping. Her sister wants Ramsey & Blashfield or one of them to marry[,] he saying she is a pure maid, for she envies her sister’s having a man & is anxious to get into that new house too. Her courting of them is very amusing & not over nice nor is Ramsey. I guess there will be a compromise minus the pretension to marriage. That’s enough slander for one letter. Give my love to Bridgman & Wiley & some time soon if you have nothing else to do send me a letter, or if you haven[’]t time to write a letter[,] your name[,] and send that to show me you haven[’]t forgotten me for I think of you every day. Thomas Eakins.

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With an eye toward eating oysters, Eakins discussed his plans for returning home at Christmastime.

Paris[,] 12 9bre [November] 68. Ma chère Fanny Ne te desplaise que je t’escripve encores en français. Dores enavant tu peulx compter sur mon arrivé pour le Noël. Ne fai aultre excuse que l’amour de ma mère et la bonne volonté de mon père qui dispense son argent pour le sien plaisir et mon grant contentement. Et ne perdrai trop mon temps non plus attendu que les jours soient si courts qu’ores il me semble le jour estre parachevé aussitost estre commencé. Dieu nous doinct un Noël bien gai ains que la santé à toute la famille et à nos bons amis. Je debr[?] debvrois arriver une huictaine avant. Qu’on me baille une bonne tourte es cranberries et verront les gents ce que en ferai. Tu me fais tousjours la gentillesse de me parler de huictres. Bon, j’y pense, et quand ta tante te baille un veaulx en lieu de son foie au préjudice de Charley que ce soit elle qui me serve de huictres. En mangerons à l’envi. Beau fera nous en remplir le ventre. En mangeant huictres on gagne en espirit attendu que les huictres contiennent vertus phosphoriques et aultres soubstances mirifiques dont est faicte la cervelle humaine lequel ha esté desjà sceu et exposé par Reddy Vogdes1 qui en ha faict l’expérience et Francis Wayland2 Docteur es sciences mentales morales et idiotiques. (Re DD.Y Vog des auctore de modo migliorandi animis et deboccandi botellas Liber XXXXLCII.) Ores est (grace oz sciences) apertement veu et cogneu pourquoi non estre jusqu’à Reddy Vogdes huictre aulcune qui ne soit moult joyeulx gai et de bon entendement veues lesdictes vertus là renfermées. Et les patates doulces y en ha t’il encores? Ne sçai poinct si elles sont de nature à faire les hommes plus spirituels qu’ils ne le sont sans icelles mais reste tousjours asseuré qu’elles communiquent à la langue et à l’éstomac une volupté et une doulceur sans pareille et que ça suffise et le bon Dieu soit loué. M’ha cousté quatre cents et quarante francs mon billet de passage que j’ai prins hier pour New York de Paris et Brest. J’ai esperé que ce seroist le Pereire on [sic] lequel j’embarquerais bon bastiment et moult 232



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soleils. Me on ha changé d’avis et sera l’Europe qui partira le jour plus prest de Noël voire le 5 decembre. Ai ouie dire icelui estre très-bon batteau à aulbes moult sceur et non ayant à redoubter les tempestes. Seulement non estre navire à marcher vite comme les aultres de la mesme compagnie. Il porte les malles pourtant et debvraist faire mieulx son chemin qu’un vaisseau anglais. Dear little Caddy, When you get this letter there will be only a month to Christmas time when all the good little boys & girls hang up their stockings & as I expect you will be very good & deserve a great deal of goodies[,] I hope you will think to hang up your Mama[’]s stocking instead of your own for a little girl[’]s stomach is I am sure bigger than her foot. [No continuation found.] [Translation.] Paris[,] 12 November 68 My Dear Fanny Don’t mind that I write to you again in French. As of now you can count on my arrival for Christmas. I make no other excuse than love of my mother and my father’s good will in dispensing his money for his pleasure and my great satisfaction. And I shall hardly waste my time either, seeing that the days are so short that now it seems to me that the day is over as soon as it has started. The Lord owes us a very merry Christmas as well as good health for the family and our good friends. I ought to arrive a week ahead. Let me have a good cranberry tart and people will see what I can do with it.You are always thoughtful enough to talk to me about oysters. Good, and I have a thought about that: When your aunt offers you veal instead of liver—to Charlie’s detriment—let her be the one to serve me oysters. And we’ll vie with each other eating them. What a delightful way to fill the tummy. By eating oysters you improve your mind[,] provided they contain phosphoric properties and other mirific substances of which the human brain is made, the which has already been noted and expounded by Reddy Vogdes, who had the experience along with Francis Wayland, doctor in mental, moral and idiotic sciences.1 (Re DD.Y Vogdes, author 233

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of “The Way to Improve the Mental States[”] and of [“]Uncorking Bottles,[”] Book XXXXLCII). And now (thanks to science) it is clearly seen and recognized that there be no oyster—even Reddy Vogdes—[there is a gender switch in the French] that is not happy and joyous and of proper understanding, considering the aforesaid properties contained therein. And do sweet potatoes still exist? I do not know if they are of such a character as to make men more clever than they are without them, but rest assured that they convey to the tongue and the stomach a sensuality and a sweetness beyond compare, and let that suffice and the Lord be praised. I had to pay 440 francs yesterday for the passage I obtained for New York from Paris via Brest. I had hoped it would be the Pereire I would sail on: a good ship, and sunny. But plans have been changed, and it will be the Europe[,] which will sail on the day nearest to Christmas: December 5. I have heard it is a good ship with a very safe propeller, making it storm-proof. Only it isn’t as fast moving as the other ships of the same line: it carries the trunks, however, and ought to make the run better than an English vessel. [No continuation found.] 1. Edward W. (Reddy) Vogdes was a professor of moral philosophy at Central High School. Francis Wayland, president of Brown University, was the author of text called The Elements of Moral Science (1856) that Vogdes assigned to his students at Central High School. Information courtesy of Professor Amy Werbel.

Anticipating a winter 1868 visit to his home in Philadelphia, Eakins told his father of his plans and his strategies for ice skating.

[late November 1868] Dear Father, I am thinking about skating and if I should take back my old skates you would have to go back to such low ones you would find little pleasure[,] or if I should take the low ones I could not begin to do on them as well as I want to & I would be so far behind by old comrades that although I have the excuse of absense I would be ashamed for I was once at their head. So I think it best to get a new pair & if you think so too & that it is 234



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worth the money this is my device. I have a pair of stout lace shoes without heels which are famous for skating! I have drawn carefully the two projections of the iron. This would exactly fit the sole of my boot. The two lines between which I have marked the letter a would represent the slight curve across the iron from side to side, the curve a shoe has & keeps by wearing. This is the only exact portion of the drawing that of the iron & the foot will set very solid on such an iron. As to the runner I have merely guessed at the height. I would have it a trifle higher [than] my old ones or the same height plus + the thickness of a strap for the straps I want fastened under the iron in despite of beauty. I would not have it high enough to strain my foot nor low enough to stop Maggy from teaching me new touches. As to the ending at the point & heel you must use your judgment entirely. There have been so many improvements since I have left. Maybe pointy toes are the best if the points are at least high enough to keep them from jagging in the rough ice if skated over, but the heel of the runner should not depass [sic] the heel of the foot. The toe might a little to gain steadiness but not much. I would have the runner as high at the heel as the ball of the foot for there is no heel or my shoe & it would strain the foot to skate with the toes in the air. A moderate sized key will not go through the leather & if there is not leather enough to of my heel which is so thick hold screws I will rivet the plate instead of screwing. I would like a long strap & with one buckle[.] The sliding buckles & the buckle I would have perfectly plain. Rings are bad & under pieces are clumsy. The old old [sic] skates have surely the best fastenings. I want the strap & the short straps of the buckle & tongueless buckles all fastened under the iron of the skate[,] not on top. If the strap is thin as I prefer there may be four or five on the side. A heel strap will be unnecessary. The curve of the runner I would have almost as flat as my old skate. I detest rocky dumps. I would have everything simple & not a single ornament of any kind. Tomorrow is Saturday & I will attend to your cloak & your gloves. I leave on the fifth so when you have this you will I hope have stopped writing to me a week at least important letters. [No continuation found.]

Eakins told Fanny of his specific plans for his holiday visit to Philadelphia.

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Mardi le 2 10bre [December] 68. Ma chère soeur, Je n’ai aulcun temps pour t’escripvre et n’ai poinct besoin non plus vu que serai bientost avecques toi. Tu peuls le dire à Billy Crowell si cela te faict plaisir et à Charley et à qui bon te semble. Puis tout prest à partir les vestements sont achetés et mes chaussures sont racommodées. Viens de recepvoir une note de Mme Moore qui m’engage de venir la voir sur le champ. Fault que je me presse. Elle ha une lettre de son vieulx père qui craint mourir avant de voir sa fille chérie. Elle sera peultestre constrainct de partir avecques moi. Dans ce cas écheant besoin me sera en’arrester quelques heures à Bordentown avecques elle mais prendrai le prime train après pour Philadelphie. Pars Samedi[.] À bientost[.] Tom Les huystres

[Translation.] Tuesday[,] December 2[,] 68. My dear sister [Fanny], I have no time to write you and I have no need to at all, since I shall soon be with you. You may tell Billy Crowell, if it pleases you, and Charley and anyone you might like. So all is ready for departure, clothes are bought and my shoes are repaired. Have just received a note from Mrs. Moore who bids me come see her at once. I’ll have to hurry. She has a letter from her aged father who is afraid to die before seeing his beloved daughter. She may be obliged to leave with me. In which case I’ll have to stop with her for several hours at Bordentown but shall take the first train afterward to Philadelphia. Leaving Saturday[.] So long[.] Tom

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v Eakins recounted his successful quest for a new studio, which he shared with William. He went on to criticize his former studio mate, Crépon, who he found to be dishonest.

Paris. Good Friday[,] March 26/69. Dear Fanny I got your letter last Sunday afternoon. I was very anxious about it & I knew you would write to me to tell me about mommy. We are both at work at our schools. Bill is atYvon’s & likes it very much. I was wondering till I got here whether Bill & I would do better to take a studio between us or stay in Crepon’s studio at least till [illegible] came back from Italy. When we went to see Crepon he received us not over warmly & Bill Sartain especially coldly. Next day I went over there to cover some canvasses & when I got nearly through Crepon said[,] My! how strong that paint smells[.] I’m afraid it will hurt the boy & give him colics. So I took up my canvasses & carried them back to the canvass shop. Next day I told him it was indifferent to us whether we staid with him or took a studio to ourselves, so he thought we had better take one ourselves on our account & on that of his wife & boy. This was very sensible & just & we are all better pleased than if we had staid together. But there was no occasion for any exhibition of coolness & he should have had a little patience & let me speak my intentions & wishes before discovering any humor or should have spoken himself. When I took my studio in West St. first I asked him to stay with me for company & he came up for he was living on the ground floor & the water was streaming always down the walls so that the doctor said they would die if they staid there & he & his wife & child all staid in my studio except to sleep & I was very glad to have them there for company [as] I like to see a child playing about. I was paying 850 fr[.] a year. He looked about for a new studio & apartments & found this big studio with its two little rooms & kitchen to it for 800 fr. & to save the expense he asked me to give up my studio & come in with him & so I would pay but half 400 fr. & have no trouble about sweeping or keeping clean. This was very advantageous to me & I

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did it, & would have saved 450 fr. a year. Now he has had constant work & made enough money to keep the big studio easily for his wife & child and so he is glad to get shut of us. As soon as he was sure we were going he got more polite than ever I saw him & got chairs for me to stand on to get at casts & brushed them off for me. I think he felt mean, for he still kept talking about things which were decided on & how his boy might step in our paints & so on. Bill & I went all over yesterday afternoon hunting studios & when almost despairing of our day’s work found just what he wanted. It is not near so big as Crepon’s but as we won[’]t have much furniture to fill it up it will be big enough. It is in the big new St[.] of Rennes not far from the Church of Saint Germain des Près. & is just the right place for our hotel[,] Bill[’]s School, my school, the dinner place[,] Harry Moore’s studio, etc.[,] etc. + everything lies in a comparitive [sic] small circumference around it. I would give you the address so you could send my letters there[,] only the place is not not [sic] numbered yet. Crepon is a weak man. He is falling back always, for he lives all by himself & being weak was improved by contact when he was with the French students who are above him as a class. He was the schoolmate of such men as Tony Robert Fleury & Bonnat & Lefebvre Deslonyng.1 Crepon once deceived me very much. He had some studies hanging up & he said he had done them. They were grand in color, better than Gerome ever could do in some of their qualities, though of course far behind in others. Now Crepon was very good in giving me advice & he did it as well as he knew how & he told me how he had done these things in the way he imagined they had been done, & of course I paid great attention to advice in my innocence which I would have only paid a just attention to if I had known he was ignorant. I possibly staid in Paris longer than he at first thought. When these fellows came back from Italy[,] the studies went away & when I asked after them[,] he had given them away. I was often afterwards surprised in comparing my drawings of his wife with his that mine were just as good as his or better & my color sketches too & that I painted a head faster & better. One night in bed the whole deceit flashed across me & it stopped me from sleeping. Since then it is a year ago I have known Crepon perfectly. He is not bad but weak. I would have told you maybe this history before but it would have made you think me more lonely or unhappy then I was, as 240

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I had written more of him than of my other friends. There will be no change in our relation to one another. I will be just as cordial as ever & so will he. That is we will be polite & laugh together. The heart must have nothing to do in that word cordial. When you told me your opinion of Crepon from his looks I would not let on to agree with you but your penetration astonished me for I had been deceived myself so long. You told me Mrs[.] Crepon was more lady like than some one of my friends[,] I forget which one. She has a splendid head & health & was a foundation for every noble quality but her living with him[,] their petty lies to one another and the like is hurting her very fast. In ten years I am sure none of us would know her. I have drawn her so often I know her face well & it is changing. I am sorry to have written you such a mean letter but it is what I happen to be most thinking of. It is very cold & damp yet & possibly that is what set me to thinking of it again. Bill & I both have colds[,] fortunately light ones[,] & the little water I put in my wine or something else gave a week’s belly ache[,] which I am now got rid of. [No continuation found.] 1. Nothing is known of Lefebvre Deslonyng.

This began with a short note to his mother concerning the weather and news of local interest, combined with a report to Fanny on a classical music concert and his socializing with the Bonheurs. Following this was his longest discourse on a single subject: Gérôme’s and Couture’s excellence as painters. He explained in detail why “they are at the very head of all art.”

Paris[,] April Fool’s day 69. Dear Mommy, To day has been cloudy all day but it has not rained a drop. Yesterday it rained & the two days before it snowed & between the spells there were the heavy yellow Paris fogs. We have had to keep fire going all the time. Saturday morning we enter into our new studio & get the stove up & I 241

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hope we will be all right on Sunday & everything fixed. Then if the fine weather will only begin about Monday we will go to work with a will. The days are on the turn from long to short & if we keep our health we will put in some good days work this spring. We are both got entirely well. My diarrhoea turned to a cough for one day & then to a cold in the head the next & found another natural exit. Bill is getting acquainted with the different boys & they all like him very much. He has been to Moore’s & we have gone to the Bonheurs three times. Germain Bonheur had to pass inspection to be a soldier. He has just the height[,] the thickness of a sheet of paper. So he dared not go to bed the night before but walked about all night. Next morning he was short by I forget how much & went under the stick easily & so he was exempt because too little. In a month from now the great Spring exhibition of pictures will open.1 This will be a great treat to Bill Sartain & I will be very glad myself, for I am always anxious to see pictures. After I see them very few give me pleasure but still I am just as anxious to see more. Dear Fannie[,] I have heard a good bit of good music since I have been here, for I’ve not been able yet to get to any work but my regular studio work at school. Sunday we went to one of Pasdeloup[’]s concerts & heard Beethoven’s 4th Symphonie such as I never yet heard it. The slow part you used to play was beautiful, & they played Haydn[’]s little andante[,] the one with the pretty little tune in it & only one. Good Friday we went again to a Pasdeloup sacred Concert & here’s the programme. Overture of Oberon[.] Weber Fantasy on Othello for fiddle[,] Ernst by Mr. Wilhelmy [sic, read Wilhelmj] to show off his fiddling.2 Ave Maria Cherubini March funeral of the heroic Symphony Beethoven The Infancy of Christ Berlioz (because he’s just died) Overture Chorus of Shepherds Going to sleep of the Holy Family Air for Violin Bach Played by Vilhelmy 242



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Hymn Stabat Mater

Haydn Rossini

If there is noise enough to interfere with the noise of a flea hopping[,] Pasdeloup won[’]t commence or will stop the music, so there were some delays occasioned by people suffocating & crying out for air or to be let out but these apart everything passed on all right. We are going some night to the circus. This is the finest thing I know of in Paris. Men & horses in motion. Nothing can ever be finer. If Paradise is prettier then this part of the circus I want to see it. Bill Sartain is very much pleased with Paris. He likes it exceedingly. I have tried to keep many little disagreeable things & show him the bright parts as much as I can. There are a good many Americans in his school & that makes him feel less strange but I will get him gradually more & more with the French, for my comrades are superior to the Americans at Yvon’s. He saw a good many of them together at Bonheurs. I told you how Bonheur was too little so as to tell you of the party & then forget all about it. On the strength of his getting off he had a punch drinking around at his house & a great many nice boys from the studio were there. I don[’]t like punch drinking so I took care to always spill all of mine on the floor. Some got a little lively & Bill saw a little cutting up[,] which seemed to please him. We got to bed[,] though by eleven in spite of it[,] & he formed some nice acquaintances. Gerome has made a picture of Dante.3 No one else could have done it. No one else even if he might appreciate the grandeur of Dante[’]s character could have rendered it. Some painters paint beautiful skin, some find happy bits of color, some paint soldier clothes, & costumes of Louis 14 15.16 17.18.20, & puppets & mawkish unnatural or sickish sentiment, some tin & earthen ware, some flowers always beautiful & sometimes too on canvass some make moonlights & some candle lights[,] some make ships & some paint water & some pain[t] allegories or fiddles or landscapes, angels or horseradishes but who can paint men like my dear master, the living thinking acting men, whose faces tell their life long story[?] Who ever has done so but him & who will ever do it again like him[?] Has he painted cruel or wicked men or low ones[?] Yes[,] often & good ones too often & men who have suffered. But he never made from choice a doll baby[,] a weak man or hen peck unless to show off a strong minded woman. He never presented a vice in a form to make any 243

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one like it but rather shudder at it. He hates nothingness[,] emptiness. Nature has its strong sides & its weak sides[,] its strong men & its weak men & its men have their characteristics[,] some strong[,] some weak[,] they are not worth noticing. Gerome has raised himself above his fellow men by his brain as man himself is raised above the swine. He has made himself a judge of men & insofar as a painter is a creator he creates new men or brings back those you want to see to life, & when you ask him to people the old Colyseum every one on seeing it wonders how it looked a thousand years ago[,] he gives you those cold cruel barbarians killing one another for love of fighting; the uproar of the salute hail Cesar [sic] [and] the fellows about to die salute thee the clash of their weapons; the fat hideous Cesar, the poor dead men[,] one in a net to have made the chance even for he was so strong a man, & the business like way of the fellow that comes along throwing sand over the blood to keep the men from slipping. He has evidently done so all his life. Maybe he will be a gladiator some day. How proud it would make him, & the other dead bodies getting dragged off by ropes with hooks at the end. There is your Colyseum, there are the men that built it & used it. Don[’]t you like them[?] Do you hate them for their cruelty[?] Why then did you look at the Colyseum[,] why wonder what the Romans were as every one does[?] It is the fashion to paint certain Roman virtues. Such pictures have been made wholesale since classic academies were first started & will always be made I fear, but they were lies or unimportant truths. You wanted to know the Romans. There they are real. Gerome knows them. He knows all men. Maybe you would have preferred some pleasing little episode[:] a Roman a playing chess or smoking a pipe[,] if pipes they smoked. Ah[,] Meissonier was your man.4 Why didn[’]t you go to him[?] You have forgotten to look at the clothes of the men in Geromes.You were interested in the men & forgot all about the clothes just as you would be if you saw the thing in Nature but Oh the sweet little Meissonier. The buttons are even sharper considerably than in Nature & you can count them twice as easily. Look at the little veins in the hand & the smoke how nice it curls. Study this nicely a few hours & then go back to a Gerome in a fit state of mind to find some errors in it. The Romans never became civilized. They never invented anything, they never made a picture, they never were architects. Their statues were made by Greeks[,] their buildings were large copies of little Greek 244



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beauties or mere masses of stone like the coliseum[,] not beautiful or even impressive except from their very size or ugliness[,] wanting even the simplicity of the Egyptian pyramids. They were rich these Romans from stealing, & without ever becoming civilized became enervated from their richness & luxury as in Couture[’]s pictures & then were conquered & wiped out by the barbarians. Do you want to see the Greeks[?] There’s Socrates visiting Aspasie.5 The[y] are comfortable half naked. An awning keeps off the sun. Some plants are there & a nice dog. How comfortable everything looks. But how unlike Gerome I see no ugliness[,] no strangeness[.] No why should there be the Greeks were very much like ourselves[,] good plain civilized people loving home & not going out to fight except when attacked[,] that is fighting was neither their pride nor business nor stealing either[,] that is at the time of the civilized Greek[,] the time most interesting to us. Who that has read the Arabian nights or the Bible or any traveller’s stories but wants to see the east. Gerome can help you see it if you can[’]t go there, the beautiful pure landscape so simple in its beauty. There’s a series of those pictures.Their peaceful arts, their treading the grain with oxen & their machines[,] their arts[,] their little shops, their delicate workmanship & fairy like houses[,] their tending cattle like in the days of Methusaleh & Solomon. It[’]s just this same. Their government, perfect tyranny[,] the contempt for life where all life is so luxurious. See the gate of the temple with its row of heads & the cruel soldier guarding it with his broad sharp bladed sword. Their religion a silent prayer to the unknown immense God. The sun is going down. The man of the desert stops his horse, spreads out his little carpet[,] sticks his spear up in the ground[,] takes off his shoes, everything is silent there, he forgets he is of the world & prays to his Allah. There’s no God but God & Mahomed [sic] is his prophet. How simple & grand. How Christ like. Then think of the contemptible catholic religion[,] the three in one & one in ‘3’ 3 = 1 1 = 3 3x1 = 1 which they call mystery & if you don[’]t believe it be damned to you & the virgin mother that afterwards married a man look at it isn[’]t it ridiculous & the virgin grandmother for his grandmother was made so recently by Pope Pius IX[,] don[’]t you remember the stone[,] the solemn conclave & the date in gold letters at the head quarters at Saint Peters[?] It[’]s beyond all belief. Either I am stark mad myself or the people are fools beside me. 245

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I won[’]t believe I’m wrong. A healthy religious will always affect you like a Turk.You would get into the big quiet, the desert or the top of the house. You won[’]t go to church to see their little parades[,] their gildings & tinsel[,] their little little [sic] bells to hear the money clinking for the Society of Jesus[,] for the new chapel[,] the bad close damp air[,] the nasty low priests who live without work. When I see genufluxions [sic] & crossings & clap trap & wood virgins gilt & statues in clay with gold crowns all jewelled on their heads I want to laugh always & I pity those who believe in them & I look down on them as my inferiors. The Turk don[’]t pray like a Christian. For he don[’]t pay any one to pray for him. We will now sing the 917the Psalm[,] the 1st[,] 3d & 5th verses[,] 1st[,] 3 & 5 my brethren[,] omitting the 2d & 4th. Let us all pray[,] page 100 near the bottom of the page. My God. Fanny[,] if you ever will make a habit of going to church I’ll think less of you for it. How often has Gerome painted those simple Eastern prayers. Is that cruel[?] Is that cold[?] They are men of deep feeling[,] these men of the East[,] but they are lazy & sensual. See the life of the rich in Gerome’s picture[.] Look at the beautiful slave getting sold for that mean looking man & the business air of the eunuch[;] he feels her teeth to see if she is sound. See the Coffee house[,] Almée the fat dancing girl with a big belly [and] low head. I heard two fools say Gerome painted that picture on the principle that Chaplin paints a girl with her clothes lifted up to interest only low people.6 It will interest very sensual people[,] more sensual than those Turks who are yet hardly interested & they have nature while this is but a picture, but a picture, but the sensual people are better than the fools. Above these only sensual, comes a higher class[,] the thinking people & feeling ones who always want to see everything to know more.There’s the East. Billy gave us the little niceties of color. Gerome has given us the people, the grand old people of the Bible & the Arabian nights. How would you like to hear a minister reading the bible & omitting everything improper or coughing in its place, thus & Abraham had one hundred & ninety nine (prolonged coughs) wife [sic] & sevenhundred &

concubines (more coughs).

