"HARD LUCK" STORIES OF OUR BEST-KNOWN ARTISTS.
"IT WAS HARD LUCK/ SAID JOULLIN, "BUT I WAS THANKFUL FOR
THE HORSE STEAK AND THE KEROSENE LAMP, EVEN IF THE PRO
DUCT WAS SMOKED BEEF."
Trials teach us what we are —
Thfy dig up the soil and let us see
What we are made of.
_ _ > HEN the Bohemian Club gave
M its art exhibition, which di-
I I verted the trend of fashlona-
ble taste for foreign work in
to an appreciation of our art-
ists at home, the public saw
only the achievements, not the growth,
of the painters. Some of them have
climbed up to their present eminence
over difficulties so depressing as
would have caused less zealous hearts
to weaken. Some have suffered years
and others for a day the throes of
agony that mark an evolution, but all
have felt the keynote of despair, of fail
ure, which after all may form the basis
of success.
Here are some nf thf "hard luck"
Btories of our leading artists:
"At one time, I was fairly successful
"IT WAS THE SAME JflG," SfilD
CHARLIE ROBINSON.
as a designer for the lithographic
trade," said H. J. Breuer, "but when I
had saved a few hundred dollars I
would retire with It, study and paint
! landscapes, and end by pawning the
frames, before going back to toil. In
ISBS I rented a studio on the corner of
Fourteenth street and Broadway, New
York. I had gone through the usual
phases; my best clothes in hock; my
watch 'spouted' at the Bowery and the
ticket held by the proprietor of a cheap
restaurant as security for a seven-meal
: coupon ticket. I tried for work, but
luck was against me. I had got down
to toasting a little bacon over the gas
jet and a five cent loaf. It was winter,
dull, shivering and silent, save the oc
casional visit of a friend, from whom
I always tried to hide; but, if he suc
ceeded in getting in on me unawares
I entertained him with cheerful lies
until he had gone and thon kicked my
self for a fool because 1 did not ask
him for a dollar.
"Well, at about that time my finances
were at their lowest ebb. I heard the
landlord at the door, blustering, swear
ing and saying, 'What do you mean?
Two months due to-morrow.' With an
emphatic shove at my shoulder I gave
that landlord one biff, so. He grabbed
me and as I had had no breakfast that
day I fell down and he sat on me like
anundlgested doughnut.
"When I got up I had only two but
tons left that would hold. I was busy
painting my eye back to Its normal
color when I heard another knock at
: the door. I grabbed the poker this
time; the door opened and a gentleman
whom I had known in better days en
tered the room. I raked at the stove
and closed the damper, knowing that
the stove was cold.
" 'Hello, Brewer,' said the new
comer. 'Are you very busy?' 'Very!'
said I. 'Sorry,' he said. "I want you to
get me up a design for the Real Estate
Exchange downtown. It's a competl-
"THE MONOTONY OF DIET AFTER A WHILE BECOMES
ALMOST AS PAINFUL AS OCTUOL HUNGER," SAID JOE
STRONG.
tion and I will give you $100 for your
design.' .„„.
" 'Well,' said I, 'pony down your $100
and I will see what I can do for you,'
and will you believe it, he did. I paid
the landlord, but I haven't licked him
yet.
"But what Is life without sweet
hope?"
"I cannot say that I have had such
a very hard time during my artistic
career," said L. P. Latimer, "for I have
been rather fortunate. There have been
times when it has been hard to make
both ends meet, but I have always
managed at the last moment to sell a
picture. The greatest trial I ever had
was when my health failed and I had
to go into the country, with strict or
ders from my physician not to touch my
brush for three years. The anxiety
was something terrible; I felt like a
caged bird, and that was the greatest
struggle that I ever endured for art's
sake."
"It is amazing," said J. TV. Clawson,
"how much real wretchedness can be
transformed just by an unexpected
order for a picture. I had a studio in
New York at the time of our greatest
skirmish for food, and my wife and I
were feeling the lack of rations and
rent, while the day for our monthly re
mittance had not yet arrived. We were
rather blue, and the playful chatter of
our two-year-old babe reminded us of
our responsibilities. Just then Mr. Sar
toris, General Grant's son-in-law, called
and said: 'Clawson, old boy, I am going
to sail for England to-morrow and
would like to take a pastel portrait of
a friend to my father. Can you do it
by noon to-morrow?'