93 (more coughs). I forget his blind man[;] there’s charity. That old blind man they are plenty in the East being led from mosque door to mosque door by his 246



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granddaughter so carefully. You will never see a more good & sweet & tender a child. He makes people as they were[,] as they are their virtues[,] their vices & the strongest characteristics of those he represents. Are not strong men knowing better than weak men[?] Suppose he had made dough faced virgins all his life[.] How much is Shakespeare not ahead of the poeter of the sunday school union[?] Mustn[’]t he necessarily be a better man[?] Look at Gerome’s head again. It is like Shakespeare[’]s & Cervantes[’], just as large but a great deal more beautiful. You are superior to any girl I know of[,] Fanny[,] or I never would have written you here what I have, or wanted you to think of Gerome as I do. If Billy Crowell knew him as I do he would never have spoken against him & I wonder at it still. He hasn[’]t seen enough of his pictures. I began to tell you about Dante. There are a great many portraits of Dante[,] bad mostly from excessive softness. Happily they preserve us his queer features & there are casts too fortunately; but I don[’]t know any thing that looked as if it might be the writer of the Comedy till Doré drew his frontispiece[,] which did not look at all like any authentic portrait. But now Gerome has made us one. The queer elephant head is kept strictly true & the markings are deep & hard & oh how sorrowful. You can almost cry to look at him. His walk is heavy & slow & big steps down the path. He is not noticing anything around him. He is thinking of Florence & Bice & Heaven. So much for Dante[;] now for the composition[.] I had better draw it.

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It is just out of some Italian city[,] Florence I think[,] from the cupolo 1 [sic] [numerals were cited by Eakins as a “key” to the drawing above] that looks like that tower near our hotel there & the mountain line there. There[’]s the pretty level meadow. The sun is setting to the left[,] redding the dust & air over the grass & trees & city so as to almost hide them. A long ray shot through some low unseen cloud & the little bright clouds shaped like pea pods. The grass is green but dry & the Florentines are there reading[,] lying around in little groups singing & playing their guitars or mandolines. What a strange man passes down the path amongst them. It is unusual to see any one so earnest. Everything has become quiet as the landscape. You feel it right away. The music stopped. There is a little child 3 [who] has run & hid his face in his mother’s lap. The older one is old enough to have more confidence so he looks at him queer with the back of his finger in his mouth [—] a very childish action. It’s a beautiful child. There[’]s another child 5 coming along with his nurse the same way as Dante. He has suddenly caught sight of him & pulls back as to almost upset his nurse. He must look very queer to the little children. They have not seen many such men as Dante or they would not be afraid. Way off in the distance comes a pair of lovers down the path [with] their arms entwined. They walk as slow as Dante & by the time they come along the children will be at play again & some will laugh again[.] I would not be the first one & the music will be going, the love songs a singing & some of them will forget the queer man that come along. He can[’]t forget them for he neither saw them nor heard them. I wanted to buy a photograph of it but I couldn[’]t get it. Goupil is a picture dealer.7 He is getting out an engraving of it which will be done in two or 3 years, & it would interfere perhaps with the sale of one of them if a photograph was let out. He had them. I have a great mind to ask Gerome for one some day. Gerome always makes me think of Couture[,] they are so different. We went to see Helmick the other night[,] who has been living all summer in the little town of Ecouen. They told us funny things about him & his laziness. He wore a big straw hat to keep of[f] the sun & had an old coat or none on & his shirt always open all the way & then sleep. The ladies were scandalized till they became so well acquainted with his belly 248



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button that it no longer shocked them, for they’d meet him every day. A cold or rainy day he would go about from one studio to another of the artists and blow[,] blow & talk about his book he was writing. He commenced some spring flowers but they withered before he got them done. Then he commenced another canvass[,] a wheel barrow of carrots in the barn yard in the sun but did not ever work on it but the first day. A little dwarf came to the village[,] frightful hideous. He dressed him up in Venetian costume & commenced painting him & got the head most done & did not touch it after, & in a few weeks the dwarf went away. So he didn[’]t get a single thing done in the 8 months at Ecouen. I saw four little things by Couture here lately at Bowles[,] American bankers[,] the most beautiful color I ever saw but they were very small. What a grand talent. He is the Phidias of painting & drawing. Who that has ever looked in a girl’s eyes or run his fingers through her soft hair or smoothed her cheek with his hand or kissed her lips or their corners[,] that plexus of all that is beautiful in modeling[,] but must love Couture for having shown us nature again & beauty on canvass. In his Decadence he has far exceeded all other painters.8 There seemed to be nothing left for him to do that would give him as much pleasure as to look always at the beautiful nature that charms him so. He says of himself J’étois fatigué par une lutte déjà longue la paresse entroit pour beaucoup dans mes résolutions et puis faut-il le dire je voulois vivre de la bonne vie du bon Dieu; j’avois assez de ces jouissances factices que donne l’art, je voulois ne plus être parqué et cesser d’être une bête à peinture. J’étois entré dans ce que j’appelle la vie naturelle et l’avouerai-je à ma honte, je m’en trouvois fort bien. Depuis, les grandes douleurs et les profondes joies de la famille m’ont attendri le coeur et j’ai compris que l’habileté du faire n’était rien, comparée à l’expression des bons sentimens humains. Avec le calme, le recueillement, le désir de produire est revenu; n’ayant plus comme autrefois l’ambition de surpasser mes rivaux, je cherche simplement à satisfaire mes propres instincts. A few portraits and sketches is all he has done since. His art & Gerome’s can hardly be compared. They are giants & children each to the other, & they are at the very head of all art. [No continuation found.] 249

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[Translation, Eakins to Fanny, Paris, April Fool’s Day, 1869.] I was tired out by the already lengthy struggle: laziness entered a lot into my resolutions, and I must say I wanted to lead the goodly life the Lord gave us. I didn’t want to be penned up any longer, or go on being a drudge to painting. I had entered into what I call the natural life, and I will admit to my shame. I felt very much at home there. Since then, the great suffering and deep happiness of my family have touched my heart, and I have realized that the ability to perform counts for nothing compared to the expression of human kindness. With quiet and reflection, the desire to create has returned; and without having that former ambition to surpass my rivals, I simply seek to satisfy my own instincts. 1. The Salon of Paris. 2. August Wilhelmj (1845–1908) was a distinguished German violinist. 3. Dante (Il a vu l’Enfer), 1864. Present location unknown. 4. Jean-Louis-Ernest Meissonier (1815–91) was a popular French academic painter who favored historical and genre scenes. 5. Socrates Seeking Alcibiades in the House of Aspasia. 6. Charles Chaplin (1825–91) was a French academic painter who specialized in sentimental genre scenes. 7. Adolphe Goupil (1806–93) was a Parisian purveyor of photographs and engravings of works of art. 8. Romans of the Decadence.

He wrote his mother a newsy letter on a variety of subjects, including a visit to Bonheur’s, the superiority of U.S. firearms, and fixing up his new studio. To Caddy he appended a note about a neighbor’s cat.

Paris, April. 14. [1869] Dear Mommy, I didn’t think that my last letter would be overweight for I only used a half a sheet but the photograph was a little too heavy & I had sealed it up & hadn[’]t time to go back & get a new envelope after the man said it was overweight. 250



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How do you like this picture of Gerome[?] We went to Bonheur[’]s to dinner last Sunday. We had a good dinner & afterwards we played Lotto[,] which gave Bill good practice in French counting. I took my gun & pistol around to show their cousin who was there [and] who is a good mechanic. He said he never saw such beautiful arms & so they are. America beats the world in machinery. Did I tell you to send letters to my studio Ancien no 8 rue Cassette rue de Rennes[?] That’s my studio address. The Tribune may come as before to 116 rue d’Assas & I will walk over & get them when I have time. I am in more of a hurry about letters & like to have them as soon as they come. School is going on the same as ever. I think we have more good workers there than ever before and this is a great advantage for you to learn a great deal more. Lenoir comes regularly & Jarraud & Cure & Sauvage—Rinans[,] Patro[u] illard[,] Medard & Guay [?] from our studio can[’]t come now as they are all in lodges making pictures for the prize of Rome. The exhibition will soon be open[.] It[’]s only two weeks to the first of may.We are very anxious for the opening. The weather is now bright & clear & warm like Summer. The leaves are all out, & in the evening we sit out on the balcony looking on the delicate sky & new moon till dark & without a bit of chilliness. Green pease & strawberries & asparagus are come but are too dear to buy but in a week or so they will be plenty. We are fixing our studio up very nicely. We have bought some good photographs & prints to hang on the walls & besides some plaster casts that are very nice & useful to draw from once in a while. Last Sunday Bill & I took a long walk in the country & in coming home we saw one of the horse races. I am about run out now so I’ll write a little letter to Caddy & then stop. I have had two tribunes[:] one from Poppy & one from the office. Dear little Caddy, There is a lady next door to our studio that has a big white pussy cat with green eyes. When it is warm our studio window is open & the pussy cat comes in from the roof to see us. Sometimes she climbs up on our shoulders & looks at us while we paint & sometimes she goes & lies down on my mattress. She is a very nice cat & we will always let her in if she don[’]t get fleas on her. [No continuation found.] 251

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He discussed the injustices of the Prix de Rome competition as well as the irrelevance of all prizes and medals in this letter. His concluding paragraph was devoted to his pistol and his friend Max Schmitt, the oarsman.

Friday. April 23. 69 Send me photographs of myself for the boys Dear Father. I am just back from school & there has been a lively excitement there. You know the right of every Frenchman under a certain age to contend for the prizes of Rome[,] 4 or 5 each year[;] painter[,] sculptor[,] architect[,] engravers[,] &c.[,] to stay in Rome 5 years at the expense of the French government. You may also imagine that it is a great prize for a poor boy who must study & can[’]t earn his living at the same time very well. As many such boys have great talent & have been sent to Rome from time to time & have made very great men of themselves with a name that reaches all over[;] you must also imagine that it is a delicate compliment to a minister[,] a princess[,] a senator or a Marfori to to [sic] give the prize of Rome to one of his[,] her or its protigies [sic] & such has been done more or less ever since the thing started. This time it came to a pass so shameful that most of the places were said to have been promised beforehand. There were a half a dozen good ones & the rest would seem to any stranger to be by far the worst that could have been chosen. There was such an outcry that there was a meeting of the Superior Council composed of old artists & to day there was posted up the following— “There having been an irregularity in the second judgment for the Prize of Rome in painting, the Superior counsel using its rights, unanimously annuls the judgment, appoints a new jury of examiners, & decrees a new contestation. Count Nieuwerkerke.” It[’]s a great pity that even in a superior council there must be a count, but never mind[,] they hit the nail on the head in spite of him. 252



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The above is hard language in French when they can be so polite. The jury[,] whose names will be published in all the opposition papers[,] won[’]t gain much credit to themselves by it. Do you notice its wording unanimous, another jury[,] &c.[?] I guess the new jury will be careful enough this time & it will not be by influence that the painter goes to Rome this year but by his work & I hope it will be a Gerome boy. This is the first time such a thing has ever been done, & would not possibly this time but the injustice was so violent. If there was such a prize in America[,] there might be some underhand jobbing & favoritism &c[.] to get at it. In an imperial government concern things are a hundred times worse. How childish the French people are with their prizes & many a weak young man who might have been a good painter has been ruined wasting his time hunting prizes. If you consider the bottom of the thing you see that a prize is only to make an injustice to endeavor to give a false position to some one that don[’]t deserve it. Suppose Gerome is the greatest artist in the world. Does it now do him any good at all to give him a medal[?] Of course not. But give the same medal to an imbecile afterwards. Hang him on to Gerome[’]s coat tails. Say of him to people that don[’]t know his work. He & Gerome have medals. He is exempt. He & Gerome this[,] he & Gerome that. You are trying to falsify the judgment of those who haven[’]t seen his work. It is an impudence to dare judge for others to say you must admire this or you must not admire that.The system is corrupt, & must die out by becoming ridiculous as soon as people begin to look at pictures as at other things & express their feelings about them or else say nothing if they don[’]t have any, not saying art talk at least. My arsenal is all right. I forgot to say about it.There was no trouble at all. They did not even look at my bagage [sic] & my gun was in my hand & they didn[’]t say anything. Imagine the joy of my friend in admiring the little pistol to see his name on it. Max’s pistol is all right to[o] but his uncle has not come for it yet. I’ve got his papers again & Drexel says there are considerable forms to go through yet over here but there is no doubt now that Joanna will see her French rents at least in gold or greenbacks. I have a letter from Max wherein he tells me he may again 253

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be champion for [Bessman?] will not row again. I would be glad if he could gain it without a trial but he is too excitable for a racer & may hurt himself by pulling himself to pieces before he makes half the race. I am anxious for my letter[,] for you say Fanny is getting over such a bad cold. I would see if she is not yet entirely well. [No continuation found.] Eakins argued against the commercialism of certain American painters abroad, attacking particularly T. Buchanan Read’s submission to popular taste as a means of making money. Eakins had clearly decided not to follow this course.

Paris[,] May 7. 69. Dear Father, I have according to habit kept a list of all my expenses & intended to write it out last night but Richards got back & we had to go down & see him & he had a great deal to tell about & when we got away I was sleepy & so went to bed. He spent the winter in Rome & There are a great many American artists there. I saw the other day a thing by T. Buchanan Read.1 It was a picture of his poem Sheridan[’]s ride. The frame was very beautiful & had the poem cut out in it[,] an American eagle on top & his own bust in relief on it & all gilt. The picture itself was shameful. I never in my life saw such pretension united with bad work.You could not sell such a picture in an old rubbish store in Paris for 3 francs. Yet the man actually makes money out of his painting. He plots the Americans in Rome where he stays. He uses all kinds of tricks. He got hold of Longfellow when he first arrived & gave him & all Americans a dinner and so was the first to present him. Then when somebody else gave a dinner to Longfellow they must invite Read & so forth & he gives receptions in his studio. He thus gets them to buy pictures. He has been doing nothing but his Sheridans for some time & expects to make a great deal of money. He got 17000 dollars last year but this year will make a great deal more. What must such a man think of himself when he looks at the work of others[?] It must be heart sickening. He is too old or too lazy now to commence learning & he gets money so easy, but he must have 254



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conscience & delicacy enough to feel he is cheating his countrymen and this must torment. He may say to himself[,] they are fools & have not the need for their money that I have or at least I have still more taste than they & therefore can spend it better[,] but he this [sic] can[’]t help him much or entirely & so it may be for that he has commenced drinking & he will soon die a drunkard[’]s death. I suppose he has more feeling than the others for he has written well. Richards told a great many more things than he thought he was telling. The nest of American artists at Rome is an infection. Their aim is to get big prices heavier than those commanded from the greatest artists. & they do not give themselves the least trouble to fetch their painting to the standard, but look only for people ignorant in art to impose on & then give themselves credit for their smartness in finding out such a rich customer & they are so accustomed to doing so they forget their very shame & talk of it. Pickpockets are better principled than such artists for pickpockets rob from strangers & mostly what is easy spared a few dollars but such a painter makes friends[,] cuddles to them[,] gets them to dinner & then gets a promise from him to give him thousands of dollars in return for its value in painting & he gives in return a turd. I would rather die than deceive so myself or ever be party to it. May here at Paris is the best American figure painter & his things are worth big prices. But he has gone into society too [and] has courted a little to gain attention. Consequently he lets fashionable & rich people into his studio & an American told Bill Sartain the other day that he was there & poor May was so interrupted by pleasant ladies and gentleman he was forced to send away his model & said it had been so he couldn[’]t work since some time, & thus what he hoped to gain beyond what his painting is worth[,] falls back & prevents his improving his painting to the point which might command the prices from strangers for a good painting has a very high money value[,] which it always brings[,] & beyond that a fancy price that runs up & down very irregularly. This fancy price is gambling & and [sic] an artist that pays attention to it instead of the real price must lose in the end as sure as insurance. The big painters understand this & whether their aim is reputation or the comforts of money or even social position they look on painting as their heaviest tool & work through it. A prince or any one at all could not get in to Gerome or Meissonier or Couture at work. No one but a student can 255

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ever get in to Gerome. So every thing I see around me narrows my path & makes me more earnest & hard working. That Pettit or Read gets big prices does not in the least affect me.2 If I had no hope of ever earning big prices I might be envious & now worthy painting is the only hope of my life & study. [No continuation found.] 1. Thomas Buchanan Read (1822–72) was an American historical and literary painter, and lived much of his later life in Florence and Rome. 2. George W. Pettit (1838–1910) was a popular Philadelphia painter known for his canvas Union Refugees (1868).

He told his father of the civil disobedience of Parisian citizens in anticipation of the French elections. He confessed that he would stay clear of the riots and not take sides.

Paris[,] May 14, 69 Dear Father, I keep my accounts & intended to write about them last night but the streets were so interesting that I did [sic] care to stay in but went out till near midnight. We kept within sight of the big crowd that marched through the streets howling the marseilles Hymn[,] breaking lamps & so forth. Night before last there were a good many killed & wounded. The police couldn[’]t get into the crowd at all & they sang the Marseilles from dusk till after midnight. The troop was under arms but they did not act. The crowd sang & cried “to the Tuilleries[.] The Tuilleries[”]. It always makes a fuss to commence a fire on the people as it inflames them & then the soldiers themselves often turn as has happened most of the times they have been ordered. There was another fight yesterday at the school of medicine between the police & students so they shut up the school. Today it was opened again[,] only some courses are shut up. The elections are to come off in a couple of weeks & during some days the candidates have the privilege of addressing their constituents. He obtains the permission from the police & a police agent accompanies him & stops him at any moment he judges fit. Very few have been 256



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able to speak. Tarrand’s uncle has a large hall & a conservative tried to speak[.] Gentlemen, said he, Then the crowd yelled they wouldn[’]t be called gentlemen[,] they must be called citizens. That word stuck in his gullet and he couldn’t get it out. If he had the police would have stopped him. The people would hear nothing else, so the end. Last night there was a little meeting in a very little hall near the Sorbonne. There were hundreds of police around. If it hadn[’]t been for them I doubt if any one would have known it. They attracted attention. The workmen were just coming home & the students just finished dinner & every one went to see what so many police were for. The street itself about two squares long was lined by two rows of police who could have touched hands, that’s four squares of them besides the solid bodies at the ends & all this before there were any people at all. Every one that passed made up his mind to come back from time to time to see what was going to happen & soon the crowd got bigger than the police so they had to send for more police. They locked the passages in the vicinity & then commenced to clear the little streets[,] of which there are so many in that neighborhood[,] & only defended the ends. The people that lived there couldn[’]t get home. This threw the whole crowd into the broad boulevard. The police kept coming in very heavy solid bodies by the little streets & vanished into the mass of police.Then it was night & they commenced singing. The shop keepers quick shut up all the shops[,] which darkened the street more[,] & the coffee houses too. Then the crowd marched up & down the boulevard arm in arm[,] singing. The women ran away. Besides the big crowd there were little ones. They cried[,] long live Rochefort[,] & all such seditious cries.The police dared not arrest any one. They only kept all together massed. A single one or a little squad would have been torn to pieces had it ventured near. The people in one district have nominated Rochefort & will elect him. A deputy can[’]t be put in prison by law, so although he is under prison bans like a convict the people are going to fetch him back. Then he will be put in prison[,] I suppose against the law[,] & the people will be madder. The government still wants to elect its own candidates or as many of them as possible & hence don[’]t want to excite the people. They would never have let such a crowd carry on in ordinary times a half an hour. The cavalry would have been down on them. One smartness of them last night was to have every so many carriages & omnibusses running up & down 257

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the street all the time. I never saw quarter as many carriages on that Boulevard. This time it is not only Paris that is ugly but Lyons[,] Nantes & Toulouse & several other cities. In Toulouse they brought out the artillery & put it at the ends of the streets. A great many arrests were made this morning before daylight & the same thing night before last. There are agents of police disguised as workmen & students mixed up in every crowd & they mark the men who are not arrested while cutting up but when they [are] single & mostly in bed. There are crowds of these police in every restaurant of our quarter. They are seldom certainly known & when they are they get rough treatment. The cry of lamp post which we heard from time to time last night has always applied to them in troublesome times. The editors of Paris who are not in prison have seeing [sic] the hesitation to arrest during these times [and] have been publishing remarkable things. They will pay up for it if the government lasts. The minister of the emperor proposed last session the reestablishment of the death penalty for political offense but the legislature refused to adopt it. If anything important happens you will know by telegraph. We have seen a Paris crowd & don[’]t like it, so our party has resolved not to get into any of them & as we don[’]t intend to assist either side we would run but useless danger. So I’ll stay at number Three rue Fleurus if there is any serious fighting in the streets or go down to Brittany with Cure. If it was not for the telegraph I would get you news as soon as any one. Besides they can never fight now as they used to in the little streets so one will be as safe in the house or certain streets as if there was nothing going on.You know the mobile guard recruited last year among the people. It met with great disfavor & the government has not dared to arm them. Max Schmitt will be surprised to find the reluctance of that insurance company to give his sister her money till every little form is complied with. They’d like to know now if they ought to give her the money without knowing what she is going to do with it. When all these things are satisfactorily answered they will probably ask if Joanna has any beaux[,] how often she confesses & the color of her great great grandmother’s hair[,] the which questions & any others I will faithfully & diligently transmit, for her sake not allowing Bill Sartain to interpolate any question of his amongst them. If any question relates to skating it will not be necessary to send to the French consul or notary public at Philadelphia but I will take an awful oath myself. 258

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Dear Mommy, I add this to reassure you that I am going to keep away from any muss that happens[,] if happen it does, & this will reach you before the cable news of the French election. [No continuation found.]