"Though a big effort, I announced
with celerity: 'Yes, if your friend will
pose immediately.' The portrait was a
success, and finished when Mr. Sartoris
called the next day. He handed me five
new crisp ten-dollar bills. Wife and I
bo%ved our benefactor out and when the
door closed fell into each other's arms,
while the baby grabbed the bills and,
before we discovered it, had torn one
Into fragments, the largest of which
was a quarter of an inch square. It re
quired more time to mend and pass that
greenback than it did to make three
' pictures."
J. D. Strong associates the great
est hardships in his artistic career with
the year 1874. "At that time I was
studying in Munich," said Mr. Strong,
"and waiting anxiously for my long
overdue remittance. I was in pretty
hard casings, I tell you, and finally
took the advice of some students, who
conducted me to a one-cent souphouse.
This place was kept open for the very
poor. There were no waiters here —
each fellow must help himself to the
soup plates and ladles on the shelves,
and wash and return the dishes when
he had finished his meal. This meal
consisted of a scoop from two great
caldrons of soup, or a sort of pot
pourri. I never could make out a suit
able name for the ingredients unless it
could be called anti-fat.
"Well, for a price equivalent to one
cent, a piece of black bread and the
privilege of fishing in these caldrons
for whatever I could take out at one
scoop was given me. At one time I got
a chop bone and a chicken leg. This
was not. very fattening, but I was a
faithful customer there for a week."
"When I was thirteen years of age."
Mr. Jorgensen began, "I commenced
my first struggle in labor for art by
shortening my sleep. I could be found
by 4 o'clock every morning scrubbing
the floors of the old Art School at 430,
Pine street. By doing this and run-
Ding errands, I was enabled to clothe
myself and help my mother. Sometimes
during the janitor's absence all of his
duties devolved upon me, but this was
my first struggle and not the worst one.
From 1881 to 1883 I was an assistant di
rector in the Art School, when Mr.
Williams advised me to branch out for
myself and take a studio. I started out
on a still hunt and found one on Cali
fornia street that just suited me. But
to my astonishment I was asked to pay
the rent of $20 in advance. I had
scarcely a dollar in my pocket and I
lay awake half the night scheming to
get that sum. When morning came I
gained enough courage to ask the loan
of a friend. I got the twenty and pro
ceeded to arrange my studio while my
bosom swelled with joy at the thought
that I was actually in business for my
self. It did not take me long to get
things in order, for my supply of fur
niture was meager. But my stock of
hope was at high tide. Then I sat down
to wait for pupils and orders. Seven
days passed and not a figure darkened
my doors.
THE B&K FRANCISCO CALL, STJXDAY, FEBBXTARY 13, 1898.
"Where were my brilliant dreams? I
felt that I was going mad. I sat down
"WORK." SAID WM. KEITH, "IF YOU'RE HUNGRY, WORK- IF YOU'RE
IN LOVE, WORK- WHAT'S THE USE OF CRYING OVER YOUR
TROUBLES? WORK! WORK! WORK!"
at my easel, but I could not paint. I
was blind to color save one, and that
the golden twenty loaned me by my
friend. It seemed to dance all over the
canvas, until I had to quit work. Sev
eral more days passed, and In all of my
life I can truthfully say that these
were the most wretched days. Not an
order; not a pupil. The fifteenth finally
dawned, and early in the morning I
was startled by a rap at the door. I
yelled 'come In' rather unceremonious
ly. A stranger answered my summons.
I studied that man as closely as if he
had been some diatai.t opecies of cre
ation, for he was the first visitor in the
fortnight. He left me an order for two
pictures that secured the rent, not only
for one month but for three."
"The most wretched time In my ca
reer," asserts H. S. Fonda, "1 spent
in Paris in 1893. I could not speak a
word of French and just happened to
stop at a hotel where there were no
Americans. Upon the second day of
my arrival I missed my bank drafts
that I had been wearing In a little bag
suspended from my neck. Oh, that
hour of torment was bitter! I had
saved my earnings of years for this one
purpose — to study in the art schools of
Paris, and now nothing remained. Be
sides, I had very little in my purse and
as the hotel did not furnish meals I
did not eat that day. Of course I no
tified the bank and hunted up the
American Club at the Hotel de la
Haute Loire, where I found bonhomme
and consomme and, to my unspeakable
delight, I also found my drafts where
they had been lost in the recesses of
my own pockets."