After reporting on his dental repairs, Eakins gave an account of a Japanese circus he saw in Paris. He admired particularly the strength, physical agility, and grace of these performers.

Paris[,] Thursday night June 3. 69. [To his family] I believe I have no great news to tell this week. It has been raining a month. I don[’]t think we have had a single clear day since the early part of April[,] the first three weeks in April. The moon change[s,] it gets warm & then as cold as winter but all to no purpose, it keeps on raining all the time. You remember how I congratulated myself last week that my teeth were all fixed forever. The next day a plug comes out. It was a bit of an old one so I went to the dentist again & he said it was a plug ten years old[,] well put in & expressed that it had come out just then for there was a little decay forming all around it which he scraped away before re-plugging. He broke off carefully the other corner of the tooth to make sure it wouldn[’]t break of itself in a way he couldn[’]t control it & charged me 20 fr. more. Now I hope I am done for good. I’m almost afraid to eat any more on such valuable teeth. It’s the very front tooth[,] left hand side[,] outside edge[,] upper row. So that tooth now has two Dubouchet plugs in it. Bridgman & Poole left yesterday for Brittany again after passing the winter here[.] They will make little pictures & studies from Britain [sic] peasants. Bill Sartain leaves Yvon[’]s studio & he is going to Bonnat next week according to his original intention & programme. It is farther off but the days are now longer. We went to the circus last Sunday & to the Japanese circus night before last. The Japanese are as far ahead of the others as well can be. They do their 259

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things with such perfect ease. I except the American horseback rider for no one could be finer I think & we don[’]t know about how the Japanese could ride. They seem much stronger than the white people and yet the muscles of their bodies don[’]t cut at all out from one another even in things requiring great strain. Everything they did they did easily like play & were careful to show them there was no trick. Their legs were modelled like those of boys. The first thing they did was all to prostrate themselves to the public. Then one of them stepped out & lay on his back with his feet up in the air & took a big fire screen & played with it[,] throwing it over & over & around with his feet. Another threw up 4 sticks & kept them in the air[,] changing them about & twisting them in different ways[,] making them chase each other & forming stars and figures & cart wheels with them & all going so fast & seeming with no effort. Another man played with a big bath tub on his feet & then put a little boy in & then put a little tub onto the big one & then another little one & so on till he had hoisted him up maybe 25 feet high. Then the little boy by enormous strength & agility got out of his tub & climbed on top. Finally the man kicked away the little tubs[,] the big tub turned in falling & he caught in on his feet & twirled it around[,] the little boy still in it. There it isn[’]t high enough yet but you can see & appreciate what a hard thing it was to balance all those tubs & the little boy standing up could just reach the top with his [fingers?] & yet raised himself & climbed on top without deranging his balance. He did everything very aibly [sic] & could twist himself like a snake. He & another little boy threw somersets [somersaults] together & sometimes with swords in their mouths so sharp they cut pieces of paper held on one end & made figures of themselves. Then they stood on tables[,] put their swords behind them touching their heels[,] folded their arms and bending back picked them up with their mouths. Then they bent [like?] crab & ran all around. Then they lay on their breasts & drew their legs back and over their shoulders onto the ground. This position is not very beautiful but the fellow that can do such a thing with ease & then throw a dozen somersets is the finest animal in all nature & the most beautiful. Another man held a high ladder up with another ladder braced across it at right angles with one other at the top so. 260

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The man that lies down holds the ladder up at least twenty minutes & it is a very heavy one[;] little Tommy goes up to the top & makes gymnastics & even out on the little side ladder. They have two women with them who played on musical instruments of their country. I like their gymnastics the best. Cure is sick with neuralgia & so kept in bed.1 [No continuation found.] 1. Louis Cure was a friend of Eakins who also studied under Gérôme.

This was a graphic description of the political riots in the streets of Paris. Eakins wisely remained on the sidelines.

Paris[,] June 10/69 [To his family] Rochefort & Jules Faure ran against one another in the second election for Jules Faure didn[’]t get elected anywhere the first trial. Jules Faure has always been the leader of the opposition & yet he came within a few votes of being distanced by the furious Rochefort[,] whose only merit known is his hot hate to the government. As to the government candidate he had no chance even though the republicans were splitting their votes & no one paid any attention to him. There have been troubles all over France in nearly all the towns. In the country the mayor & prefects make the stupid peasants vote all on their side. By arranging wards[,] putting a city ward with a country one[,] they were enabled to maintain many more than they would otherwise have done. Wherever this was done the people were furious & where it wasn[’]t done the government lost. There were a great many riots in consequence. Paris became generally quiet but now just when everything seemed finished there is 261

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worse rioting than ever. Last night the cavalry charged on the Boulevard Montmartre & Italian opposite Goupil & a great many people [were] trampled & some killed. The night before it was the same thing. Pietry the prefect is out again in proclamations calling on good citizens not to go near crowds as they will be fired into[,] many of his police having been wounded. All the troops are under arms every day. This evening there is a long line of bayonets on the boulevard of the Italians. No one is allowed to come near the square of the Bastile [sic]. At Belleville the workmen ripped open the iron railing & armed themselves with the bars of iron & drove back the police. The troop came & scattered them. A Paris crowd is ugly to deal with. They are half earnest[,] half fun. They poked fun at the police[,] the police pushed[,] they pushed[,] then a blow struck & swords drawn[,] then a bad fight & the police driven back. Then they set fire to one of the paper stands. You remember they look like watch boxes. They let the firemen come & were amused to see them trying to put it out. But if the firemen who are soldiers had pushed them instead of being their friends they would have killed them right away. All the coffee houses are shut on the boulevards & the police bar off whole streets at a time to prevent crowds from forming so that sometimes a man can[’]t get home when he wants to. They seem to be wanting to try something. The country towns give encouragement to Paris & Paris to the towns. It[’]s like we go a skating the first day. Some one goes on the ice at the edge. Soon another goes just a little farther than another one & little farther & at last they see if it is solid or not all over. Sometimes people get a ducking. It[’]s queer that this last trouble should show itself in such a queer place[:] the Boulevard of the Italians. It would be less surprising here in the Latin quarter[,] St. Antoine. But these last few days there has been hardly anything on the Boulevard St. Michel. Last night there was a little disturbance on the Boule. St. Michel & some one killed a police who was maneuvering his billy by throwing a water bottle at him & there were some wounded on both sides. Just before I came in I was with Cure & we saw a squad of two hundred police marching down the street. One of them hollered to me[,] we’ll be too many for you, for he saw we were students. Mrs. Moore sails for America Saturday & I must go see her tomorrow afternoon. Her daughter will be married in Philadelphia. Don[’]t let Fanny go nor go yourself to the wedding if invited for it will be no honor to any of you. It[’]s half past ten now & there has been no firing yet in the streets or I could have 262

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heard it from my balcony. I will be the good citizen to keep out of the crowds but will tell you what I hear of interest. Maybe it will all settle now but I don[’]t think you can predict anything of the French people. Friday afternoon I noticed last evening that in the gun stores all the good guns & pistols were taken out of the windows[,] leaving only the fancy atsiatic [sic] arms & so on. They all shut up before dark. Last night it appears the rioting was very bad. The cavalry again charged down the Boulevard all the way from Goupils to the Madeleine. As the crowd went down with a run[,] the hind ones getting trampled & sabred[,] the front ones demolished everything that was breakable[,] overturned every kiosque [sic] or newspaper stand & omnibusses & tried to make barricades. The cavalry are feared in these wide boulevard. In moderate streets they are worth nothing for the people run into a wine shop & throw the bottles & tumblers in the street & the front horses fall & the others can[’]t get over them.This is the affair of half a minute. Upsetting an omnibus is not bad. At St. Antoine yesterday afternoon the workshops were all closed by the police at 4 o’clock in the afternoon. Some prudent people laid in bread for a week & those that came after couldn[’]t get any. About half past eleven there was firing & one of our boys saw squadrons of cavalry galloping up toward the quarter of the barrier of the Throne. The newspaper don[’]t give any news & all you can know is by those who have seen. Cure saw the same squad of police this morning at 5 o’clock. They didn[’]t look so proud as yesterday. Their clothes were torn & some had been rolled in the street. I must go see Mrs. Moore now & I will come to the garden of the Luxembourg within reach of home before night fall. [No continuation found.] This was a further account of civil disobedience in Paris, including arrests and imprisonments. Eakins appended a short note to Caddy with observations on dogs.

Paris[,] Friday[,] June 18. 69. Dear Mommy, You remember a good while ago I wrote to you that we had such fine weather[.] That was in April & we had three weeks of it. Since then it 263

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has rained every day without exception. It almost washes the spirits out of you. Since my sickness last summer I have to be careful not to get my feet wet or I have the back door trot. To day I am well[,] only sleepy & stupid getting over a cold & bilious spell I had yesterday. Yesterday is the first time I have been sick since I have been back. I had two visitors. One Mr. Moore[,] Sam Moore’s uncle[,] & the other Mr. Hennessey[,] Bill Sartain’s friend[.] Mr. Horner came to see me last week & brought me my little bundle & on Sunday night I went over & dined with him & we went to see the Japanese in the evening. The troubles are all quieted down here now. Two members of the American Legation were arrested. Of course they were only lookers on. They stayed in a sort of out door prison four days & suffered much from cold. One of them wears diamonds & so on & is a little pink of a man like as if he came out of the band box & this is the first time in his life he ever wore a shirt four days. On the third day, they fetched in some bundles of straw[,] which kept the prisoners tolerably warm. The next day[,] the fourth[,] they got out. The waiter boy in our little restaurant—as sheepish innocent a young man as ever lived[—]has just got out of prison. Two of our boys who always supported measures of the police & believed strong in their discrimination were caught squares away from the disorder doing nothing at all & were put in prison but were released next day. It is a great crime in France to be intelligent and students seem to be more focused & hated by the police than burglars. Gen. McCluskey[,] an American[,] was walking along quietly & a secret police told him to follow him. The Gen. says[,] I don[’]t understand you[,] Sir. Then the man grabbed for him. The Gen. pulled out his pistol & the man ran away. So he wasn[’]t arrested. But he was told afterwards he had better leave Paris[,] which he did. If a person is kept in prison in America & it is afterwards discovered that nothing can be proven against him, he can claim damages against the government for illegal imprisonment. Such a thing is unheard of in Paris but I hope the Americans here that have been arrested will put in claims of the sort & that the government will support them[,] which I think is very likely. If the citizens here had more liberty & the police less it would be a little more like our country. I got a letter last week from Mr[.] Schmitt about his mother’s coming on[.] I suppose you got the paper I sent back to be.Yes[,] I know you did for Fanny mentioned it but Max didn[’]t[.] I am glad Mrs. Schmitt will be on so soon[.] I wish Max & Jo[h]anna were coming too. 264

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Dear Fanny, I don[’]t know any side face portraits of Gerome. I haven[’]t seen his blind beggar lately but next time I am up at Goupil[’]s I will ask for it. Dear little Caddy, I have got your letter about the boat & it makes me very glad to think you are afraid to go in one. I am very sorry that Prince was shot. What did they shoot him for, for he was a nice dog. I don[’]t like little dogs as much as big dogs. Have you ever gone yet to see Charley Boyer[’]s Brace[?] He is the nicest dog I know. If it had been summer time when I was home I would have taken you to see him. Laney has a pretty nice dog too & some day Poppy will take you out to see it.  w I will go & put this in the post office now & if it don[’]t rain too hard I will go take a walk. I will answer Poppy[’]s letter next week[.] I don[’]t feel like writing to day. [No continuation found.] Eakins earnestly defended his position in art to his father, explaining that he had experienced his share of troubles, but had made significant progress. In fact, he now knew he had what it took to become a successful painter.

Paris[,] June 24. 69. Dear Father. You asked me how I was getting on with my studies. I am getting on as fast as any one I know of.There are often awful sticking points but at last by a steady strain you get another hitch on the thing and pass. When you first commence painting everything is in a muddle. Even the commonest colors seem to have the devil in them. You see a thing more yellow, you put yellow in it & it becomes only more gray when you tune it up. As you get on you get some difficulties out of the way and what seems trying is that some of the things that gave you the greatest trouble were 265

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the easiest of all. As these difficulties decrease or are entirely put away[,] then you have more time to look at the model & study, & your study becomes more regular & the works of other painters have an interest in showing you how they had the same troubles. I will push my study as far & fast as I can now[;] I am sure if I can keep my health I will make better pictures than most of the exhibition. One terrible anxiety is off my mind. I will never have to give up painting, for even now I could paint heads good enough to make a living anywhere in America. I hope not to be a drag on you a great while longer. I tried to make a long letter of this & it has been troubling me some time but I can[’]t think of any more to say. All I can do is to work. [No continuation found.]

A newsy letter, mainly to Fanny, concerning a variety of topics—William Sartain’s activities and the movements of F. deBourg Richards and his wife. Eakins closed with a note, in French, to Caddy.

Paris[,] July 2. 69. Paris is getting very monotonous & I don[’]t know what in the world to write about. I bought a straw hat this week on the strength of two sunshiny days[.] I thought summer had come, but now it[’]s raining again. Those are the only days it has not rained since April. Henry Moore went off last Sunday night to Heidelberg where his brother is & the night before he went he gave a little supper to a half a dozen of our boys. Lenoir has got the yeller janders [sic] which makes him look very funny in day time, but by gas light it don[’]t show at all. Dear Fanny. There never was the least difference between Bill & me & we are hardly likely to quarrel now. We’ve been going on without a fight since I was 12 years old. He went over to Bonnat[’]s because he though[t] Bonnat was the best teacher. It was his first intention & he only went into Yvon’s because of the short days & Yvon[’]s being near. In summer the long walk don[’]t hurt him but does him good. He gets up earlier in the morning than I guess he ever did before in his life.Tomorrow is Saturday 266



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& I will go order that batch of gloves & when Mrs[.] Schmitt comes I will give them to her. I have no news of her yet. Bill Sartain will probably find out to day if the ship is in. I was hoping to see her by the fourth but I’m afraid she will stay too long in London. I’m looking out for news of Max’s race which will come in your letter Sunday[,] day after tomorrow. I will be real sorry if he don[’]t win this time for it will break his heart if he don[’]t, and it is an ambition that don[’]t wrong others. Richards is packing up. He leaves tomorrow for England & will be home in the fall[.] Mrs. Richards says she did not like Europe at first but now she is real attached to it. The Darleys are going to Switzerland. Darley don[’]t know much the European language except French[,] with which he is very familiar[,] only he can[’]t speak it or understand it.1 On a young gentleman from Harvard University coming to see Mrs[.] Richards the other night she told him she did not see any chair that was not occupied so he might sit on his thumb.This from a lady that has done the continent & wintered at Rome. Her conversation is interlarded with Italian phrases as it will be with French when she once gets amongst the natives. Look out. Caddy ma chérie Puisques tu vas tant lien dans le grand monde depuis quelque temps, tu as dû apprendre de ta soeur Maggy quelques peu le français. Fanny m’ecrit que tout derniérement tu as daigné diner chez les Coopers ou tu avais déjà passé plusieurs soirées. Aussi, que tu viens d’honorer Mademoiselle Porter d’une matinée chez elle. Tout cela va très bien mademoiselle. J’ai des espérances mademoiselle.Tu as beaucoup de confiance en toi-même. Tes idées quoique elevées sont encore tres accusées et tu as un grand talent pour la conversation. Je m’en souviens! elle ne s’arrête point. T’occupes-tu toujours de la litterature française ou bien as-tu perdu ton roman. Quand il paraîtra un autre roman dans le même genre je te l’enverrai. Je me flatte de connaître ton gout. Très peu de matiére imprimée beaucoup d’illustrations. Veuillez agríer mademoiselle pour vous même ainsi que pour la société brillante dont vous être l’étoile, l’expression de mes sentiments les plus distinguér. P.S. Si tu vois Katie embrasse-la de ma part et dis lui des amitiés en français [No continuation found.] 267

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[Translation.] July 2, ’69 Caddy, my darling [attached to Eakins’s letter to unknown recipient and Fanny, dated July 2, 1869] Since you are recently going so often in the fashionable world, you should have learned a few words of French from your sister Maggy. Fanny wrote me a short while ago that you have deigned to dine at the Coopers where you had already spent several evenings. Also that you just honored Mlle[.] Porter by spending a morning at her place. All that is very well[,] Mlle. I have hope for you[,] Mlle. You have a lot of self confidence. Your ideas, however lofty, are still suspect and you have a great talent for conversation. I remember! They do not stop. Do you still occupy yourself with French literature or have you lost your novel? When another similar book comes out, I will send it to you. I flatter myself to know your taste: little text and many illustrations. Please accept[,] Mlle[.], for you as well as the brilliant society of which you are the star, the expression of my most distinguished sentiments. P.S. If you see Katie embrace her for me and give her friendly regards in French. 1. This was probably a reference to F.O.C. Darley (1822–88), the American illustrator.

This letter was a mocking account of a bombastic public musical event, the National Peace Jubilee, held in Boston.

Paris[,] Thursday[,] 8 July 69. Dear Fanny, I’ve got your letter announcing Max’s victory. I am glad he beat & you give him my congratulations next time you see him.Who was that Clark that run against him[?] It seems queer that it[’]s been a week already since I wrote. I never knew a week to pass so quick[.] I have no news of Mrs[.] Schmitt & although you said in one letter she would start next 268



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day, you did not tell me she had started in the next & Emily wrote next week she was a going to come. Maybe she won[’]t start at all. The Boston Jubilee I guess was a big failure. The musicians I suppose did their best & well & I hope they got their money, but that was not the Jubilee if I understand it. The Jubilee was a Boston thing[,] a bigger [one] than New York or Philadelphia could scare up, & consisted of one hundred firemen in one hundred red shirts with one hundred sledge hammers hammering all their might on a hundred anvils, and artillery[,] a few batteries going off by electricity so as to touch them off in good time. One little page of Beethoven[’]s music played quietly at home would give a musician more satisfaction than all the anvils & cannons in the world except a Bostonian one. I guess it was a speculation affair altogether. The Bostonians are a very sharp people. Grand Peace Jubilee The grandest & glorioustest music entertainment ever seen in the known world will be given at the Boston Colyseum.The chief performers have been engaged at an immense outlay amongst the fire department of Boston & will appear in a new costume expressly ordered for the occasion. This new electric apparatus for touching off the batteries has been invented[,] perfected & installed by Professor Smythe of the Boston University ABBCCDDE &c[.] perfectly regardless of price. The choruses are so large that there is a difference of half a bar in time from the first to the last row of singers. The choicest works of Beethoven[,] Mozart & Weber have been carefully selected by Professor Jones of the Boston Normal School & set to music by a select committee of Boston gentlemen. A small pamphlet containing all the principal terms of musical criticism & teaching the correct method of using them, enabling any one of ordinary ability to criticize correctly the most difficult & perfect music after 10 minutes careful reading is sold at the door & at all book stores. Price is 15 cents. No gentleman will be without one. The wads for the cannons are selections from the opera of Rienzi & other chef d’oeuvres de Herr Wagner & are the finest specimens of sheet music & printing ever imported into this coun269

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try. There were got out expressly for the occasion at Leipzig by the celebrated maison of Breittkopf [sic, read Breitkopf] & Loggerhead, all regardless of expense. The honorable Mr[.] Morrissey[,] M.C.[,] has kindly tendered his services to beat the huge drum eight yards in diameter manufactured expressly[,] etc etc regardless[,] &c. The barometers installed in the hall under the supervision of the Boston scientific association showed at the rehearsal a fall of two inches when the singers took breath & a corresponding rise during some of the notes. Professor Poke[,] who with his numerous assistants will carefully note these marking with an electric clock[,] confidently expects some new developments of the fundamental laws of harmony. Our readers will remember the expositions of his beautiful theory last winter to those select audiences of scientific lady & gentlemen hearers who graced Faneuil hall last winter with their presence. The music begins at 3 1/2 o’clock in the afternoon of the matinée très precis. The deaf [are] especially invited to attend. The more I try to think it serious the more I can[’]t. Was there ever such a pack of fools[?] If it wasn[’]t Boston I would be sure that it was the grandest Drake[’]s Plantation Bitter advertisement or Barnum thing ever got off. And it really came about & had place in the hub of the universe. The Bostonians have music on the brain now or had. God forbid that they should get art there or they will get some hundred firemen to copy a Gerome or Meissonier a thousand times bigger than the original to hang up in their coliseum. For all its bigness[,] though[,] old fashioned people like you & me will continue to like the little original the best, and so will I hope most all Philadelphians with us & so will New York probably. New York is composed largely of rowdies[,] prize fighters[,] jail birds[,] swindlers[,] pickpockets, & Boston of scientific ladies and gentlemen who know professors intimately. The New Yorkers are the most intelligent & least pretentious & I like them the best. The sweetest young man I ever knew came from Boston & went to see Mrs[.] Richards. I have also met several in Europe. They all tell you the first thing, that they are graduated out of Harvard. [No continuation found.] 270

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Eakins recorded how the French celebrated Napoleon III with a variety of public activities. He described these formalities in detail, punctuated by accounts of his tortuous toothaches.

Monday[,] Aug 16/69. Hurrah for the 15 of August & Long live the Emperor & long may he waver.We will never forget the day Bill & me. Bill was awake all the night of the 14th bathing his head & throat & it was the second night already that I hadn[’]t slept for a toothache. In the morning Bill was much the worst off so I attended to him[,] bathing his feet with hot water & superintending his sick stomach. Toward night he got much better so that today we both went to school together but I gave out before the time & went to the dentists. At five o[’]clock yesterday seeing Bill well enough to do without me [I] went down to the old exhibition ground to see the public rejoicings as they are called & also again in the evening to see the fire works. I walked hard to ease my pain but it was no use. I passed another night without sleep & today leaving school early I went to Dubouchet[’]s. He called his oldest son[,] Victor[,] & they made a long consultation[,] examining carefully all the teeth in the neighborhood. They could not tell yet what is the matter but they ordered poultices & tomorrow he is going to hunt it with a bistouri [sic, read bistoury]. My cheek is continuing to swell very much & my eye is now only a slit. Tomorrow maybe I won[’]t see any at all. Fortunately the danger is all over[,] so he says[,] for the matter is forming nicely. My want of sleep & constant pain & fever have made one side of my face very fine and I never saw my nose so delicate. All the pretty modelling of flesh & cartillage [sic] & thin skin is brought out as I hope never to see again. But the other side I could model a better nose the first lick by throwing a little lump of putty up against the fence. If this is the kind of sore head the bears get[,] I don[’]t wonder they are cross. It burns so and the pains shoot about like an aurora borealis. But what can[’]t be cured[.] etc[.,] & so I must learn patience. As the government does everything here & the people nothing but give their money[,] here’s the programme arranged by the prefect of 271

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police & pasted up all over the city. Whereas it is meet that the French nation should rejoice. For their rejoicing will be decorated the champ [sic] de Mars with flags[,] &c. The Champs Elysees & Tuilleries Gardens & Arch of Triumph will be illuminated the evening by lights[,] etc[.,] so far apart & of such colors. Electric lights will be flashed[,] etc. The following public buildings will be illuminated. Two sets of fireworks will be set off[:] one at Trocadero [and] the other at the Place of the Throne from 9 o’clock till 9.37 minutes. The following theatre will be open free to the public & songs will be sung in praise of Napoleon. Wrestlers & tumblers give free exhibitions as follows[,] etc. Gambling stands & games of chance allowed in spaces allotted by the police. Swings & shooting at mark with balls burning in the air before reaching the ground allowed by grant from the police. No citizen is allowed to shoot or squib or set off fireworks in the street or his own house or yard. Circulations of carriages forbidden in the following places & any others deemed advisable by the police & boats forbidden on the Seine except regular entered raceboats between the following bridges[,] etc. The citizens are invited to not be disorderly. The following regiments of cavalry[,] artillery & infantry are to be under arms and will assist if necessary to prevent disorder. Here[’]s the programme[,] only it had numerous specifications. And here’s one I forget. Six greased poles with the following prizes on each[—]a gold watch[,] a silver watch[,] etc.[—]will be given for the benefit of amateurs on the Champ [sic] de Mars & so many at Place de la Throne. That illumination was very grand with imperial diadems & eagles & long live Napoleons all in gas. I could not get over to see the Champs Elysees & Tuileries after the fireworks. The bridges were so crowded. Year before last there were more than twenty crushed to death on one bridge. A French crowd is a crowd of sheep only with less sense. Now I must stop for a while for my sick eye is shut up & the well one has started to cry for the other one & so things swim. Tuesday Morning I passed a very miserable night. I could not lie down but walked the floor all night looking at the clock & the minutes seems hours till daylight. 272

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But from 8 to 9 this morning I slept very well. Several times I remember going out of my mind but I expect relief to day. As soon as Bill comes home from school we are going to the dentist as he told me to come this afternoon.The swelling has increased so I no longer look human but like a devil fish. My pretty side is dragged crooked by the other. My sick eye is opened but it is at the bottom of a deep well. I have just eaten a bowl of soup & I feel a great deal better. I will probably write again Friday to tell you how I get through with to day’s business. I ought to look over my accounts but I couldn’t see figures to day much less arrange them. I am now at DuBouchet[’]s. He cut up into my cheek near the nose & there was a great discharge of blood & matter. He can[’]t yet locate the trouble although he felt about with his knife. If the swelling continues he will cut again in two days. He assures me of a sleep tonight. I am to poultice the outside and not the inside this time. & with laudanum & sugar of lead[.] I am now sleepy & Bill will soon bring the carriage to take me home. [No continuation found.] Eakins presented another detailed accounting of his expenditures. He then described his daily routine and frequent attendance at the circus. Considering American music to be far ahead of painting in the United States, Eakins expressed hope for the future of the fine arts in his native country.

Monday night[,] Aug 30. 69. Dear Mommy, My accounts I let run on without setting to work at them for a long time but to night Bill & I had a settling between us & that gave me a good chance to send you my expenses. But I forget where I left off when I last sent you my accounts so I will commence a little way back & you will see as where to commence. Kindling & charcoal (my half) 1.00 Hammer & broom & tacks (ditto) 1.80 273

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Head & a hand plaster cast 5.00 Pair of shoes 20.00 Photograph of Gerome 1.00 Opera of Martha 2.00 Another photograph 1.00 Hair cut .50 4 Photographs life studies 8.00 1 group students 1.50 10 postage stamps 8.00 canvasses sent from Crepon[’]s old studio 5.00 Shoes 12.00 Saturday[,] April 17. I draw from bank 300 francs[,] having only 25 in pocket. Rent of chamber 69.00 Colors & brushes 2.00 Photographs from nature 4.00 " " " landscape .80 Colors & brushes & canvas[,] Chenoz’[s] bill 23.00 Washing from April 1 10.00 Petrolium & chimney 2.00 Cravate 1.80 Photographs 1.20 Comic opera the daughter of the regiment 1.50 Palette knife 1.50 Saturday[,] May the 8th[,] “I draw from the bank 300 fr.[,] thinking I was most run out but find afterwards money in my drawer.” Such was my entry in my book but I found out to night that I had not remembered to put down a bill for a suit of clothes I got. I remember I went up to see Horner [sic] that Sunday that I paid the bill & so it must have been about that time So I guess I drew out the money because I would not have enough to pay that bill & having the money forgot what it was for. I can[’]t find the bill either but I know it was about 135.00[.] I remember now that when I first went to pay the bill his wife couldn[’]t tell me what it was & told me to wait till he was over this side of the river & he would bring it [&] that must be how I paid it when Horner was here for it must have been about June 4 when Horner was here but I remember wearing my good clothes in May. but I will leave 274

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my account now as I have set it down in my book as if I paid it when I got the clothes[.] Coat[,] vest[,] pantaloons & darning old ones Circus Shinn’s catalogue and sending it on Modeling wax & tools Saloon [sic, read salon] entrance Chamber Water Plaster cast anatomical figure & Houdon[’]s cold girl Du Bouchet 8 plugs Washing Petrolium Du Bouchet[,] still another tooth Circus Circus[,] Napoleon[,] the Japanese

135.00 1.00 2.75 4.75 1.00 55.00 5.00 8.00 160.00 1.00 .80 20.00 1.00 1.00

Friday[,] June 4. Having in pocket only 4 fr.[,] I draw out 300. There remains 2053.55. On account of Poole 1 postage stamp pour 2000 fr. 2 pairs kid gloves 2 more " " "

1.00 9.50 10.00

Poole was down in the country & got me to attend to his things[.] He will pay me when he comes back. Circus 2 + Japanese once Grand Opera[,] Faust Brushes[,] Colcombs Colors at studio Canvass

3.00 3.00 13.50 3.00 1.75

Monday I draw from bank 300[.] It was smart in [sic] me to put down Monday instead of the day of the month. However[,] it don[’]t matter much. 275

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Straw hat Cure[,] Sauvage[,] Bill & me to the Japanese Postage stamps Hair cutting Charcoal Fourth of July (Barometer[,] Aunt Eliza’s money) Chamber

22.00 5.00 8.00 .50 1.00 100.00 60.00

July 11. I again draw 300 fr. Showing Mrs[.] Schmitt around Canvass & brushes Big palette Bill at Chenoz’s July 26. I again draw 300 to meet rent bills. Rent of chamber & water Rent of my studio for the three months up to the 15th of October[,] 127.75 & 2.25 to the doorkeeper Pincers to stretch canvass Loan to Bonheur

20.00 11.00 5.00 61.00 60.00 130.00 1.60 40.00

I could write you a whole French novel about that which I will do some time or other. He will pay me back in September or October[.] Twice to the circus 4.00 12 Pairs of kid gloves to be brought on by Mrs[.] Schmitt[,] the eleven pairs you ordered & one more for Max 60.00 1 month at Bonnat[’]s studio 25.00 Entrance welcome 10.00 Cravate & soap 2.80 Excursion to Mr[.] Bonheur[’]s ticket[,] etc[.,] about 7.00 Thursday the 12 August[,] I draw out 300 fr. Shoemaker[’]s bill[,] New shoes & mending old ones 30.50 Colors 5.50 New waterproof made of cloth. The other one is at last all melted up & can[’]t be worn 38.00 276



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Circus 2.00 Model 1.00 Hair cut .75 Lodging till the 16 Aug. & dinners[,] breakfasts & service & waiters during my sickness 81.60 Cast of a foot from nature 1.00 Washing since 1st June very nearly 19.50 Received note of exchange for 1020 fr. I must go to bed now[,] I am awful sleepy. Tuesday afternoon I have therefore yet in bank 520 ½ fr. of my present money from Aunt Eliza & 333½ fr. of Poppy’s to which I must add the note of exchange or 1020 fr.[,] which gives me 1353½ fr. exclusive of Aunt Eliza[’]s & I have yet in my pocket book 44½ fr. I am now right well.The hole in my cheek inside which was large enough to put my finger in is now closing up & will soon be well. Last week I had a little touch from my old enemy diarrhoea but that is over too. This is afternoon that I [am] staying home to write. For the last month it is hard work for me to scare up the courage to write. It takes an hour to walk to school[,] which is between 3 & 4 miles. It begins at ½ past seven or really ¼ of 8 from laziness of the boys. We go get our breakfast[,] Bill & me[,] & then go to school & get there in time. Then I eat again & come back to my own studio & work till 6 o’clock. Then I get my dinner & don[’]t feel like doing anything at all[,] not even reading[,] but going right to bed so as to get up again in time the next morning. Bonnat is now gone to the country & I will stop [at] his studio at the end of this week probably & work only in my own for in 3 weeks from then our own school is open following up my first intention. On Saturday nights we often go over to the circus. It is very fine there now. I never saw so good a circus. To night I am going to see the Bonheurs that I have not seen for a good while & tomorrow Bill Sartain & I are going over to see the Darleys[,] who invites us every time I meet him & promises to play music if I will come. He thinks American organs better than European ones & American organists about as good. I believe it & wish you could say as much of American artists[,] which 277

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will come of course as soon as the attention has been paid to painting that has to music. There are a thousand musicians in America to every painter[,] ten thousand maybe. Mrs[.] Schmitt will soon be coming back & then I will see if she has room to take Fanny[’]s book & Bill Crowell[’]s little one if I can find it. I got a letter from him the week I was sick & one from Max last week & I will try to answer them soon. I have two bottles of the kind of cider that she liked up at Messchert[’]s & wish they were safe in my father[’]s house. I don[’]t know how in the world to get them home & think maybe I’ll have to keep them till I come myself. They were brought me by Sauvage & are thus genuine. My letter did not come to me Sunday & is not yet come but will probably arrive tomorrow morning. I am very glad Mommy did not suffer with those roots. I am sure Barker is a good dentist & glad she likes him. How is Uncle Emmor & folks[?] By the time you get this letter you can write me the return trip of Uncle Tom and tell me how they all liked the sea shore. Did they go to Long Beach.[?] I think I’ll go there myself some day. It would give me queer feelings to see a place that made such strong impressions on me when a little child. [No continuation found.] Eakins described to his father his studies with Léon Bonnat, pointing out that he allowed his students to do as they pleased, giving no specific direction. Eakins indicated again how important it was for a young artist to persevere and not give up.

Paris[,] Sept. 8. 69 Dear Father I have now given up going to Bonnat, he is in the country, his native town of Bayonne. His big picture of the assumption of the virgin, that took the medal of honor, he sold to his church for the bare cost of canvass & paint—His city sent him to Paris to study. He could not get the prize of Rome, but only a mention. The councils talked it over & told him they would send him to Rome without the prize if he had rather study there than in Paris & so he went. Bonnat is now a big man but the other fellow who took the prize is already forgotten—they say it’s a 278

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kind of ovation when Bonnat comes home. I am very glad to have gone to Bonnat & to have had his criticisms, but I like Gerome best I think. I will send you Bonnat’s photograph. He has a queer shaped head & looks as if he might be anything at all from a philanthropist to a murderer. His forehead is very low but it is very wide & behind his head is high. He is the most timid man, I ever saw in my life & has trouble to join three words together. If you ask him the simplest question about what he thinks the best way to do a thing, he won[’]t tell you. He says do it just as you like. He will never impose any way of working on his boys, & so some commence drawing first & some slap on the color first and draw with it afterwards[,] smearing it about[,] scraping off & plastering it on with a knife or their fingers or any way & others only rub on color very lightly with their fingers or small brushes & he never finds fault with any thing but the result. Crepon says Bonnat was almost worried to death by his old classic teacher who wanted him to do the thing his way[,] & Bonnat couldn’t & the reason was—because he saw better than his teacher although he did such bad work. His teacher told him he would have to stop painting & then he went to Delaroche[,] who was a very hard master, & took strong likes & dislikes[,] told him to go & be a shoemaker, that was all he was fit for. A few years more & he was as big as the biggest of them. Couture came near giving up painting on account of his masters & his conclusion is the best thing a master can do is to let his pupils alone. Bonnat is still so young, his troubles are fresh in his mind & this is why he has no system. [No continuation found.] Eakins contemplated another visit to Philadelphia but rejected the idea because it would interrupt his progress. He preferred the notion of taking a trip to Algiers[,] where he could practice painting and color out-of-doors.

Paris[,] Sept. 14. 69 Dear Father I might come home again this winter. But I would not on any account, much as I want to see you all[,] for it would only put [me] back a good 279

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deal further, the big day that I am always looking to now when I shall come home again to live. So a little more patience. I am all alone, and you are missing but one. Twenty days at least would have to be spent on the winter sea, and the thought of returning to France so soon, would not let me get regularly to work & the work could not be of the kind that I am most needing now. I think maybe my best plan would be to work at school till the rain begins, and then go over to Algiers in the sunlight & paint landscape. Open air painting is now important to me to strengthen my color and to study light. [No continuation found.] This letter consisted of a witty account of the sculptor JeanBaptiste Carpeaux’s antics.

Paris. Sept. 28. 69. Dear Father— I send a photograph of a group in front of the new Opera House that was modelled by Carpeaux.1 He probably models now better than any one in the world & is a graduate of our school & prize of Rome. He was the one that tapped the minister on the belly at the great dinner & motioned to the other boys not to fill themselves with the wine being given them, but ask for the bully little wine he had in his glass. After the dinner was done he pulled out his little black pipe & talked to it affectionately & then smoked it. He has an intense disgust for certain respects & proprieties. He was the man who called the Prince a damned little pig, because he wouldn’t hold still, while he was modelling him. But for all this he is in very high favor at the court. The Emperor recently gave him a general’s daughter to marry who was very rich & the Empress gave away the bride & so on. They can’t afford to quarrel with such a man. I guess they think of Couture[’]s great picture, the Baptism of the Imperial Prince with the great Napoleon coming down from heaven to bless the ceremony. He vows he will never finish it. [No continuation found.] 1. Jean Baptiste Carpeaux (1827–75) was an esteemed French academic sculptor, best known for The Dance on the facade of the Paris Opera House.

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This letter concerned Joanna’s and William’s activities, including negative comments on Emily.

Friday. Oct 15. 69 Bill Sartain went over last Sunday to his new hotel [at] No 4 rue Laval & then we went to a new place instead of Martin[’]s & got dinner together. He was to come to see me last night or to night & so he will come to night & on Sunday afternoon we are going to go together to a concert. Fortunately Cure & my other friends have got back or I would feel very lonely. But Cure[’]s father is in Paris & he goes to dine with him so I dine yet all by myself over at Martin’s & go to bed early so as to get up & have my breakfast & be at school at the right time. Mrs[.] Schmitt goes home tomorrow in a Hamburg ship. Tell Max that Joanna[’]s affair is going on all right but slowly. The papers which I must now take to an agent are considerably increased in number since Drexel & Harjes have been working them & what with translations[,] &c.[,] if the number much increases they won[’]t go into my pockets anymore & I will have to borrow a market basket. I wonder if American Life insurance companies are that way & I wonder how long it took to give them the money. I just got the papers & have not looked through them all yet[.] I will[,] though[,] to see if there is anything in them about Joanna[’]s skating. Bill Sartain will probably want to look too to see if there is anything about something else but I won[’]t let him[,] though[,] for the love I bear Joanna. I am not accustomed to read my letters but before reading them to myself & only when I saw Mrs. Sartain is much better I read it before I thought that he hadn[’]t known she was sick & so was the trouble. Write to me if there is any news of his mother to give, not to Bill & I will tell him. I think this is best for if Poppy wrote to him it would look like interference. Where it will be asked for then we can give it direct. I think if Emily has put her mind on accompanying her mother that she would not stop even at misrepresentations of her health but I do not think it likely even then she would accomplish it for it would probably only bring Bill home. 281

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I think likely Bill did not mention the plan of bringing his mother on. If so I hope for God[’]s sake Poppy didn[’]t give Emily that hint ever, if Bill himself didn[’]t & was content to wait more for news, keeping his decision to himself. He knows that Emily is trying to get on here. Her letters are full of society news[,] &c[.,] & she would no doubt now like to know—the Bonheurs & European[,] etc[.] This may seem ridiculous but it is not to a girl who has perverted herself like Emily[.] I ought to have written to Bill Crowell two months ago but I keep putting it off. I am so tired at nights I hate to see paper & ink. Gerome is gone [and] Boulanger corrects our work. The weather is still good, only a little cold. When I come home I will make the cat’s likeness & Caddy’s too. [No continuation found.] Eakins complained about rain and dampness in Paris, then went on to praise the great progress he had made in art. He pointed out that he was now able to make “sketches and compositions.”

Paris[,] Novem. 5. 69 [To his family] Bill Sartain came to see me last night & he is well except a cold & I have a cold too that set me coughing to day. I will try [to] get it well. It has been raining now for two weeks every day & sometimes it pours & is very dark so that I feel anxious to get away. Bill Sartain in spite of his resolution to work through the winter at Paris is going away, probably starting off in the middle of next week. There is no news at Paris of any kind. Rain[,] dampness & French fire places[,] no color even in flesh[,] nothing but dirty greys. If I had to live in water & cold mist I had rather be a cold blooded fish & not human. I made a good drawing at school this week & if I can keep my health I think I can make a name as a painter for I am learning to make solid heavy work. I can construct the human figure now as well as any of Gerome[’]s boys[,] counting the old ones[,] & I am sure I can push my color farther so I keep working hard & thinking of the reward of my troubles & long studies. My attention will now 282

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be much divided from my school work to making up sketches & compositions now that I am getting such a good start[.] I have a good fire going that warms my back & I hold my feet up on a chair to keep them from the draught that blows in from under the doors & sashes & up the chimney. The French know no more about comfort than the man in the moon. [No continuation found.] In an important confessional letter to his father, Eakins declared his belief that he had completed his studies in France and that it would be a mistake to remain in school longer than necessary. He explained that he had gotten his bearings as a painter and learned to depend on his own judgment, not that of his teacher, Gérôme. One of his most important discoveries was that conscientious study, not polish, was key to good art.

[fall 1869] Dear Father[,] I feel now that my school days are at last over and sooner than I dared hope, what I have come to France for is accomplished so let us look to Fourth of July, as I once looked for it before & for Christmas after. I am as strong as any of Gerome[’]s pupils, and I have nothing now to gain by remaining. What I have learned I could not have learned at home for beginning Paris is the best place. My attention to the living model even when I was doing my worst work has benefited me & improved my standard of beauty. It is bad to stay at school after being advanced as far as I am now. The French boys sometimes do & learn to make wonderful fine studies, but I notice those who make such studies seldom make good pictures, for to make these wonderful studies they must make it their special trade, almost must stop learning & pay all their attention to what they are putting on their canvass rather than in their heads & their business becomes a different one from the painter who paints better even a study if he takes his time to it, than those who work in the schools to show off to catch a medal, to please a professor or catch the prize of Rome. 283

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I do not know if you understand. An attractive study is made from experience & calculations. The picture maker sets down his grand land marks & lets them dry and never disturbs them, but the study maker must keep many of his landmarks entirely in his head for he must paint at the first lick & only part at a time & that must be entirely finished at once & so that a wonderful study is an accomplishment & not power. There are enough difficulties in painting itself, without multiplying them[,] without searching what it is useless to vanquish & the best artists never make what is so often thought by the ignorant, to be flashing studies. A teacher can do very little for a pupil & should only be thankful if he don’t hinder him & the greater the master, mostly the less he can say. What I have arrived to I have not gained, without any hard plodding work. My studies and worries have made me thin. For a long time I did not hardly sleep at nights, but dreamed all the time about color & forms & often nearly always they were crazinesses in their queerness. So it seems to me almost new & strange now, that I do with great ease some things that I strained so hard for & sometimes thought impossible to accomplish. I have had the benefit of a good teacher with good classmates. Gerome is too great to impose much, but aside his overthrowing completely the ideas I had got before at home, & then telling me one or two little things in drawing, he has never been able to assist me much & oftener bothered me by mistaking my troubles. Sometimes in my spasmodic efforts to get my tones of color, the paint got thick & he would tell me that it was the thickness of the paint that was hindering me from delicate modelling or delicate changes. How I suffered in my draftings & I would change again, make a fine drawing and rub weak sickly color on it & if my comrades or my teacher told me it was better, it almost drove me crazy, & again I would go back to my old instinct & make frightful work again. It made me doubt of myself, of my intelligence[,] of everything & yet I thought things looked so beautiful & clean that I could not be mistaken. I think I tried every road possible. Some times I took all advice, sometimes I shut my ears & listened to none. My worst troubles are over, I know perfectly what I am doing and can run my modelling, without polishing or hiding or sneaking it away to the end. I can finish as far as I can see. What a relief to me when I saw every thing falling in its place, as I always had an instinct that it would if I could ever get my bearings all correct—only once. 284

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 w Paris[,] Nov. 29th[,] 1869[.] I am going to Spain. I have been pretty sick here in spite of my precautions against the weather & feel worn out. I will go straight to Madrid, stay a few days to see the pictures & then go to Seville. Late in fall 1869, Eakins had become sick and tired, worn down by weeks of bad weather in Paris. Too, he felt ready to strike out on his own as an independent painter. Therefore, it comes as no surprise that he should choose Spain as his starting point. That country provided not only a warm, sunny climate but also served as a catalyst for his growing belief in the honest portrayal of real things, persons, and events. The museums of Madrid and Seville offered an array of paintings, primarily Spanish, that he greatly admired; but even more, the intense sunlight of the country threw the natural world into sharp relief. Moreover, any number of picturesque everyday subjects—gypsies, dancers, bullfighters, and circus people—attracted his eye. A company of dancers was the theme of his first major painting, Street Scene in Seville (1870). He completed this work before returning briefly to Paris just prior to sailing for the United States in June 1870. Eakins explained in a long letter to his father why he had gone to Spain before settling permanently in the United States. His primary reason was to study firsthand the naturalism of “the good Spanish work,” examples by Diego Rodríguez de Silva y Velázquez that far surpass their opposite—the bombastic paintings of Peter Paul Rubens. He went on to describe the cultural landscape of Madrid, which he found very much to his liking.