"In 1889." said Artist John Stanton,
"I left Paris and went up to Rochefort
en terre to sketch. One day I was busi
ly engaged in sketching the fortifica
tions, not knowing there was a law
against it, and was arrested by a ser
geant, who took me for a German spy.
I made matters worse by being sullen
and was locked up in the conciergerie
for two days and a night and fed on
onion soup.
"As soon as I was released from here,
my funds being low, I set out for Rye,
England, where I expected to find my
allowance waiting for me. I was dls-
appointed, and in my desperation took
the first room I could find where I
could get credit. It was somewhat
topsy-turvy, but the woman explained
that her Aunt Martha had just died
and that she would have it in order by
night. For three days I occupied the
room without noticing anything un
usual. But on the fourth, thinking
that I was opening the door to the
porch, by mistake I opened the one on
the opposite side of the room, and for
a moment I stood rooted to the spot.
For there lay the fast mortifying body
of a corpse.
"I went down those stairs three
steps at a time and demanded of the
landlady to do something with the
'deader.'
" 'Oh, that is only poor Aunt Mar
tha,' the woman explained. 'She died
with a little wind around her 'cart,
and the doctor said it would be no
'arm to keep the good soul for a few
days. We are going to bury her over
the little 'ill to-morrow.'
"The worst part of the whole thing
was that, knowing what was in the
next room, I had still to occupy mine
from sheer necessity until the remit
tance arrived, and that was the most
wretched night in my whole exist
ence."
"The worst trials of my life," said
Thomas Hill, "I endured while paint
ing that picture of 'The Last Spike.'
Owing to the many commissions, show
ered upon me by Mr. Stanford, my
generous patron, I made very slow
progress with the picture, covering a
period of four years. From time to
time I changed the figures at Mr.
Stanford's suggestions, and one day he
met me on the street and in the friend
liest manner said that he must counter
mand the order, as he feared the pub
lic would think him egotistical if he
had anything to do with the work. I
told him then that I released him
from all responsibility, but that It was
an historical event, and that if the
picture were truthful I should have no
trouble in finding a purchaser. He
told me, however, that when I had
completed the picture I had bet
ter let him see It first, and the expres
sion on his face as he said it told vol
umes to encourage me.
"If there was any folly in it it was
all mine, but I worked with more zeal
than ever before. Foremost amonn
the stubborn facts that stared mp in
the face was the mortgage on my
home, besides my wife and nine chiiu
ren had to have bread and butter. My
four years of toil, with its hopes and
discouragements, left me worn out in
body and mind. The mortgage on my
home was foreclosed, but Charles
Crocker came to my rescue and fur
nished me with the means to get out
of the country, to forget the spike
picture and its attendant miseries. But
I never can."
"Once upon a time." related C. D.
Robinson, "a minister tried to reform
a drunken Indian by offering him a
bribe to keep sober. 'Now, Joe,' said
he, 'if you can keep sober for one year
I will give you $5 at the end of that
time.' The intoxicated Indian quickly
pledged himself. The minister saw
him no more for six months, when he
found him on a glorious jag. 'Why,
Joe,' the good man exclaimed, 'you are
drunk again.' 'Oh, no,' the Indian in
sisted; 'this is the same old drunk!' "
Artist William Keith said: "Oh, yes,
I have had hardships; but, man alive,
who hasn't? I was a wood-carver and
stuck to my trade until I had saved a
little money, and then I began to
paint; but. pshaw! when I didn't sell
my pictures did I sit down and whine
like a woman? No, I just worked and
worked at another. If I had quit paint-
Ing whenever I received a disappoint
ment or failed to sell a picture, darn it
all, I would have been a physical wreck
long ago. Everybody has disappoint
ments. But if you are in' trouble,
work; if you are hungry, work, and if
you are in love be sure and work; it is
the best thing you can do."