Fonda del Peninsular[,] Madrid[,] Thursday Dec 2. 1869 Dear Father, I suppose & hope you got my last letter[,] telling you of my progress[,] my determination to come home to stay, early this summer, asking you 285

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for another draft soon of not less than a thousand francs for Drexel refused to give me a note for less on his correspondence which makes me have to carry all my gold with me. I left Paris Monday night in a pouring rain of course. All my friends came to see me off & Billy Sartain will miss me very much[,] like I miss him. I lent my studio to Cure & Sauvage. If it had not been winter time & if I had not known & feared the Atlantic voyage, not being well, I would have come home straight, but since I am now here in Madrid I do not regret at all my coming. I have seen big painting here. When I had looked at all the paintings by all the masters I had known I could not help saying to myself all the time, it[’]s very pretty but it[’]s not all yet. It ought to be better, but now I have seen what I always thought ought to have been done & what did not seem to me impossible. O what a satisfaction it gave me to see the good Spanish work[,] so good[,] so strong[,] so reasonable[,] so free from every affectation. It stands out like nature itself & I am glad to see the Rubens[’s] things that is the best he ever painted & to have them alongside the Spanish work. I always hated his nasty vulgar work & now I have seen the best he ever did I can hate him too. His best picture he ever made stands by a Velasquez. His best quality that of light on flesh is knocked by Velasquez & that is Rubens only quality while it is but the beginning of Velasquez’s. Rubens is the nastiest[,] most vulgar[,] noisy painter that ever lived. His men are twisted to pieces. His modelling is always crooked & dropsical & no marking is ever in its right place or anything like what he sees in nature, his people never have bones, his color is dashy & flashy[,] his people must all be in the most violent action, must use the strength of Hercules if a little watch is to be wound up, the wind must be blowing great guns even in a chamber or dining room, everything must be making a noise & tumbling about[,] there must be monsters too for his men were not monstrous enough for him. His pictures always put me in mind of chamber pots & I would not be sorry if they were all burnt. Tuesday afternoon at 2½ o’clock we started into Spain. It was still raining. The night was very cold in the mountains. At daylight we were crossing mountains with snow covering them all, at 10 minutes of seven we commenced descending.The sun got up in a clear sky[,] a thing I had not seen for a very long while[,] & at half past nine we were in Madrid. I was pretty weak & sick from my diarrhoea but the sight of the sun 286



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did a great deal to cure me & now I feel right well & almost as strong as ever. The sky here is a very deep blue[,] the air is dry mountain air & the temperature 40 Fahrenheit. The people all cover the nose & mouth & wrap themselves very warm & I do the same thing. My appetite[,] which I had lost entirely[,] is as entirely come back again. Tomorrow night I will start to Seville[,] where I will try to stay some time. Madrid is the cleanest city I ever saw in my life. The ladies walk the promenades with long trails like in Philadelphia & just as rich dresses what is never seen in Paris, & I don[’]t think they are much more soiled when they come home than if they had been to a ball. The hotels are clean[,] the privies are large[,] commodious & built on the American not French pattern & the floors are everywhere covered with carpet or thick matting even in the picture galleries. The peasants & muleteers have very bright pretty colored dresses[,] sometimes though they are dressed entirely in skins with the wool left on or worn off by age. There are a great many ink shops in Madrid where a man sells a great many kinds of things he still advertises & pays most attention to his ink. What in the world the Spaniards want with ink I don[’]t know unless for their generals to write pronouncements & proclamations with. I went to church this morning to hear mass. The music on the organ is the queerest I ever heard. It is the quickest dance nigger jig kind of music[,] then its echo in the distance. Then another jig & it comes so sudden each time or you you [sic] can[’]t get accustomed to it. The whole cathedral floors are covered with thick matting & there are no seats. The people all keep on their knees[,] men & women[,] & from time to time fall their face on the ground like a Hindoo sticking the backside up in the air and then back on the knees again. Friday afternoon[.] The ladies of Madrid are very pretty, about the same or a little better than the Parisians but not so fine as the American girls. A good many of them are fair but the proportion is not so great of fair ones as in America. The country women are often course [sic] with that ugly hanging of the eye that is often supposed to represent the whole Spanish type. I have been going all the time since I have been here & know Madrid now better than I know Versailles or Germantown & to night I leave for Seville. I have seen the big work every day & I will never forget it. It has given me more courage than anything else ever could. The cooking is very nice here with one exception[:] I don[’]t like stinking 287

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fish cooked in garlic[,] egg & oil with fresh lemon juice squeezed over it although the Spaniards[,] even the delicate ladies[,] seem very fond of it. The Spaniards[,] as far as I have seen them[,] seem to be a very good average sort of people, with good ideas or none at all. I would not tell anyone about my coming home. Bill Sartain thinks [that] best too. I would not want anyone to make plans hanging on my coming, & I do not care for Schussele or the young artists to know of it. [No continuation found.] Eakins told of his departure from Madrid to Seville, his settling in his living quarters, his visits to see gypsies working in a tobacco factory, and his attendance at the city’s museum to see works by Bartolomé Esteban Murillo.

Seville[,] Tuesday[,] Dec 7. [1869] [To his father?] I left Madrid on Friday in good health & spirits. The next morning we had a breakfast at 8 o’clock. From then I’ve had nothing to eat. Not a single station where you could buy a piece of bread. We got into Seville at half past five & so I had the sick head ache. As soon as I passed my baggage at the custom house a set of cab drivers seized my luggage[.] One took my valise[,] another my paint box & a third my sketching umbrella. They fought amongst themselves a long time & I could catch a glimpse of my baggage only from time to time as it was raised above the heads of those fighting for it. It was like a chicken with a big chunk of something good to eat. One has it & all the rest try to get it. I knew[,] however[,] that it would not be lost so it amused me. At last I got seated in the omnibus[,] the one with my valise in it[,] & a Spanish gentleman made the other omnibus drivers bring my paint box & umbrella & put into the same omnibus with me & my valise. Then we drove to the hotel & I was shown my room. No sooner was I in than three omnibus drivers came in & all wanted to be paid. I asked the head waiter how much to give & he asked & they all answered so I asked the waiter first which one had brought me & he showed me & I asked him how much & the man said 288



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80 cents. 20 cents for me[,] 20 for my valise[,] 20 for my box & 20 for my umbrella. I asked the police tarif. There was none. The police don[’]t meddle with such things & the omnibuses don[’]t belong to the hotels. There was a great deal of swearing & finally 60 cents was agreed on as the tribute to the thief & was paid. As soon as he was paid[,] the other one wanted to be paid because he said he had my baggage & I had no right to go in the other man[’]s omnibus & he wanted 80 cts[.] & I told him to quit the room. The other coachman had not gone but had stayed to support the demand of the first. God knows what the third one was bullying for. I told them I would not pay & they blackguarded & stopped the doorway & at last one following me back raised his butt of the whip at me [&] when I clapped my hand on my pistol[,] the servant cried to the other servants & a dozen came rushing up stairs & they seized on the coachman & pitched them out of my room & I locked the door & heard them scuffling & tumbling down stairs. Then I washed myself & just as I was getting ready to come down to dinner[,] the head servant came & told me to please give thirty cents to divide between the two others. It was a request of the proprietor of the hotel who had been fighting with them ever since. Of course I could not then well refuse & so I paid 90 cents to ride about 4 squares & I concluded cab drivers like oysterman have no conscience & only bless myself that they were not New York ones for they are the same all over when not restrained by a police as at Paris. I eat my dinner & went right to bed & next morning felt better, but I could not go out for it was raining. In the afternoon I began to feel a pain in my bowels & a diarrhoea set in[,] which gave me a good deal of trouble ever since but it is now past[;] last night I was up only three times [but] my pains have entirely ceased & although it is now night I have not been to the backhouse all day. It seems the diarrhoea is a sort of tribute every traveller has to pay to the city of Seville on arriving & it was therefore not to the orange I had eaten & which I thought at first was the cause. But even with my diarrhoea I think I am better than I was at Paris, for I am fatter & I can eat heartily & at breakfast take an om[e]lette & a big piece of beef steak. When I was in Paris I had to live on mutton chops for my stomach would not support a beef steak. I think it was the good sunlight of Madrid that set me up. Sunday I staid in all day. Monday morning the rain slackened a little & I went to the banker & got a letter & to the big tobacco factory where 289

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there are 5000 women[,] Spanish & gypsies employed making segars [sic] & segarettes [sic]. They bring their cradles & babies & little children & dinner with them. I never saw so much tobacco in my life[.] Some of the little girls were very beautiful & little things of 10 years old made the segars & segarettes & packed tobacco as fast as the grown women. Then I had a very sudden call & found great use for my Spanish for I would never have had time to get home. I had only been away about an hour & a half but I came home then to stay all day. The rain commenced & poured & except an hour or so here & there it does nothing but pour all the time. All night it sounds like another flood a coming. I never saw such a place for rain. But it is a nice warm rain like a summer rain[,] the kind Aunt Eliza always used to want. In the streets the trees are all loaded down with oranges. I can see from my window long rows of them for the hotel is on a sort of a square. Some limbs are almost come down to the ground with them. To day I ventured out again when the rain held up a little & I went with a Frenchman & an Englishman to the Museum & we saw the many Murillos, but the museum is very small in every way compared with the Madrid one. Then we went to the Cathedral for they are both close to the hotel & we saw many ginufluxions [sic] & riches.Then we came home and as we were coming we saw a man that was stabbed. We heard singing in a little tavern & suddenly the singing stopped & there was a dispute. It had not lasted 30 seconds when a man [No continuation found.] He visited the Alcazar and appreciated the contribution that the Moors had made to civilization.

Seville[,] Dec 12[,] 1869 [To his father] I went to see the gardens & palace of the Alcazar where the Moorish kings used to live. It is as perfect an architecture as the Egyptian, Greek or Gothic & just as beautiful, maybe more beautiful & it is well built for it looks as new as if it had just been done. We have to thank those moors for our greatest sciences, they did the big work for us, they started 290

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them. Algebra, chemistry, astronomy, geometry, they are our masters. [No continuation found.] In this letter, Eakins described the posing of his seven-yearold model, Carmelita, for a painting he was executing.

[Christmas 1869] [To his little sister] Some candy given me I ate a little & then gave all the rest to a dear little girl Carmalita [sic, read Carmelita] that I am painting. I don’t think she ever had such a nice Christmas before. She is only 7 years old & has to dance in the street every day. But she likes better to stand still & be painted. She looks down at a little card on the floor so as to keep her head still & in the right place & when we gave her the goodies she eats some & puts the nicest ones down on the card so she would be looking at them all the time while she poses. [No continuation found.]

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v Eakins described his wanderings with his friend Harry Moore, who had joined him in Seville. The environs of the city had rejuvenated him.

Seville[,] January 6, 1870 I am painting all the morning till three. Then I walk out into the country with Harry Moore. Then back to dinner & then we sit in the dining room by the fire & talk for I am the only one that can talk with him & he likes to talk very much, and besides the dining room is more pleasant, than my own room at night, for it has fire in it, a thing not to be had in chambers & it is a little chilly at night, although so warm & bright in daytime. I am very well & it seems to me when I breathe the dry warm air & look at the bright sun, that I never was so strong & I wonder if I can ever be sick or weak again. The Spaniards I like better than any people I ever saw & so does Harry Moore. He notices things more than ordinary people & remarks the absence of every servility & at the same time a great watching for the comforts or feelings of others. He can see farther out of the corner of his eye than anyone I ever knew & he sees everywhere gentleman repressing the curiosity of the little children at our queer motions, or at least trying to prevent its exhibition. We walk out every day into the country. One day we went up along the river. At every quarter of a mile there would be little groups of young men & women, much like our old picnic parties, family affairs, & they would be dancing.We stopped a long while with our party, the girls were so beautiful & one man came with a little pig skin full of very fine wine & gave us all a drink[,] making us take first because we were strangers. How different a reception we would have got in England & even at home. I don’t know if we would have liked to see two foreigners stop to look at our party because of its pretty girls. [No continuation found.] Eakins commented on his good health and that of Harry and William, who had joined the pair in Seville. He remarked on various “types” that appealed to him.

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Andalusia[,] Sevilla[,] Jan. 16th[,] 70 Harry Moore, Billy Sartain & I all three in fine health & spirits, it is warm & bright. I know ever so many gypsies[,] men & women, circus people, street dancers, theatre dancers and bull fighters. The bull fighters are quiet, gentle looking men. [No continuation found.]

He was making pictures in the sunlight—a difficult task— yet was content with his situation in Seville.

Seville[,] Jan. 26. 70 Dear Father: My student life is over now & my regular work is commenced. I am forming a very desirable acquaintance at Seville. I speak Spanish enough every day to kill or deafen a Spaniard if my whole conversation of the day could be addressed to one person. I have started the most difficult kind of a picture, making studies in the sunlight. The proprietor of the Hotel gave us permission, to work up on top of the roof where we can study right in the sun. Something unfor[e]seen may occur & my pictures may be failures, these first ones. I cannot make a picture fast yet. I want experience in my calculations. Sometimes I do a thing too soon & I have to do it all over again. Sometimes it takes me longer to do a thing than I thought it would & that interferes with something ahead & I have a good many botherations, but I am sure I am on the right road to good work & that is better than being far in a bad road. I am perfectly comfortable, have every facility for work[,] especially sunshine, roof & beautiful models, good natured natural people desirous of pleasing me. If I get through with what I am at, I want a few weeks of morning sunlight. Then I will make a bull fighter picture & maybe a gypsy one. [No continuation found.]

Eakins complained to his father about the frustrations of picture making.

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Seville[,] March 14—70 [To his father?] The trouble of making a picture for the first time is something frightful. You are thrown off the track by the most contemptable [sic] little things that you never thought of & then there are your calculations all to the devil & your paint is wet & it dries slow, just to spite you, in the spot where you are the most hurried. However if we have blue sky, I think I can finish the picture & it won’t be too bad[,] if not too clumsy. [No continuation found.] He remarked on his continuing troubles in painting. He and Moore rode horses and attended bullfights.

Seville[,] March 29, 1870 Dear Father: (I have just got your letter telling me to write once a week & not neglect it, so I will write now once a week, altho I may not always have much to say. I must say that when I would see Bill (Sartain) writing & knew that his letter would tell you I was right well. I often fall into the temptation to let the week slip by.) I have been lately working very hard & often in much trouble & when night came I would be very lazy. Sometimes I am at work at 6 o’clock & except to take my two meals I work on till 6 at night & then eat my dinner & then after dinner, I don’t feel like doing anything at all but going to bed. If all the work I have put on my picture could have been straight work I could have had a hundred pictures at least, but had to change & bother, paint in & out. Picture making is new to me, there is the sun & gay colors & a hundred things you never see in a studio light & ever so many botherations that no one out of the trade could ever guess at. I hope to soon be over the worst part. We take a day most every week to do nothing, working on Sundays. Then we get horses and gallop off into the country & we mostly average 297

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40 miles and that makes us sleep well. It is more pleasant than walking for we go so fast & far & then rest all the middle of the day & look at the sky & eat our dinner. The bull fights here are the best two in Spain & the bull fighters are now arriving. They are very fine men. I like them extremely. [No continuation found.]

He acknowledged that his lack of experience in painting caused his troubles, but he was continually learning.

Seville[,] April 28, 1870 My want of experience in picture making has made me lose weeks of time, but I am not in the least disheartened, as your last letter found. I will know so much better how to go about another one. My picture will be an ordinary sort of picture, with good things here and there so that a painter can see it is at least earnest clumsiness. There are more things to attend to than in a life study & so sometimes I have to put down good study work & then found it did not go with something more important & it all had to be painted over again & in painting every alteration you make does great harm. [No continuation found.]

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Chapter 6  w The Spanish Notebook (1870)

v Eakins’s trip to Spain gave rise to an important piece of writing: his so-called Spanish notebook. The only surviving document of its kind from Eakins’s hand, the notebook consisted of a random collection of observations about painting—his own and that of both earlier and contemporary masters. Most of his positive remarks were inspired by pictures by Velázquez, José Ribera, and Rembrandt, but he also offered praise, especially in technical matters, to Couture, Bonnat, Henri-Alexandre-Georges Regnault, Mariano Fortuny, and Pierre-François-Eugène Giraud. He gave mixed reviews to Anthony van Dyck and Francisco Goya, and condemned Eugène Delacroix, writing that his drawing was “impossible.” The Spanish notebook was where Eakins uttered his famous remark, “I must resolve never to paint in the manner of my master,” referring to Gérôme. Most of this document was concerned with technical observations, both on his own painting and the works of others. Eakins used the notebook, in part, as a “reminder” of how to paint. He cautioned himself to “divide up my energies and my work methods” when starting a picture, “to achieve my broad effect from the very beginning,” and to add color once the form (drawing) had been established. He also made notes about how to draw, occasionally introducing anatomical observations. And he gave much attention to the way the appearance of a painting was altered by the illumination at hand. The Spanish notebook was probably not intended for anyone’s eyes but Eakins’s. The disorganized observations on art and technique no doubt helped the artist clarify his thinking and reminded him of paths that he might take in his creative work. More concerned with “how-to” than with ideas or expression, the notebook forecast the largely technical tone of Eakins’s future essays on art.

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[Translated from French.] F. De Menendez still life, very finished and very powerful. The color is rather thick and you can see one place where a print has removed all the color. Goya. I never saw more character in children’s heads than his studies for a large family portrait. He changed positions slightly & made abominable stiff common place work. His studies rubbed on yellow ground darker than his flesh. He would have done better to have worked on his pictures from nature[,] commencing without if the people wouldn’t sit[?]. The pictures of Castiglione are of a very fine color. The pictures of Titian, of Veronese and Tintoretto do not show much cracking. In Titian’s picture the “rain” on Danae and the thigh of the female figure show cracking in the light areas, but the shadows, which are very dark and strongly colored, do not show any at all. The Velasquez paintings are not cracked, although there is more impasto than in Titian or even with Veronese. I must resolve never to paint in the manner of my master [patron]. One can hardly expect to be stronger [more forceful] than he, and he is far from painting like the Ribera or the Velasquez works, although he is as strong [forceful] as any painter of polished surfaces [literally = floor polisher]. Never waste time drawing clavicles or ribs or serrati muscles before finishing up the color. All the progress I have made so far has been the result of the discoveries that have permitted me to divide my energies and my work methods. Let us ever divide things up so as to get as strong a start as possible. This is the way I think the [Velázquez] tapestry weaver was painted, the finest piece of painting I have ever seen. He drew her without paying any attention to her features. Except that he did place her head and arms correctly. Then he painted her very solidly without looking for, or even taking note of, any of the folds of the drapery, and perhaps sought color harmonies at different points [then] repainting, for the color is excessively thick at the neck and all the more delicate areas. Finally he scumbled [frotté] over it when it was completely dry, using tones already prepared, and only then did he complete his drawing that indicated the features. 302



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I think Ribera and Rembrandt proceeded in the same way, the only [method], in my opinion, that can give both delicacy and strength at the same time. The Van Dycks in Madrid are superb in their draftsmanship, but appear very inferior along side of the [paintings of] Velasquez and Ribera because they were probably painted directly [au premier coup], and he was not able to employ the pigmentation [la pâte], which would have destroyed the delicacy of the modeling. This is also why studies of the head by Goya are so weak in appearance although [they are] modeled like the Van Dycks. It is not prejudice that persuades me Velasquez didn’t paint the folds of the doublet directly [au premier coup] since you can see that the folds are simply scumblings of dark on light. Besides, it’s quite in the manner of Bonnat and Fortuny, and my own instincts have always led me in that direction, and created for me all my difficulties. As soon as my things [i.e., my preliminary arrangement] are in place, I shall aggressively seek to achieve my broad effect from the very beginning. I must always apply as much light as possible from the very beginning. This I must never forget.This was my undoing at Bonnat’s, where I drew quite well. The weaver of Velasquez, although having much impasto, has no roughness at all to catch the light. Therefore he is more successful than Bonnat. Paint as heavily [with impasto] as I like, but never leave any roughness. The things of Velasquez are almost made to slide on. Ribera also works very smoothly, but withal he hollows out the folds in the flesh of his old men and fills the depressions with a transparent shadow color. Velasquez does a lot of glazing with quite transparent color in the shaded areas, but it is very solidly painted underneath. Always try to give as little form as I can at the outset so as to paint the entire picture in a single day. Work solidly right from the start. When drawing with color, always use a palette knife every time it’s a matter of placing one tone on top of another of a rather different value. Even in Velasquez one sometimes sees the earlier sketch beginning to show through. 303

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Goya had the same approach as Gilbert Stuart. Examine the things of Stuart to see if he was able to achieve luminosity. Goya’s drawing can be as exquisite as a Stuart. Delacroix’s sense of color prompted him involuntarily to seek tones [i.e., to conceive things tonally] throughout the entire picture at the same time. He covered [the picture] completely every day, but also he attempted to model as little as possible, but it was already too much, and his pictures are abominable, and generally the drawing is impossible. His men are monkeys. He had no method and it was the [illegible] and purely mechanical difficulties that defeated him, and defeated him completely. One can’t hope to experience color better than in Delacroix. Let us profit by his faults and go a lot further than he did. Don’t change fresh color by putting another tone on top of it. This way I achieved real luminosity, and the next day it was dull. Remove all traces of color with a rag after using the palette knife. Never forget how small a serratus muscle is compared with the mass. One has difficulty if one makes it quite small.

A form has no relationship with the form beside it, but a relationship will exist with another form at the other end of the body or rather with all the rest of the body.

Painting by Giraud [of a] Toreador and a priest. “A” [letter referring to a designated part of the illustration in the manuscript] is the wall and a framed black engraving, both caressed by sunlight. He was quite careful to avoid putting any colored object in the sunlight, which allowed him to extend his range considerably and to give the toreador’s costume the proper amount of coloration. 304



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Painting by Regnault: the dancer [Salomé] who asked for the head of St. John. Black hair, background a yellow curtain; the very richly dressed young woman in the light, having a silver platter and a sabre with an ivory handle. The woman is in half-light, which has [permitted] the painter to make the greatest possible contrast; the hair exceedingly black, the yellow light, the color (that is) that lends itself best to the light, leaving him all the brilliant colors to do the costume and the accessories in the half-light. So all the other pictures around it seem weak. I ought to have painted my dance in the streets [Street Scene in Seville] in another manner. I ought to have painted directly [au premier coup] some red object or other in the sun, and my figures to the right; then the wall and the sky, and let it dry. Afterwards, I ought to have painted the figures over it, and finally covered the objects on the right, which would not have produced a red cast. I would have saved enormously in time and labor, and my picture would not have seemed dull. Looking at the little Bonnat picture at the Salon, I see that he did exactly the same thing, painting his figures against the wall.

Three women painted against the wall after it had dried. On the left, handsome costumes worn by Arabs and illuminated. Couture’s decadence [i.e., Romans of the Decadence] would have been much stronger if he had paid attention to such things: sometimes he had 305

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to give up something in the way of color, sometimes something in the way of light. Always establish the strong colors before finally painting the delicate colors, such as the lights. Never forget this. Ribera took great care in his big painting in Madrid to let white show through the light. Never draw the head and neck with the sterno cleido mastoidiens muscles.They seem to be added only to complicate the interior muscles, being more prominent, simpler in movement, each one just performing its part and fitting into the larger planes of movement. Always draw the neck and the head in connection with the back, and the shoulders with the back, but never draw the shoulders from the neck nor the neck from the shoulders, which would be points of departure contrary to anatomy and contrary to nature. At one time my drawing was exceedingly poor, and I had to take inordinate pains only because my easel was slanted and sidewise, which distorted the perspective in an impossible sort of way. Always see to it that the canvas is perpendicular and perfectly square, especially when it’s a matter of painting from the side. This is very important and very easy to forget. Always place the canvas beside the model and observe from a considerable distance, especially when starting to work. The finest things of Ribera and Rembrandt would suffer immensely if they hadn’t paid more attention to texture than anybody else. Couture and Bonnat know this well enough. Gérôme has never so much as suspected it, apparently. The ferrotype [i.e., tintype] is mean. I think it’s because it lacks light. It seems to me that it’s more important to develop light than shadow. The color of a given light can be seen better on white objects. So, establish the whites first. It is the whites that define the [illegible] lights and the colors of these lights. A picture suitable for any sort of light can be utterly spoiled by too strong a light. Proposition. Too strong a white light creates a silvery-white effect in the colors of a picture. It destroys the color. Observe that Masqui’s picture is ruined by a strong light. 306



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Would it have been better to color my lights more intensely[?] Can a picture be painted so that it requires a particular light? When a picture is very low in tone, as in the case of Rembrandt, it does well in a rather strong light. In a subdued light it appears to be quite colorful, and it loses much in the shadows. A strong light kills the colors in the shadows even more quickly, I suspect. Can one expect of the spectator [i.e., expect the viewer to provide] a weak light for the picture so as to make the blacks appear gray [i.e., making grays out of the blacks][?] At the outset it would be good to place the sketch in the most unfavorable light—that is, one that kills the color. If the colors were added then, in the appropriate way, one would never have any weak color effects, and I think that a person excuses more readily a picture with too much coloration than one with too little. Always draw the sketch of the head in this way: the chin, the forehead, and the curve of the eyebrow. I considered for some weeks that it would be simpler to sketch just the surface of the head together with the ear and the nose and to sidestep the exact placement of the chin. This is a mistake. I include in my sketch the strongest light and the deepest shadow. If I place my sketch in too weak a light, all the half tones shift toward the shadow and seem too dark, whereas if I place it in a bright light, the half tones shift too far toward the lightest point, and the work becomes commonplace. The true basis for painting correctly might perhaps be to do just the whites and the flesh tones rather than anything else, and then the shadows would have to be more gray than in nature. I notice that Hamilton paints in a rather gray manner. If I do the strongest lights correctly, and if the shadows are gray, my picture will not be so affected by the light. Since the different lights in a picture are variable, and since the lights control all the variation in tones, and since the difference in the two principal lights (marked by a white or something light), it is generally more effective than the difference between the white and the black: therefore, in a sketch only these two lights should be regarded as the important thing, which must be established right away. Since one can’t paint white with a pure white (because of these two or three lights), you 307

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have to begin by painting the principal colored thing in the light (the less colored it is, the more light you can introduce into the picture). Then, having painted this object in the light, along with the darks and the strongest shadows, I then paint, in the light, the darkest thing, bearing in mind the strength of the principal illumination. From this and the colored object I painted at first shall determine my whites. Then one would start in the dark areas to develop echoes of them. This is, I think, the order one must follow so that every tone readily finds its place, so that its proper place is prepared in advance. First, the rough sketch must be done very simply, and then developed—as a sketch—to a very close approximation of nature. Mathematicians were unable to measure the circle except by starting with the square, of which you continually double the number of sides. When I paint life-size, I must always place the canvas as close to the model as possible. Since nature will always be more accurate than your picture, it would be smarter to move the canvas rather than the object being represented. This is why most things life-size are usually ineffectual. A person wants to be at ease when working. If one places the canvas close by, one loses the breadth of the sketch, anatomy, the grand construction, and the entire quality of the surface.To copy texture properly, you must place the canvas and [the object in] nature side by side. There is no other way. If you do the texture otherwise, it’s like doing it from memory [peindre de chic = to paint without a model]. I saw the Fortuny at Borie’s: it’s the finest thing I have ever seen. Although a number of tones imitate rough surfaces, like the wall, he never leaves the least dirty area that might catch the light. It is bad for texture to work with a side light. The canvas itself creates shadows, and one will think he has attained texture, whereas a direct light will make it as smooth as steel. Always look at the picture from time to time in a direct, strong light.

308

Chapter 7  w Letters & Theories after 1870: A Summary

v In 1870, Eakins returned to Philadelphia, where he spent the rest of his life. His correspondence diminished greatly at that point. He was no longer separated from his family and friends for any length of time, and thus his reason for writing largely evaporated. Some revealing letters do still exist, however, and in them he wrote about his work—but without great enthusiasm or excitement. Only when he was defending his own morality, justifying his controversial behavior, or preserving his reputation (e.g., surrounding his expulsion from the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts and the Philadelphia Sketch Club in 1886) was there real passion in his writing. Eakins’s letters from the early and mid-1870s, mainly to his friend the critic Earl Shinn, revealed his frustrations as an independent artist. He told of his goals: making a name for himself in the New York art world and successfully selling his work. Yet it soon became clear that the U.S. public was not ready for him. In response to the refusal of one of the paintings he sent to a New York exhibition, he proudly wrote to Shinn: “It is a much better figure picture than anyone in N.Y. can paint.” He went on to say: “I conclude that those who judged it are incapable of judging or jealous of my work, or that there was no judgment at all on merit, the works being hung up in the order received or by lottery.”1 At this point, a note of insecurity crept into the letters, and we sense that his faith in his ability to earn a living by painting, voiced in Paris, had been shaken. He also expressed frustration about other matters. A fair number of the letters reflected his tense relations with clients. For example, he adopted an argumentative tone in his correspondence with James P. Scott, a wealthy Philadelphian who had commissioned two sculptural reliefs, Spinning and Knitting, as chimney pieces for his townhouse. When Scott saw the finished plasters, he was not satisfied with their appearance. In response to Scott’s protest that they were too expensive, the artist wrote:

Your remark to me that the price seemed high for a thing you might not even use, requires of me an explanation. Mr. [Theophilus] Chandler [the architect] told me last summer that there was a great need for fine sculpture in this country now, that taste here had much improved, that architecture was very advanced, that gentlemen were building here such

Chapter 7

houses as had never been built before. I told him that good sculpture was much more expensive than pretty good sculpture, but he said that the expense was nothing to the rich men, if they got what they wanted, and the worth of their money. He wished me to undertake myself the ornamentation of the chimney piece and easily induced me, for the work was much to my taste. We settled that the price might be 3 or 4 hundred dollars for a figure. I have taken great pains to do my work well. I did not stint myself in the use of models, or of anything that might improve it. Eakins went on to explain how much the models had cost him and then continued in an offended tone:

My interest in my work does not terminate with the receipt of my bill. Thus, I have heard with dismay that a stone cutter had offered to finish those panels each in a week’s time. I have been twenty years studying the naked figure, modeling, painting, drawing, dissecting, teaching. How can any stone cutter unacquainted with the nude, follow my lines, especially, covered as they are, not obscured, by the light draperies? How could the life be retained?2 Maintaining his defensive position, Eakins again wrote to Scott:

Although you were at first surprised at the cost of modeling, I do not think you imagined I had overcharged you after I had shown you the time consumed and expense I had put myself to upon the little things, but I do not agree with you that a less finished work would do almost as well.3 In the end, the two reliefs remained with Eakins; they were never mounted in Scott’s house. The same tone, though more intense, permeated his correspondence with one of his sitters, Dr. Jacob Mendes DaCosta. Having commissioned a portrait, DaCosta apparently was displeased with the negative public perception of the result and must have asked Eakins to “correct” it. Eakins replied:

It is I believe to your interest and to mine that the painting does remain in its present condition.

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Letters and Theories after 1870

Any attempt on my part to get from mean sources what I may have failed to get from the best would be disastrous, and I do not consider the picture a failure at all, or I should not have parted with it or consented to exhibit it. As to your friends, I have known some of them whom I esteem greatly to give most injudicious art advice and to admire what was ignorant, ill constructed, vulgar and bad; and as to the concurrent testimony of the newspapers, which I have not seen, I wonder at your mentioning them after our many conversations regarding them. I presume my position in art is not second to your own in medicine, and I can hardly imagine myself writing to you a letter like this: Dear Doctor, The concurrent testimony of the newspapers and of friends is that your treatment of my case has not been one of your successes. I therefore suggest that you treat me a while with Mrs. Brown’s Metaphysical Discovery.4 Not all of Eakins’s letters contained sarcasm. Much of his later correspondence dealt with routine business, mostly the exhibition and shipping of his work. But there were times when he was away from home and felt compelled to write letters that were more revealing—principally to his wife, Susan Macdowell Eakins, whom he had married in 1884. Most notable among these were the ones he sent from the North Dakota Territory, where he retreated in 1887 for a rest cure after his forced resignation from the academy. This correspondence was full of graphic descriptions of cowboy life in the Bad Lands, in which he actively participated. Typical were the following excerpts from a letter describing preparations for a roundup:

We started to the Ranche then Wednesday evening intending to travel all night, but a thunder storm threatening we put in at Green River at Pryor’s ranch. Next day we started about 7 o’clock, it having rained furiously in the night & wet some of our things We saw antelopes on the hills and I got a shot at one 400 yards off. I had to ask Tripp [one of his hosts] how far he was off. He said fix your sights for 400 yards. . . . I intended to ride a little each day to get accustomed to it, but that afternoon a couple of cowboys stopped with a string of horses going to the round up. They wanted dinner & would push on then unless the

313

Chapter 7

Tripps were ready to go. Tripp concluded to send his men the next day so Walkup remained over. We were to get off the next day very early, but Tripp’s horses wandered off far from home & it was 10‑½ o’clock by the time they were found & corralled & picked out and saddled & packed. Then we started towards Medora where the round up was to be. Two cowboys went ahead, then the ponies biting & kicking each other all the time. Then the rest of us behind[—]that is[,] two more cowboys & myself. One was Tripp[’]s son. The horses are unshod & I never saw anything more sure-footed. You would laugh to see them scampering & jumping & sliding & climbing about & jumping over the gullies & water courses.5 Eakins went on at length with descriptive narratives of this kind. These letters revealed that he was indeed captivated by the rough-and-ready life in the West—a powerful antidote to his rejection by the academy. In the Dakota Territory, nevertheless, he continued to think about art, and make sketches and photographs. His letters outlined his plans for painting cowboy subjects, providing rare clues about his creative processes. Similar insights can be found in his letters to his wife from Seal Harbor, Maine, where, in 1897, he went to paint a portrait of the noted Johns Hopkins physicist Dr. Henry A. Rowland. Eakins wrote of first establishing a perspective framework for the picture, and then creating a broad oil sketch for it. Next came the full-size canvas: “I got my canvas all covered yesterday, and had another sitting yesterday making about four hours in all.”6 He finished the head in an hour and a half, although he worked later on the forehead, chin, and jaw. All of his stay, however, was not given over to the serious matter of painting. In his spare time he went sailing with Rowland and taught him to fly a kite and ride a bicycle. Eakins remarked:

There was no wind in the afternoon so Rowland practiced the bicycle. He was immensely delighted to find that he could get on easily as well as off and rode up & down the road a long time. After that we went to the carpenter shop to make sticks for the kite. He whittled and I planed and we soon had good sticks and while I smoothed off some of my painting he got the sticks all tied together and after supper we sewed on the muslin.7 Eakins traveled to Baltimore to make a careful perspective drawing of the “engine” (ruling machine) that appeared in the painting, and back in 314



Letters and Theories after 1870

Philadelphia where the picture had been shipped for further refinement, spent a day painting the apparatus. Eakins also paid close attention to the portrayal of Rowland’s assistant, Theodore Schneider. He wrote: “Schneider will now go particularly well in the background to continue the bright spots of the machine; and to the other side of the picture I shall put some shelves with bottles. So I trust the picture may gain in interest and not lose breadth.”8 Eakins rarely wrote so specifically about his aims and procedures in making a painting. True, in his letters he referred now and then to a particular pictorial problem, and how he would solve it, but for the most part he did not articulate his own creative beliefs. An exception was the advice to students he outlined in a letter to a Washington, DC, art teacher, Edmund Clarence Messer, on July 3, 1906. Here, Eakins provided a concise account of his pedagogy:

I would recommend clay and paint only as the tools to work with. . . . Frequent the life schools and reproduce from memory what you do there at home. Make pictures from the very start, and you will feel what you need as you go along. As a picture is a synthesis of many factors used to build it, never waste time in copying. It is disastrous. Learn the laws of perspective and if you are going to be a figure painter, do some dissecting. Show your work from time to time to those who paint better than yourself, but don’t follow any advice blindly. You must do your own thinking. . . . I think a couple of years of school work would be probably enough but taper off school work into picture painting, in the beginning more school work[,] afterwards more painting, but you must be a student of Nature always.9 With the exception of his 1906 letter to Messer, Eakins did not expound on his theories in letters in any consistent way. But from time to time, he did compose systematic treatises. For example, he wrote on perspective and related subjects, anatomy (now lost), motion photography, and the variations in the musculature of a horse pulling a cart. The last two pieces were published; the first two were not. Each of these topics, in its own way, 315

Chapter 7

possessed a scientific cast, and Eakins himself must be seen as compulsively rational, a modern-day Leonardo da Vinci, practicing art while also fathoming and explaining its underlying principles. As to perspective, we are fortunate in having from the artist’s hand a text, in two versions, that focused mainly on perspective but branched out into mechanical and isometric drawing, reflections in water, shadows, the laws of sculptured relief, and motion photography. In the longer version, the various sections were identified as “chapters,” suggesting that he had planned to publish the manuscript; the Charles Bregler collection at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts includes a number of finished illustrations by Eakins that fit this text. With the exception of the photography section, though, there is no record of any part of this work ever being published intact during his lifetime.10 It must be assumed that the manuscript was intended for a willing student because the reader, or listener, was addressed as “you.” The voice of the writing, moreover, was pedagogical, leading the reader step by step through a maze of perspective and similar complex subjects. As one might expect from Eakins, the tone was logical and pragmatic. Practical examples with concrete visual illustrations abounded. Only in his discussion of refraction did his writing become highly mathematical—a direction that no doubt would have lost some of his public. Even so, Eakins maintained a consistent logical methodology in his writing, undoubtedly hoping that the absolute clarity of his presentation would explain any subject. Following the section on “sculptured relief,” there was an untitled essay on the construction of a camera that Eakins designed and used for action photography. Unlike the rest of the manuscript, this essay, slightly shortened and revised, was published in 1888 as a scientific report—part of the book Animal Locomotion. The Muybridge Work at the University of Pennsylvania—under the name of William Dennis Marks, who was a University of Pennsylvania engineer. Although Marks acknowledged Eakins as the originator of these ideas, he did not directly credit his friend as their author. But Eakins’s words were clearly recognizable from the manuscript. This text represented the culmination of Eakins’s experimental work— a primitive yet sophisticated method of photographing humans and animals in motion. He shared this interest with the English photographer Eadweard Muybridge and the French physiologist Etienne-Jules Marey, and in 1884–85 the work of all three men intersected at the University of

316



Letters and Theories after 1870

Pennsylvania. Muybridge had been invited to study “animal locomotion” at the university, and there he lined up twenty-four cameras, and then made sequential exposures as human and animal subjects ran by. He also employed Marey’s method of using a single camera equipped with one or two perforated disks rotating before the lens to capture the varied stages of motion on one photographic plate. Eakins helped Muybridge conduct these experiments and then created his own enclosure at the university to see if he could improve on the others’ results. His camera and the images made with it were successful, and Eakins’s text gave a full explanation of what he accomplished. Marks tersely summarized Eakins’s achievement. Writing about a photograph Eakins took of a jumping figure, he observed: “The reproduction of a boy jumping horizontally . . . which Professor Eakins has photographed on a single plate by means of his adaptation of the Marey wheel, is of exceedingly great interest, because, in this picture, each impression occurred at exact intervals. The velocity of motion can be determined, by measurement of the spaces separating the successive figures, with very great precision, as also the relative motion of the various members of the body.”11 Eakins’s photographic work, like his investigations of anatomy and perspective, represented another tool that would augment his understanding of the figure. Still, once he had satisfied his curiosity about human and animal locomotion, and had solved the technical problems that confronted him, he abandoned serial photography; there is no evidence that he pursued it after 1886. Eakins did publish once again on a scientific theme—in this case a subject from anatomy and physiology. In the course of his studies he became fascinated with the action of a horse’s leg as it pulled a cart. Contemporary textbooks classified muscles as “flexors and extensors,” and pointed out that they worked and rested alternately, but Eakins found something different. When he observed the leg muscle of a horse straining to get a cart started, he found that both the flexors and extensors were contracting at the same time. He confirmed his observation by experiment and photographed the result. After calling the discovery to the attention of one of his scientific friends, he was invited to deliver two lectures on the subject at Philadelphia’s Academy of Natural Sciences and publish his findings in its Proceedings. His article, “The Differential Action of Certain Muscles Passing More Than One Joint,” appeared in 1894.12

317

Chapter 7

There is some speculation as to whether Eakins planned to publish his ideas on anatomy. He is said to have written a treatise on the subject, but only scattered fragments have been found. The Bregler collection contains many of his anatomical drawings, and some might have been intended as illustrations, but perhaps they were only sketches and notes on dissections done for Eakins’s own edification. As his widow told Lloyd Goodrich, “He [Eakins] wrote very much about anatomy but I do not think it was prepared for publishing, it was more to get a knowledge himself.”13 As a mature artist, Eakins was most at home in composing theoretical treatises, exploring, without literary pretensions, matters that truly interested him. His prose of this kind was factual, sharing the spare, utilitarian traits of the worldly things he admired—yachts, “flowers, axe handles, the tools of workmen, but above all the living animal forms.”14 To ask more from Eakins’s writing would be unfair. He was an artistscientist, a product of late nineteenth-century positivism—a system of philosophy based on natural phenomena or factual properties verified by the methods of empirical science. He reflected the limitations of that position, but he also revealed its confident, self-assured view of the material world.

1. Thomas Eakins to Earl Shinn, undated, Richard Cadbury Papers, Friends Historical Library, Swarthmore College, Pennsylvania. Chapter 7 has been adapted from my essay “Eakins as a Writer,” published in Darrel Sewell, ed., Thomas Eakins, the catalog for the Philadelphia Museum of Art’s exhibition of the same name issued by the museum in 2001. 2. Thomas Eakins to James P. Scott, June 18, 1883, CB @ PAFA. 3. Thomas Eakins to James P. Scott, July 11, 1883, LG. 4. Thomas Eakins to Dr. Jacob Mendes DaCosta, January 9, 1893, LG. 5. Thomas Eakins to Susan Macdowell Eakins, July 31, 1887, CB @ PAFA. 6. Thomas Eakins to Susan Macdowell Eakins, “Sunday Morning” [1897], CB @ PAFA. 7. Thomas Eakins to Susan Macdowell Eakins, August 3, 1897, CB @ PAFA. 8. Thomas Eakins to Dr. Henry A. Rowland, September 3, 1897, Addison Gallery of American Art, Phillips Academy, Andover, Massachusetts. 9. Thomas Eakins to Edmund Clarence. Messer, July 3, 1906, Archives, Corcoran Gallery of Art, Washington, DC. 10. The longer, more finished version of the manuscript is owned by the Philadelphia Museum of Art. The shorter one is in CB @ PAFA. The former was published by Kathleen A. Foster as Drawing Manual by Thomas Eakins, with an essay by Amy B. Werbel, Philadelphia Museum of Art in association with Yale University Press, New Haven and London, 2005.

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Letters and Theories after 1870

11. William Dennis Marks, “The Mechanism of Instantaneous Photography,” in University of Pennsylvania, Animal Locomotion. The Muybridge Work at the University of Pennsylvania—The Method and the Result (1888; repr., New York: Arno Press, 1973), 14–15. 12. Thomas Eakins, “The Differential Action of Certain Muscles Passing More Than One Joint,” Proceedings of the Academy of Natural Sciences of Philadelphia 46 (1894): 172–80. 13. Susan Macdowell Eakins to Lloyd Goodrich, January 6, 1932, SME. 14. Thomas Eakins to Dr. Henry A. Rowland, September 2, 1897, Addison Gallery of American Art.

319

Collection Code Key

AAA Courtesy of the Thomas Eakins letters, 1866–1934, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, DC. ANS Academy of Natural Sciences, Ewell Sale Stewart Library, Philadelphia. BM Thomas Eakins Papers, Special Collections, Bryn Mawr College Library, Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania. CB @ PAFA Courtesy of the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, Philadelphia. Charles Bregler’s Thomas Eakins Collection. Purchased with the partial support of the Pew Memorial Trust. Crowell Formerly in the Collection of Helen G. Crowell (present location unknown). Dietrich Collection of Mr. Daniel W. Dietrich II. HMSG Charles Bregler Archival Collection, Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, DC. LG Thomas Eakins letters and typescripts collected by Lloyd Goodrich, and often transcribed by him from copies of letters made by Susan Macdowell Eakins (SME). Lloyd and Edith Havens Goodrich, Whitney Museum of American Art, Record of W   orks by Thomas Eakins, Philadelphia Museum of Art. PAFA Courtesy of the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, Philadelphia, Archives. PMA Philadelphia Museum of Art, gift of Seymour Adelman. SME Susan Macdowell Eakins handwritten or typed copies of Thomas Eakins’s letters. Lloyd and Edith Havens Goodrich, Whitney Museum of American Art, Record of Works by Thomas Eakins, Philadelphia Museum of Art.

List of Owners of Thomas Eakins Letters

Date and Place of Origin (If Specified)

Recipient

Collection

6/12/66

Billy (& Emily) [Sartain]

PAFA

n.d. [ca. September 1866]

[Emily Sartain]

PAFA

Mon., 9/17/66; Philadelphia. Emily [Sartain]

PAFA

9 /18/66; Philadelphia

Emilia [Emily Sartain]

PAFA

10/1/66; Atlantic Ocean, 2 or 3 hundred miles from France

Caroline Cowperthwait Eakins

CB @ PAFA

Friday, 10/6/66; Paris

C. C. Eakins

PAFA

Monday, 10/8/66; Paris

C. C. Eakins

CB @ PAFA

Saturday, 10/13/66; Paris

Benjamin Eakins

CB @ PAFA

10/26/66; Paris

B. Eakins

CB @ PAFA

Friday night, 10/26–27/66; Paris

B. Eakins

CB @ PAFA

Sunday, 10/29/66; Paris.

[John] Sartain,

PAFA

10/30/66; Paris.