"To tell the truth." said Amadee
Joullin, "my whole life has beep ■
struggle from the time I succeeded in
Retting myself fired from a printing
office, where my father had placed me
that I might outgrow the notion of
studying art, down to my meager exis
tence while studying in Paris in 1883.
I think there were very few students
who lived on as small an allowance as
I did. Invariably as the end of the
month came around I had to liv.c on
horse meat. I did my own cooking and
soon got to relish a horse steak pretty
well.
"But pshaw! the greatest hardships
of life are those we endure at home
among our own friends. I remember
one time when rooming with Jules Ta
vernier that I had a rather hard rub.
He suggested that we go out into the
country to sketch, and I had scraped
all the money I could together and met
him at the ferry. 'Let me have your
money, Joullin,' he said. 'I haven't any
just now, but I've got some coming.'
He was always like that— expecting
money, and when it did come he was
the most generous-hearted boy in the
world.
"Well, my money was soon spent, and
we waited for Jules' remittance to
square up our debts at the hotel. At
last it came, but by that time our
board bill had increased to such an
extent that we could only pay our fares
to Oakland. There we were— stranded
at the mole. While we were scheming
to get across the bay, a newsboy came
up, who, reading the name of Jules Ta
vernier on the valise said: 'Hello,
Jules.'
" 'Do you know me?' asked Jules
quickly. 'If you do, let me have four
bits and I'll give you this pocket-knife.'
"The bargain was made, but when we
reached the other side we had to walk
up to our studio carrying our traps,
and the worst part of it, to exist on free
lunches for nearly a week."
Gordon Ross has felt only for a
day the hardships of an impoverished
"IT'S ONLY AUNT MARTHA'S CORPSE," SAID THE LANDLADY TO
STANTON.
pocket. "While I was studying In Vi
enna, by a remarkable coincidence, the
day my bank check arrived, another
came to a man bearing my name. In
"MY LANDLORD SAT ON ME
LIKE Qti UNDIGESTED DOUGH
NUT," SAID H- J- BREUER.
some manner there was a confusion of
signatures, and as I could not draw the
money until the matter was investigat
ed, I repaired to a cheap restaurant
whose price corresponded with my de
pleted purse. It would have been bet
ter for me had I gone hungry to bed, for
what I ate made me wretchedly ill — so
ill, in fact, that when I obtained my
money I had no appetite, and that, so
far, has been the most wretched day in
my experience."
G. ijadenasso, about two years
ago, had a hard run of luck. Sickness
came into his family, he had pawned all
of his jewelry and each day seemed
darker than the last. "It is true, I could
ping," said Mr. Cadenasso, "and often
spent 20 cents for laundered linen and
6 cents to the bootblack to make myself
presentable at some wealthy homes
where I sang without remuneration,
hoping that they would reciprocate by
buying a picture.
"One day I cannot forget. A society
lady stopped me on the street and said,
'Mr. Cadenasso, why don't you go to
Castle Crag? It's perfectly lovely up
there.' 'Madam,' I interrupted, 'I have
not 5 cents to go to the park.'
"Oh, there was such a tempest In my
aoul, and everywhere I looked the
clouds grew blacker; even the elements
sympathized with me and covered the
sky with clouds. Like an inspiration
the desire came to me to cross the bay
and sketch. I w r ent with a friend and
when I returned that night I brought
with me my finished picture 'The Gath
ering Storm.' I found a purchaser at
once and ended my worst struggle."
Speaking of his most tormenting ex
perience, H. R. Bloomer said: "I re
member 1878 as the year of years in
which the history ot my struggles
amounted almost to a climax. I occu
pied the studio in Paris formerly used
by Dv Maurier of 'Trilby' fame, and at
the same time was studying under Du
ran. One day Horace Hawes called
and took a fancy to a large unfinished
picture of Mount Shasta. He ordered
it to be finished and sent to his address
in San Francisco. By a stroke of ill
luck there was no certificate accom
panying the picture and it was kept in
the New York custom-house for six
months.
"On the strength of this sale I In
cured more debts than I otherwise
would have done, for I felt sure that
the money would be forthcoming as
soon as the pictures arrived in San
Francisco. I worked with zeal, and
along with the other students I sent
two pictures to the Universal Exposi
tion. Months passed by and no word
from San Francisco. I got deeper and
deeper in debt, and one morning — the
most miserable one I have ever known
—the proprietor of the restaurant told
me he could give me no more credit.