Billy [Sartain],

10/30/66; Paris

Emily [Sartain]

10/30/66; Paris

Fanny [Frances Eakins (Crowell)]; Maggie [Margaret Eakins]

CB @ PAFA

11/1/66; Paris

B. Eakins

CB @ PAFA

11/8/66; Paris. 11/9/66

C. C. Eakins

HMSG 323

List of Owners

324

11/11/66

B. Eakins

SME

11/16/66; Paris

Emily [Sartain]

PAFA

11/26/[66]

Recipient unknown [family?]

LG

12/16/66; Paris

Emilia [Emily Sartain]

PAFA

12/23/66; Paris

B. Eakins

CB @ PAFA

1/8/67; Paris

Fanny [Frances Eakins (Crowell)]

CB @ PAFA

1/16/67; Paris

B. Eakins

CB @ PAFA

1/24/67; Paris

Fanny [Frances Eakins (Crowell)]

CB @ PAFA

1/31/67; Paris

B. Eakins

CB @ PAFA

[late 1/67]; fragment

[C. C. Eakins?]

CB @ PAFA

2/28/67; Paris. [accounts]

C. C. Eakins

CB @ PAFA

3/7/67; Paris

B. Eakins

CB @ PAFA

3/12/67

B. Eakins

LG

3/21/67; Paris

B. Eakins & Fanny [Frances Eakins (Crowell)]

CB @ PAFA

4/12/67; Paris

Emily [Sartain]

PAFA

4/12/67; [accounts]

[B. Eakins?]

PMA

4/12/67

Maggie [Margaret Eakins], Max Schmitt, B. Eakins

CB @ PAFA

4/25/67

B. Eakins, Max Schmitt, Fanny [Frances Eakins (Crowell)]

CB @ PAFA

5/[67?]; Paris

Caddy [Caroline Eakins] CB @ PAFA and Maggie [Margaret Eakins]

Friday, 5/[2 or 3]/[67]; Paris

B. Eakins

CB @ PAFA



List of Owners

5/24/67; Paris

B. Eakins

Dietrich

5/31/67; Paris

B. Eakins

LG

[5]/67; Paris

Emilia [Emily Sartain]

PAFA

[5/67?]

Fanny [Frances Eakins (Crowell)]

AAA

late spring/early summer 1867

Fanny [Frances Eakins (Crowell)]

Crowell

6/12/67

Fanny [Frances Eakins (Crowell)]

AAA

6/19/67

Fanny [Frances Eakins (Crowell)]

AAA

early summer, 1867

Fanny [Frances Eakins (Crowell)]

AAA

6/21/67; Paris

Fanny [Frances Eakins (Crowell)]; B. Eakins

CB @ PAFA

6/28/67; Paris. [accounts]

C. C. Eakins

CB @ PAFA

7/12/67; Paris

B. Eakins

CB @ PAFA

7/15/[67]; Paris

Billy [Crowell]

AAA

7/17/67; Paris

Aunt Eliza [Cowperthwait]

CB @ PAFA

Thursday, 7/18/[67]; Paris

Billy [Crowell]

AAA

[summer 1867].

No recipient designated [apparently to Fanny]

AAA

7/23/[67]; Paris

Fanny [Frances Eakins (Crowell)]

Crowell

8/2/67; Paris

B. Eakins

CB @ PAFA

8/10/[67]; Geneva

B. Eakins

CB @ PAFA

ca. 8/15/67; Zermatt, Switzerland

B. Eakins

CB @ PAFA

9/8/67 [or 1868?]; Paris

B. Eakins

LG

325

List of Owners

326

Friday, 9/20/[67]; Paris

B. Eakins

CB @ PAFA

9/21/67; Paris

[B. Eakins]

LG

Sunday, 9/24/67

Fanny [Frances Eakins (Crowell)]

AAA

9/24/67

Fanny [Frances Eakins (Crowell)]

Crowell

ca. 10/67; [fragment]

B. Eakins

CB @ PAFA

10/15/67

[?]

SME

11/1/67; Paris

Fanny [Frances Eakins AAA (Crowell)]

[11/1/67]

Fanny [Frances Eakins (Crowell)]

Crowell

Friday, 11/9/67; Paris

B. Eakins

CB @ PAFA

11/13/67; Paris

Fanny [Frances Eakins AAA (Crowell)]

11/13/67

Fanny [Frances Eakins (Crowell)]

Crowell

[mid-11/67] and 11/22/[67]

B. Eakins

CB @ PAFA

Sunday Morning, 11/24/67

[John] Sartain

PAFA

Nov. 67; Paris

C. C. Eakins and Eliza Cowperthwait, Caddy [Caroline Eakins], B. Eakins

CB @ PAFA

12/6/67; Paris

B. Eakins & C.C.E.

CB @ PAFA

Thursday, 12/19/67; Paris

C. C. Eakins & B. Eakins

Dietrich

12/20/67; Paris

Emily [Sartain]

PAFA

12/27/67

Aunt Eliza [Cowperthwait]

Dietrich



12/30/[67] & 1/3/68; Paris

List of Owners

B. Eakins

CB @ PAFA

n.d. [late 1867–early 1868] Eugene A. Poole

present location unknown

1/17/68; Paris

B. Eakins

SME

1/31/68; Paris

Fanny [Frances Eakins (Crowell)]

Dietrich

[late 1/68]

Billy [Crowell], Fanny [Frances Eakins (Crowell)], Aunt Eliza [Cowperthwait] & Maggie [Margaret Eakins]

CB @ PAFA

Monday night, 2/[23 or 24]/68; Paris

B. Eakins

CB @ PAFA

Friday, 3/6/68; Paris

B. Eakins

CB @ PAFA

3/11/68; Paris

Fanny [Frances Eakins (Crowell)]

Crowell

3/17/68; Paris. [accounts]

B. Eakins

CB @ PAFA

[3/68]

B. Eakins

LG (SME)

[4/68]

[?]

LG

4/3/68; Paris

Fanny [Frances Eakins (Crowell)]

Crowell

Good Friday [4/10], 1868

Fanny [Frances Eakins (Crowell)]

AAA

Friday, 5/9/68

B. Eakins & Caddy [Caroline Eakins]

Dietrich

[late 5/68?]

B. Eakins

CB @ PAFA

6/11/68; Paris

Emily [Sartain]

PAFA

[ca. 7/20/68]; Paris

Emily [Sartain]

CB @ PAFA

7/24/68; Paris

Caddy [Caroline Eakins] & C. C. Eakins

Dietrich

8/24/68; Munich, & Wed- nesday, 8/26/[68]; Mainz

Caddy [Caroline Eakins] & C. C. Eakins

CB @ PAFA

327

List of Owners

328

9/18/68; 116 rue d’Assas [Paris]

B. Eakins

BM

9/21/68; 116 rue d’Assas [Paris]

Billy [Crowell]

Crowell

9/30/68; Paris

C. C. Eakins & Fanny [Frances Eakins (Crowell)]

CB @ PAFA

10/2/68; 116 rue Edward D. Cope d’Assas, Paris

ANS

Jeudi, 10/29/68; Paris

Fanny [Frances Eakins (Crowell)]; C. C. Eakins

AAA

10/29/68; Paris

B. Eakins

CB @ PAFA

5 pm, 10/30/68; [Paris Eugene A. Poole (postmark)]

present location unknown

11/12/68; Paris

Fanny [Frances Eakins (Crowell)] & Caddy [Caroline Eakins]

AAA

n.d. [late November 1868]

B. Eakins

AAA

Mardi, 12/2/68

Fanny [Frances Eakins (Crowell)]

AAA

Good Friday, 3/26/69; Paris

Fanny [Frances Eakins (Crowell)]

AAA

April Fool’s Day,

C. C. Eakins & Fanny

AAA

[4/1]/69]; Paris

[Frances Eakins (Crowell)]

4/14/69; Paris

C. C. Eakins & Caddy [Caroline Eakins]

AAA

Friday, 4/23/69; [Paris]

B. Eakins

CB @ PAFA

5/7/69; Paris

B. Eakins

CB @ PAFA

5/14/69; Paris

B. Eakins & C. C. Eakins

CB @ PAFA



List of Owners

Thursday night, 6/3/69; Paris

[To his family]

CB @ PAFA

6/10/69; Paris

[To his family]

AAA

Friday, 6/18/69; Paris

C. C. Eakins, Fanny [Frances Eakins (Crowell)], & Caddy [Caroline Eakins]

CB @ PAFA

6/24/69; Paris

B. Eakins

CB @ PAFA

7/2/69; Paris

[To his family], Fanny [Frances Eakins (Crowell)], & Caddy [Caroline Eakins]

CB @ PAFA

Thursday, 7/8/69; Paris

Fanny [Frances Eakins (Crowell)]

AAA

Monday, 8/16/69 & Tuesday morning, [8/17/69]

[To his family]

Crowell

Monday night, 8/30/69; & Tuesday afternoon, [8/31/69] [accounts]

C. C. Eakins

CB @ PAFA

9/8/69; Paris

B. Eakins

LG

9/14/69; Paris

B. Eakins

SME

9/28/69; Paris

B. Eakins

SME

Friday, 10/15/69

[To his family]

AAA

11/5/69; Paris

[To his family]

CB @ PAFA

[fall 1869] & 11/29/69; Paris

B. Eakins

SME

Thursday, 12/2/69; Fonda del Peninsular, Madrid

B. Eakins

CB @ PAFA

Tuesday, 12/7/[69]; Seville

[To B. Eakins?]

CB @ PAFA

12/12/69; Seville

[To B. Eakins?]

SME

ca. 12/25/69 [Seville]

[To “his little sister”]

SME 329

List of Owners

330

1/6/70; Seville

[To his family]

SME

1/16/70; Seville

[To his family]

SME

1/26/70; Seville

B. Eakins

SME

3/14/70; Seville

[To B. Eakins?]

SME

3/29/70; Seville

B. Eakins

SME

4/28/70; Seville

[To B. Eakins?]

SME

Selected Bibliography

Adams, Henry. Eakins Revealed: The Secret Life of an American Artist. New York: Oxford University Press, 2005. Berger, Martin A. Man Made: Thomas Eakins and the Construction of Gilded Age Manhood. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000. Danly, Susan, and Cheryl Leibold. Thomas Eakins and the Photograph. Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press for the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, 1994. Eakins, Thomas. A Drawing Manual. Edited with an introduction by Kathleen A. Foster and an essay by Amy B. Werbel. New Haven and London: Philadelphia Museum of Art in association with Yale University Press, 2005. Foster, Kathleen A. Thomas Eakins Rediscovered: Charles Bregler’s Thomas Eakins Collection at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997. Foster, Kathleen A., and Cheryl Leibold. Writing about Eakins:The Manuscripts in Charles Bregler’s Thomas Eakins Collection. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press for the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, 1989. Fried, Michael. Realism, Writing, Disfiguration: On Thomas Eakins and Stephen Crane. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987. Goodrich, Lloyd. Thomas Eakins. 2 vols. Ailsa Mellon Bruce Studies in American Art, no. 2. Cambridge: Harvard University Press for the National Gallery of Art, 1982. Hendricks, Gordon. The Life and Work of Thomas Eakins. New York: Grossman, 1974. Homer, William Innes. Thomas Eakins: His Life and Art. New York: Abbeville, 1992. Johns, Elizabeth. Thomas Eakins: The Heroism of Modern Life. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983.

Selected Bibliography

Lubin, David M. Act of Portrayal: Eakins, Sargent, James. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1985. McFeely, William S. Portrait: The Life of  Thomas Eakins. New York and London: W. W. Norton & Co., 2007. Milroy, Elizabeth. “Thomas Eakins’ Artistic Training, 1860–1870.” Ph.D. diss., University of Pennsylvania, 1986. Schendler, Sylvan. Eakins. Boston and Toronto: Little Brown and Co., 1967. Sewell, Darrel, ed. Thomas Eakins. Philadelphia: Philadelphia Museum of Art, 2001. Werbel, Amy. Thomas Eakins: Art, Medicine, and Sexuality in Nineteenth-Century Philadelphia. New Haven and London:Yale University Press, 2007. Wilmerding, John, ed. Thomas Eakins and the Heart of American Life. London: National Portrait Gallery, 1993.

332

Index

Academy of Natural Sciences, Philadelphia, 221n1, 221n4, 226, 317 Adams, Henry, 2, 3 Adams, Mary, 200 Adam-Salomon, Antony Samuel, 178, 180n1 Aeneid (Virgil), 15–17 aesthetics: nature and art, 11, 13, 197–99, 308; Spanish notebook, 301–8. See also painting; sculpture Agassiz, Louis, 219, 221n3 Alcazar, Seville, 290 Alexander, Emperor of Poland, 119–20 anatomy, 149, 304, 306, 315, 317–18 ancient art, Eakins on the study of, 77, 92, 174, 198–99, 229–30 Animal Locomotion (Marks), 316 animals, 172–73, 316–17. See also birds antique art. See ancient art Archives of American Art, 5 art, nature and, 11, 13, 197–99, 308. See also aesthetics; painting; sculpture Art Report, 38–39 Austria, 106–7 Bach, J. S., 242 Bailly, Joseph A., 54, 54n5, 149 Bastian, Dolly, 93 Beecher, Cliff, 91 Beethoven, Ludwig van, 91, 161, 190, 242, 269 Berchére (artist), 183 Berlioz, Hector, 242 Bigelow (minister), 37–39, 41–43, 47–48, 50, 53 Bingham, George Caleb, 1 birds, 31, 119, 172–73, 215–16 Bismarck, Otto von, 53, 54n4, 105–7

Blashfield, Edwin, 231 boating, 35, 62, 71, 197–98, 209. See also rowing; sailing Bonaparte, Jerome, 212 Bonaparte, Princess Mathilde, 212, 212n2 Bonheur, Germain, 182, 195–96, 197n3, 207, 208, 242, 243, 251, 276, 277, 282 Bonheur, Rosa, 197n3 Bonnat, Léon-Joseph-Florentin, 96n1, 182, 183, 185, 209, 231, 240, 259, 266, 277–79, 301, 303, 305, 306 Boston, Massachusetts, 269–70 Boulanger, Gustave, 149, 282 Bowen, Marty, 200 boxing, 72–73 Boyer, Charley, 22, 27n5, 33, 35, 45, 52, 54, 54n2, 61–62, 138, 141, 143, 157, 162–63, 206, 216, 236, 265 Brace (dog), 52, 54n2, 265 Bregler, Charles, 5. See also Charles Bregler collection Bricard (student), 167–68 Bridgman, Frederick A., 43, 46n6, 185–86, 231, 259 Bulletin (newspaper), 148, 208 bull fights, 298 Byron, George Gordon, Lord, 151 Byron Tavern, Paris, 99 Cabanel, Alexandre, 72, 72n3, 77, 165, 204 Carpeaux, Jean-Baptiste, 280, 280n1 Cary, Henry Francis, 17n1, 117 Cassatt, Mary, 72, 72n2, 205n1 Castiglione (artist), 302 Catholicism, 87, 174 Central High School, 11, 27n3, 66n1, 197n1, 199, 200n2, 234n1

Index Cervantes, Miguel de, 120, 247 Chandler, Theophilus, 311 Chaplin, Charles, 246, 250n6 Chapsal, Charles Pierre, 11, 12, 13n1, 98 Charivari (newspaper), 87, 98, 103 Charles Bregler collection, 3, 5, 316, 318 Cherubini, Luigi, 242 children’s pastimes, 32 Christianity, 208. See also Catholicism Christmas, 77, 81–82, 87–88, 181–82, 233–34 circus, 243, 259–61, 277 civil disobedience, 186, 256–59, 261–64 classical art. See ancient art Collis’s Zouaves, 33, 35n2 color, 148–51, 189, 205, 265, 304–8 Combs, Gilbert, 138 Cope, Edward Drinker, 219–20, 221n1, 225, 231; letter to, 226 Copperheads, 45, 46n8 Couture, Thomas, 37, 45n2, 154n2, 178, 196, 209, 245, 248–49, 255, 279, 280, 301; Romans of the Decadence, 249, 305–6 cowboy life, 313–14 Cowperthwait(e), Eliza (aunt), 29, 30n7, 31, 61, 67, 75, 78n1, 91, 111, 118, 192–93, 204, 224, 277, 290; letters to, 139, 171–72, 181–82 Cowperthwait(e), Emmor (uncle), 32, 35n1, 69, 108, 118, 129, 141, 143, 207, 217, 278 cranberries, 81, 88, 182, 233 Crépon, Lucien, 28–29, 29n2, 33–34, 36, 48–49, 52, 55, 58, 65, 67, 74, 110, 130, 132, 149–50, 164, 171–73, 178–82, 191, 192, 210–11, 213, 216, 222, 223, 239–41, 279 Crowell, William (Billy), 4, 45, 69, 98, 110–11, 116, 119–20, 130, 132–34, 138, 141, 144–46, 154, 157, 192, 228, 236, 247, 278, 282; letters to, 138, 140, 221–23 Cure, Louis, 258, 261–63, 261n, 281, 286 curiosities, 60–61 DaCosta, Jacob Mendes, 312–13 Dakota Territory, 313–14 Dante Alighieri, 4, 14–17, 22, 50, 58, 70, 334

81, 116–17, 140, 151–52, 153n1, 222, 243, 247 Darley, F.O.C., 267, 268n1, 277 Delacroix, Eugène, 301, 304 Delaney (servant), 141, 143, 207 Delaroche, Paul, 279 Demosthenes, 195, 197n2 dental matters, 259, 271–73, 277 Diehl, Conrad, 43, 46n6, 75 Dietrich Collection, 5 “The Differential Action of Certain Muscles Passing More Than One Joint” (Eakins), 317 dining habits. See food and dining Doré, Gustave, 212, 212n1, 247 Drexel and Harjes (shipping agents), 253, 281, 286 Dumas, A., 134 Dumont, Augustin-Alexandre, 199, 200n3, 206 Dunglison, Dr. Robley, 28, 29n3, 43–44, 52, 53, 154, 175 Eakins, Benjamin (“Poppy”) (father), 2–3, 11, 29, 35, 90, 162, 163, 179, 209, 215–17, 221, 224–25, 228–29, 265, 277, 282; letters to, 35–54, 62–66, 70, 75–78, 82–83, 85–87, 91–101, 103–5, 109–14, 129–30, 135–38, 143–51, 153–54, 158–59, 163–70, 173–76, 178–80, 182–84, 189, 191, 193–95, 197–99, 202–5, 209–10, 212, 219–20, 229–31, 234–35, 252–58, 265–66, 278–80, 283–91, 296–98 Eakins, Caroline (Caddy) (sister), 4, 35, 44, 61, 69, 143, 170, 182, 207, 210–12, 224; letters to, 108–9, 172–73, 215–16, 218, 233, 251–52, 265, 267–68 Eakins, Caroline Cowperthwait (mother), 3, 66–69, 130, 143, 193; letters to, 19–35, 66–69, 88–91, 131–35, 171–72, 176–78, 216–18, 223–25, 228, 241–42, 250–51, 259, 263–64, 273–78 Eakins, Frances (Fanny) (sister), 4, 20, 23, 26, 27n6, 35, 74, 75, 96, 111, 130, 134, 138, 148, 164, 177–79, 195, 216–19, 221–25, 228, 254, 262, 268, 278; letters to, 59–61, 81–82, 84–85, 98, 107–8,



Index

115–29, 140–43, 151–53, 155–58, 160–63, 190–92, 195–96, 200–202, 206–9, 225, 227–29, 232–34, 236, 239–50, 265–70 Eakins, Margaret (Maggie) (sister), 4, 32, 35, 35n3, 75, 81, 98, 115, 118, 130, 143, 182, 190–91, 195, 209, 225, 235, 268; letters to, 61–62, 101–2, 108–9, 193 Eakins, Susan Macdowell (wife), 6, 78n1, 313–14, 318 Eakins, Thomas: art studies and practices of, 70, 96–98, 148–51, 173–74, 189, 205, 228–31, 251, 265–66, 278–80, 282–84, 291, 296–98; childhood of, 3–4; correspondence of, 2–3, 311–14; correspondents of, 3–4; expulsion of from Academy of Fine arts, 2, 311, 314; Knitting, 311; Max Schmitt in a Single Scull, 27n3; personality of, 2; psychology of, 3; Spinning, 311; Street Scene in Seville, 285, 305; as teacher, 2; work of, 1 Ecole des Beaux-Arts, 1, 17; Eakins on his studies at, 70, 96–98, 148–51, 173–74, 189, 205, 228–31, 251, 265–66, 278–80, 282–84; Eakins’s description of, 77, 83, 205; gaining admission to, 35–53, 77; Prix de Rome, 251–53; student life in, 62–66, 72–73, 93–96, 165–69, 176, 204, 216, 277 England: criticisms of the English, 26, 28, 77–78, 84, 147, 164; France and, 78, 106; painting from, 144 Europe (ship), 234 Evans, Dave, 138 Evans, Dora, 195 Exhibition of Fine Arts. See Salon of Paris expenditures, 88–90, 100–101, 131–32, 134–35, 149–50, 202–4, 273–77 Exposition Universelle (Paris, 1867), 100–101, 112–14, 174 Fairclough, H. Rushton, 17n2 Farrand (student), 216 Faure, Jules, 261 ferrotypes, 306 Figaro (newspaper), 196 Fish House, 27n5, 46n10, 157 Fleury, Tony Robert, 240

food and dining: bread, 32; Christmas, 81, 88, 182, 233–34; cranberries, 81, 88, 182, 233; ice, 217; oysters, 233–34; in Paris, 31, 32, 98, 137–38, 192, 208, 217; sauerkraut, 86; on sea voyage, 26; in Spain, 287–88, 289; strawberries, 119; sweet potatoes, 234 Fortuny, Mariano, 301, 303, 308 Foster, Kathleen, 2, 3, 5 France: England and, 78, 106; and Germany, 53, 104–6; and Mexico, 53, 106; observations on the French, 25–26, 32–33, 191, 224; politics in, 53, 77–78, 83, 103, 186, 256–59, 261–64. See also Paris, France Franciscans, 81–82 French, Eakins’s knowledge and use of, 26, 27n6, 56, 102–3, 121–22, 126, 129, 164, 170, 175, 199, 208–9, 227–28, 232–33, 267 Fried, Michael, 3 Fussell, Charles Lewis (Charley), 71, 72n1, 76, 157, 182 Gardel, Bertrand, 26, 27n6, 31, 43, 45, 51, 58, 75, 86, 108, 110, 127, 134, 138, 141, 149, 154, 163, 164, 174, 193–97, 204, 225 Gastaldi, Andrea, 170, 170n1, 191 German, Eakins’s knowledge and use of, 64, 111 Germania orchestra, 35, 35n4 Germany, 53, 104–6 Gérôme, Jean-Léon, 45n2, 46, 46n1, 46n6, 47, 49–50, 52, 57, 62–63, 65, 72n2, 77, 86, 137, 142, 149, 149n1, 150, 154, 164, 166–67, 178, 183, 212, 229, 240, 251, 255–56, 265, 279, 282; Dante, 243, 247–48; Eakins on painting of, 243–49, 301, 302, 306; Eakins’s comments on instruction of, 70, 72, 74–75, 96–97, 173–74, 189, 230, 261n1, 284; Socrates Seeking Alcibiades in the House of Aspasia, 245 Gill, Andre, 225 Girardin, Emile de, 103 Giraud, Pierre-François-Eugène, 301, 304 Goodrich, Lloyd, 2, 4, 5, 318 335

Index Gounod, Charles, 154, 154n2, 163 Goupil, Adolphe, 183, 248, 250n7 Goya, Francisco, 301–4 “greatest men in the world,” commentary on, 154 Great Exhibition. See Exposition Universelle (Paris, 1867) Greeley, Horace, 174, 192, 193n1 Guille, Ernest, 95, 96n1 guns, 251, 253, 263 Guthrie, W. E., 118, 119n1, 141–42, 178–80 gymnasium, 99 Haldeman, Eliza, 204, 205n1 Hallowell, Anna, 135–38 Hallowell, Benjamin, 210, 212n3 Hallowell, Caleb, 135–38, 150 Hamilton (artist), 307 Harry (dog), 21, 27n4 Hart, John S., 121, 122, 124n1 Haverstick, Henry, 199, 200n2 Haydn, Joseph, 91, 190, 242–43 Hayes (colonel), 39–40, 42–43 health, 91, 241, 242, 259, 271–73, 277, 282, 285, 289, 295, 296 Heklfoctz (linguist), 122, 124n2 Helmick, Howard, 72, 72n3, 248 Hendricks, Gordon, 2, 5 Henri, Robert, 4 Heyser, George, 53 Hildebrand & Lewis gymnasium, 99 Holland, 105 Holmes, George W., 54, 54n6, 83, 98, 111, 138, 153, 164, 173, 183 Homer, Winslow, 1 Hopper, Zephaniah, 64, 66n1 Hornor, Dr. (dentist), 37–39, 43–45, 45n3, 52, 53, 58, 175, 264, 274 horseback riding, 297–98, 313–14 Howells, Mr., 214–15, 217 Hugo, Victor, 224–25 Huttner, Henry, 35n4 ice skating, 4, 62, 71, 81, 84–86, 162, 182, 190, 195, 209, 234–35 Imperial School. See Ecole des Beaux-Arts Inferno (Dante), 14–17, 58, 116–17 Inness, George, 4 336

Isabella II, Queen of Spain, 225, 225n1 Isabey, Louis Gabriel Eugène, 209, 212n2 Italian, Eakins’s knowledge and use of, 14–16, 18, 56–57, 73–74, 97, 114–17, 129 Italy, 174 Jacques, Charles Emile, 154, 154n2 Japanese circus, 259–61 Jefferson Medical College, 29n3, 197n1 Jesus Christ, 82, 127, 147, 179 Johns, Elizabeth, 2 Johnson, Andrew, 45, 46n9, 130, 148, 174 Johnson, Eastman, 1 Kaulbach (artist), 75 Kirkpatrick, Sidney D., 2, 3, 5 Knitting (Eakins), 311 Kramer (acquaintance), 112, 133 Lake Geneva, 145–47 language and linguistics, 11–13, 16, 120–27, 129. See also French; German; Italian; Latin; Spanish Latin, Eakins’s knowledge of, 121, 126 Leary, Johnny, 209 Leary, Lidie, 209 Lefebvre Deslonyng (artist), 240 Leibold, Cheryl, 2, 5 Lenoir, Albert, 38–42, 47–50, 52, 55, 58, 65–66, 90, 101, 163, 164, 183, 209, 251, 266 Lenten carnival, 92, 96 Leonardo da Vinci, 316 Leslie, Frank, 86 Lewis, Harry, 45, 86, 87n2, 108, 141, 152, 177 Lewis, Mrs. Harry, 69, 77, 86, 96, 108, 118, 141, 148, 151, 163, 177, 184 Lewis, Sally, 87n2, 151, 177 Lherbette Kane & Co., 129, 220, 226 Liberty (newspaper), 98, 103 Lille & Albion Hotel, 31, 68 locomotives, 112 lodgings, 28, 33–34, 66–68, 171–72 Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth, 151–52, 153n1, 254 Louvre, 29, 31, 38, 59–61, 83, 136–37, 163,



Index

210 love, 13, 222–23. See also marriage Lubin, David, 3 Luxembourg, 104–6 Luxembourg gallery, 83 Luxembourg gardens, 224 Madrid, Spain, 286–87 Magasin de Paris (newspaper), 104 Marey, Etienne-Jules, 316–17 Marfori, Carlos, 225, 225n1 Margaret (aunt), 107 Marin, John, 4 Marks, William Dennis, 316 marriage, 200–201, 221–23 Martin (student), 204 Masqui (artist), 306 mathematics, 160–61 Mathilde Bonaparte, Princess, 212, 212n2 Maury (doctor), 44, 53 Maximilian, Emperor of Mexico, 53, 54n3 Max Schmitt in a Single Scull (Eakins), 27n3 May, Edward H., 28, 29n5, 36–37, 40, 43, 55, 255 McCluskey (general), 264 McFeely, William, 2 McHenry, Margaret, 2, 5 Meissonier, Jean-Louis-Ernest, 209, 244, 250n4, 255 Mendelssohn, Felix, 91 Menendez, F. de, 302 Messer, Edmund Clarence, 315 Mexico, 53, 106 Michelangelo, 222 Les Miserables (Hugo), 224 Monitor (newspaper), 174 monkey act, 108–9 monks, 81–82 Monroe’s, American Banker, 68 Moore, Harry Humphrey, 48, 54n1, 62–63, 65–66, 90, 91, 93, 109–10, 132, 138, 142, 209, 240, 242, 266, 296 Moore, Mary, 142–43 Moore, Sammy, 112, 134, 138, 143, 204, 264 Moore family, 63, 68–69, 75, 76, 81, 87–88, 90, 142–43, 182, 236, 262 Moors, 113–14, 290–91

Moran, Thomas, 91, 129–30, 131n1, 134, 169, 174 motion photography, 315–17 Mount, William Sidney, 1 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 91, 161, 207, 269 Müller, Max, 123, 124n3, 125 Munich, Germany, 218 Murillo, Bartolomé Esteban, 290 music, 35, 35n4, 90–91, 155–56, 160–62, 190–91, 206–7, 242–43, 269–70, 277–78, 287. See also opera Muybridge, Eadweard, 316–17 Napoleon Bonaparte, 280 Napoleon III, Emperor of France, 53, 54n3, 74, 102, 105–6, 119, 271–72 National Peace Jubilee, Boston, 269–70 nature, art and, 11, 13, 197–99, 308 New York City, 21, 270 Nieuwerkerke, Count of, 49–51 Nöel, François-Joseph-Michel, 11, 12, 13n1, 98 North Dakota Territory, 313–14 Nouvelle grammaire Français (Nöel and Chapsal), 11, 12, 13n1, 98 nude human figure, 1–2, 205, 210, 312 opera, 35, 156, 157, 163, 164, 204, 207 Orchardson, William Quiller, 144, 144n1 oysters, 233–34 painting: American, 254–55, 277–78; on Couture, 248–50; Eakins on, 59–60, 83, 144, 209–10, 212, 218, 302–8, 314–15; English, 144; on Gérôme, 243–48; photographs of, 153–54; on Rubens, 286; Spanish, 286; techniques of, 302–8 paleontology, 219–20 Pancoast, Joseph, 154, 154n1 Paris, France: departure for, 17–20; Eakins on, 27–35, 83; in Eakins’s time, 3; food and dining in, 31, 32, 98, 137–38, 192, 208, 217; ice skating in, 84–85; lodgings in, 28, 33–34, 66–68, 171–72; public celebrations in, 271–72; riots in, 186, 256–59, 261–64; social life in, 224 Patti, Adelina, 204 337

Index pay schools, 36–37, 48–49 pedagogy, 315 Penn, William, 107 Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, 3, 5, 11, 29n2, 54n5, 62, 72nn1–3, 158n2, 186n1, 316; Eakins’s expulsion from, 2, 311, 314 Pereire (banker), 178 Péreire (ship), 19, 226, 234 perspective, 315–16 Pettit, George W., 256, 256n2 Pharo, Anna, 196 Pharo, Bobby, 195–96 Pharo, Mary, 195, 196, 200 Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, 71 Philadelphia Orchestra, 35n4 Philadelphia School of Design for Women, 11 Philadelphia Sketch Club, 311 Phillips, Thomas, 144, 144n1 photography, 153–54, 178, 196, 315–17 pianos, 113 Pils, Isidore-Alexandre-Augustin, 77, 78n2, 165 pistols, 251, 253, 263 Pius IX, Pope, 245 Poirier, Mrs., 219–20, 221n2, 225, 226 politeness, 71–72, 98 politics: France and Germany, 53, 104–6; France and Mexico, 53; France and Prussia, 103; French, 77–78, 83, 186, 256–59, 261–64; U.S., 45, 53 Poole, Eugene A., 182, 186n1, 195, 210–11, 259, 275; letters to, 185–86, 231 positivism, 318 Press (newspaper), 86, 158 Prix de Rome, 251–53, 278 Prussia, 53, 103, 105–6 Rabelais, François, 204 Ramsey (student), 182, 231 Rand, Benjamin Howard, 195, 197n1, 220, 221n4 Raphael, 230 Raymond, Miss Les, 206 Read, Thomas Buchanan, 254–56, 256n1 Redowa, 156 Reese, Thomas, 135–36 Regnault, Henri-Alexandre-Georges, 301, 338

305 relics, 68–69 religion: Gérôme and, 245–46; and a Jesuit priest, 23; Lenten carnival, 92, 96; and monks, 81–82; and papal infallibility, 87; and religious services, 81–82, 287; in Zermatt, Switzerland, 147–48. See also Catholicism; Christianity Rembrandt van Rijn, 301, 303, 306–7 rhythm, in poetry, 151–52 Ribera, José, 301–3, 306 Richards, F. deBourg, 153, 154n1, 155–57, 174–75, 182, 184–85, 254–55, 267 Richards, Florence, 184–85 Richards, Susan, 155–57, 175, 184–85, 267, 270 riots. See civil disobedience Robert-Fleury, Tony, 154, 154n2 Roberts, Howard, 40, 43, 45n4, 51, 76, 185 Rochefort, Henri, 224–25, 257, 261 Rodriguez (artist), 212 Rogers (professor), 39, 43 Roman art, 245 Rosenzweig, Phyllis, 6 Rossini, Gioacchino Antonio, 243 rowing, 20, 35, 253–54, 267, 268. See also boating Rowland, Dr. Henry A., 314–15 Rubens, Peter Paul, 286 Ruskin, John, 230 sailing, 4, 209. See also boating Saintin (artist), 37, 43 Saint Sulpice, Paris, 81 Salon of Paris, 209–10, 212, 242 Sanitary Fair, Philadelphia, 83, 83n1 Sartain, Emily, 4, 11, 14, 17, 18, 54–55, 81, 108, 115–16, 118, 129, 141, 142, 157, 159, 174, 191, 200–202, 217, 228–30, 281–82; letters to, 13–19, 56–57, 70–74, 99, 114–15, 180–81, 213–15 Sartain, Harriet Judd, 118, 119n2, 201, 202n1 Sartain, Henry, 91–92, 99, 155, 157, 159, 163–64, 170 Sartain, John, 4, 11, 28–29, 29n4, 36–38, 42, 43, 49, 52, 54, 66, 86, 111, 138, 159, 163, 174, 183, 191, 192, 196, 225;



Index

letters to, 55, 170 Sartain, William (Billy), 4, 11, 14, 17, 54, 81, 99, 134, 138, 140, 141, 143–46, 149, 160, 183, 185, 192, 196, 228–30, 239–43, 251, 255, 258, 259, 264, 266–67, 271, 273, 277, 281–82, 286, 288, 296, 297; letters to, 11–13, 56–58 Sauvage, A. S., 251, 278, 286 Saxony, 53 Saynsché (tailor), 100 Schendler, Sylvan, 2 Schmitt, Amy, 98, 116, 117n1, 118, 141, 154, 192, 200, 208 Schmitt, Ida, 116, 117n1, 141, 143, 148, 154, 200 Schmitt, Johanna, 69, 69n1, 82, 111, 116, 129, 141, 143, 152, 192, 200, 253, 258, 264, 281 Schmitt, Max, 20, 27, 27n3, 35, 69, 73, 86, 111, 130, 134, 154, 174, 253–54, 258, 264, 267, 268, 278, 281; letters to, 102–7 Schmitt, Mrs., 128, 264, 267–69, 278, 281 Schneider, Theodore, 315 Schussele, Christian, 11, 149, 157, 158n2, 159, 163, 229–30, 288 science, 316–18 Scott, James P., 311–12 sculling. See rowing sculpture: Eakins on, 59; Eakins’s work in, 199, 200n3, 204, 311–12; photographs of, 153–54 sea sickness, 19–21 sea voyage, 19–26 sewing machines, 112 Shakespeare, William, 126, 247 Shinn, Earl, 43, 46n6, 51, 75–77, 91, 159, 207–9, 219–20, 311 Siècle (newspaper), 107 skating. See ice skating Sloan, John, 4 Smith, Elvin H., 135, 138 soda water, 112, 217 Spain, 106–7, 225, 285–91, 296–98 Spanish, Eakins’s knowledge and use of, 86, 97, 126–27, 129, 296 Spanish notebook, 301–8 Spencer, Herbert, 197, 200n1

Spinning (Eakins), 311 spiritualism, 152 sports, 3–4, 31–32. See also individual sports Stone, Gus, 138, 144 Street Scene in Seville (Eakins), 285, 305 Stuart, Gilbert, 304 studies, Eakins on academic, 283–84 studios, Eakins’s personal, 150, 171–73, 239–40, 251, 286 Susan (aunt), 118, 143, 207 swimming, 12, 209 Switzerland, 143, 145–48 Taylor, Tom, 164 teeth, 259, 271–73, 277 Tennyson, Alfred, Lord, 152 theater, 109–10 theories, Eakins’s, 315–18 Thiers, Adolphe, 98, 99n1, 174 Thomas, Bobby, 144 Tinie (or Tinnie) (aunt), 75, 78n1, 152 Tintoretto, 302 tintypes, 306 Titian, 302 Tomlinson, Annie, 152 Tournoi (bureaucrat), 50–51 Tribune (newspaper), 89, 100, 132, 134, 148, 174, 192, 251 Troyon, Constant, 154, 154n2 United States: and France and Germany, 106; painting from, 254–55, 277–78; politics in, 45, 53 University of Pennsylvania, 316–17 Van Dyck, Anthony, 301, 303 Velázquez, Diego Rodríguez de Silva y, 286, 301–3 velocipedes, 158–59, 185 Veronese, Paolo, 302 vertebrate remains, 219–20 Virgil, 15–17 Vogdes, Edward W. (Reddy), 233–34, 234n1 Voltaire, 134, 135n1 Wagner, Richard, 269 Waugh, Samuel Bell, 17n3, 63, 138 Wayland, Francis, 233, 234n1 339

Index Weber, Carl, 91, 207, 269 Weir, J. Alden, 4 Wilhelmj, August, 250n2 Williams, Mary Adeline (Addie), 116, 117n2 Williams, Samuel Hall, 45, 46n10, 117n2 Wolfsohn, Carl, 162, 206, 207n1 women, 135; Eakins’s commentary on, 181, 229

340

wrestling, 72–73, 95–96, 99 Writing about Eakins (Foster and Leibold), 5 Yvon, Adolphe, 97, 239, 243, 259, 266 Zane Street elementary school, 11 Zermatt, Switzerland, 147

Letter Credits and Permissions

The letters of  Thomas Eakins and/or the sketches therein are reproduced by kind permission of the following: Academy of Natural Sciences, Ewell Sale Stewart Library, Philadelphia (10/2/68 to Edward Drinker Cope) Charles Bregler Archival Collection, Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden, Smithsonian Institution (10/26/66 to B. Eakins, 11/8/66 to C. C. Eakins) Charles Bregler’s Thomas Eakins Collection, Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts. Purchased with the partial support of the Pew Memorial Trust (10/1/66 to Caroline Cowperthwaite Eakins, 10/6/66 to C. C. Eakins, 10/8/66 to C. C. Eakins, 10/13/66 to Benjamin Eakins, 10/26-27/66 to B. Eakins, 10/30/66 to Fanny [Frances Eakins] and Maggie Eakins, 11/1/66 to B. Eakins, 12/23/66 to B. Eakins, 1/8/67 to Fanny, 1/16/67 to B. Eakins, 1/24/67 to Fanny, 1/31/67 to B. Eakins, [late 1/67] [to C. C. Eakins?], 2/28/67 to C. C. Eakins, 3/7/67 to B. Eakins, 3/21/67 to B. Eakins and Fanny, 4/12/67 to Maggie, Max Schmitt, and B. Eakins, 4/25/67 to B. Eakins, Max Schmitt, and Fanny, 5[/67?] to Caddy [Caroline Eakins] and Maggie, 5[/2 or 3]/67 to B. Eakins, 6/21/67 to Fanny and B. Eakins, 6/28/67 to C. C. Eakins, 7/12/67 to B. Eakins, 7/17/67 to Aunt Eliza [Cowperthwait], 8/2/67 to B. Eakins, 8/10[/67] to B. Eakins, c. 8/15/67 to B. Eakins, 9/20[/67] to B. Eakins, ca. 10/67 to B. Eakins, 11/67 [to B. Eakins], 11/9/67 to B. Eakins, [mid-11/67] to B. Eakins, 11/67 to C. C. Eakins, Aunt Eliza, and Caddy, 12/6/67 to B. Eakins and C. C. Eakins, 12/30[/67] to B. Eakins, [late 1/68] to Billy [Crowell], Fanny, Aunt Eliza, and Maggie, 2/[23 or 24]/68 to B. Eakins, 3/6/68 to B. Eakins, 3/17/68 to B. Eakins, [late 5/68] to B. Eakins, [ca. 7/20/68] to Emily, 8/24/68 to Caddy and C. C. Eakins, 9/30/68 to C.C. Eakins and Caddy, 10/29/68 to B. Eakins, 4/23/69 to B. Eakins, 5/7/69 to B. Eakins) Courtesy of the Thomas Eakins Letters, 1866–1934, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution (6/19/67 to Fanny Eakins, 11/13/67 to Fanny Eakins, late 11/68 to his father, 12/2/68 to Fanny Eakins, 4/1/69 to his mother)

Letter Credits and Permissions

Daniel W. Dietrich II (5/24/67 to B. Eakins, 12/19/67 to C. C. Eakins and B. Eakins, 12/27/67 to Aunt Eliza, 1/31/68 to Fanny, 5/9/68 to B. Eakins and Caddy, 7/24/68 to Caddy and C. C Eakins) Helen G. Crowell (late spring/early summer 1867 to Fanny Eakins (Crowell), 7/23/67 to Fanny, 7/24/67 to Fanny, 11/1/67 to Fanny, 11/13/67 to Fanny, 3/11/68 to Fanny, 4/3/68 to Fanny, 9/21/68 to Billy [Crowell], 8/16/69 [to his family]) Lloyd and Edith Havens Goodrich, Whitney Museum of American Art, Record of Works by Thomas Eakins, Philadelphia Museum of Art (11/11/66 to B. Eakins, 3/12/67 to B. Eakins, 5/31/67 to B. Eakins, 9/8/67 to B. Eakins, 9/21/67 [to B. Eakins], 10/15/67 recipient unknown, 11/67 recipient unknown, 1/17/68 to B. Eakins, [3/68] to B. Eakins, [4/68] recipient unknown, 9/8/69 to B. Eakins, 9/14/69 to B. Eakins, 9/28/69 to B. Eakins, [fall 1869] to B. Eakins, 12/12/69 [to B. Eakins?], 12/25/69 [to “his little sister”], 1/6/70 [to his family], 1/16/70 [to his family], 1/26/70 to B. Eakins, 3/14/70 [to B. Eakins?], 3/29/70 to B. Eakins, 4/28/70 [to B. Eakins?]) Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, Archives (6/12/66 to Billy [and Emily] [Sartain], nd [ca. 9/66] [to Emily Sartain], 9/17/66 to Emily [Sartain], 9/18/66 to Emily [Sartain], 10/29/66 to [John], Billy, and Emily [Sartain], 11/16/66 to Emily [Sartain], 12/16/66 to Emilia [Emily Sartain], 4/12/67 to Emily [Sartain], [5/]67 to Emilia [Emily Sartain], 11/24/67 to [John] Sartain, 12/20/67 to Emily [Sartain], 6/11/68 to Emily [Sartain]) Thomas Eakins Papers, Special Collections, Bryn Mawr College Library (9/18/68 to Benjamin Eakins)

342

figure 1. Thomas Eakins, Miss Amelia Van Buren, ca. 1891. Oil on canvas, 45 x 32 in. The Phillips Collection, Washington, DC. Figures 1 through 4 demonstrate the range of Eakins’s art.

figure 2 . Thomas Eakins, John Biglin in a Single Scull, 1873–74. Oil on canvas, 24 1/16 x 16 in. Yale University Art Gallery, New Haven. Whitney Collections of Sporting Art, given in memory of Harry Payne Whitney, B.A. 1894, and Payne Whitney, B.A. 1898, by Francis P. Garvan, B.A. 1897, M.A. (Hon.) 1922.



figure 3. Thomas Eakins, The Swimming Hole (Swimming), 1883. Oil on canvas, 27 3/8 x 36 3/8 in. Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth, Texas. Purchased by the Friends of Art, Fort Worth Art Association, 1925; acquired by the Amon Carter Museum, 1990, from the Modern Art Museum of Fort Worth through grants and donations from the Amon G. Carter Foundation, the Sid W. Richardson Foundation, the Anne Burnett and Charles Tandy Foundation, Capital Cities/ABC Foundation, Fort Worth Star-Telegram, The R. D. and Joan Dale Hubbard Foundation, and the people of Fort Worth. 1990.19.1.

figure 4. Thomas Eakins, study for William Rush Carving the Allegorical Figure of the Schuylkill River, 1876. Oil on canvas, 20 1/16 x 24 in. Philadelphia Museum of Art, gift of Mrs. Thomas Eakins and Miss Mary Adeline Williams, 1929.

figure 5. John Sartain after a drawing by James Hamilton, The Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts; second building, rebuilt 1845–47. Etching, engraving, and aquatint, 4 x 8 7/8 in. Courtesy of the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, Philadelphia. Bequest of Dr. Paul J. Sartain. Eakins studied art in this building in the early 1860s.

figures 6a and 6b. Thomas Eakins’s letter to his mother, October 6, 1866. Courtesy of the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, Philadelphia. Archives. This letter, like most of the others he wrote from Paris, illustrates the skill of his penmanship.

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