I walked the streets of Paris all that
day without eating, trying to live
down my despair.
"Late that night I crept into my
bed in my studio and slept, from ex
haustion, until the next morning, when
I was aroused by one of the students,
Wyatt Eaton, who suggested that I
go to the exposition office and inquire
the fate of my pictures.. After a little
persuasion I went and ■rt-as informed
that both had been sold, and that one,
'The Bridge at St. Gretz,' had been
bought by the French Government and
that I would get 1000 francs for it.
"I think I walked home on air."
When Otto Dobbertin, the sculptor,
arrived In San Francisco he brought
with him the remains of his overland
lunch and an empty purse. For three
days he lived on the debris of the one
and was spurred on in his search for
work by the flatness of the other.
There were days, so he says, that he
ate nothing at all. Then he walked
out to the park, and there met a Ger-.
man contractor, who gave him an or
der to make some figures for the
Santa Barbara building at the Mid
winter Fair. "He also gave me $1,"
said Mr. Dobbertin, "and that kept me
one week, until I had finished my fig-
An amusing account of VirglJ
Williams' adventure in Italy, showing
that artist's undaunted spirit, is related
by Mr. Jorgenson. Mr. Williams, who
was the first director of the San Fran
cisco Art School, spent nearly ten yean
in Italy. During that time he made
several sketching expeditions into the
interior of the peninsula, and on ona
of these he discovered that he lacked
the funds to buy even a third-class
passage on the steamboat which would
take him to his destination. His argu
ment to the ticket agent was of no
avail. The agent advised him to see
the captain, but he found him just at
firm. They would take no one on less
than a. third-class fare.
"Finally as Mr. Williams turned to
leave the boat, he saw some horses
aboard and said, 'Surely, captain, you
don't charge as much for shipping
those horses as you do for carrying th«
passengers, do you?'
" 'Of course not,' the captain replied
" 'Then let me go as a horse; I will
stand in th re with them.'
" 'Who are you, anyway?' the cap
tain exclaimed, amazed at his persever
encp.
" 'I am an American artist,' Mr. Will
lams answered.
"Then the captain said, 'Whoever yon
are, you are all right; come along with
me as my guest.'
"Mr. Williams accepted his invita
tion, not only that time, but whenever
he had occasion to cross on that boat."
ANNABEL LEE.
THE FATAL KLONDICITIS.
I'd a lover who was perfect—
Or, I thought so at the time;
He would send me flowers and candy,
He would write me yards of rhyme;
He would visit, send me notes-
He would call me through the phone;
But he took the Klondicitis,
And I'm doomed to live alone.
I gave just fifteen hundred
To a man I thought all right,
lie was sure of "millions in it,"
And 'twould work "just out of sight."
"We had planned to make a splurge,
And were waiting for a scoop;
But he took the Klondicitis
And I think I'm "in the soup." . J {j
You may talk of rheumatism,
You may fear to get a chill, 'fl f]
You may dread the indigestion, 5
And the latest microbe ill;
You may run the entire gamut,
You may have the worst of luck;
But I think the Klondicltis
The most fatal thing we've struck.
ELLA COSTILLO BENNETT.
HOW TO CALL A GERMAN POLICEMAN.
An amusing frontier incident is re
ported by the London Globe from the
village of Schoelbach, in the neighbor
hood of Metz.
A boy who was minding a flock of
sheep on a small island in the river
was caught in a violent storm, during
'WHEREVER I LOOKED," SAID
CHRIS JORGENSEN, "THAT
$20 SEEMED TO DANCE BE
FORE MY EYES."
which the rain fell in torrents. Th«
river rose rapidly and threatened to
cover the island.
The boy shouted for help, and his
cries were heard by two German po
licemen and several villagers, but no-n«
of them would venture into the swollen
stream.
The boy had almost given himself uj
for lost, when he remembered hearing
some of his playmates say, "If you
want a policeman, shout, 'Vive la
France!' "
He immediately began to shout "Vivi
la France!" whereupon the two police,
men plunged into the river, seized tin
boy. dragged him across to the main
land and off to the police station, wher*
they charged him with uttering sedi
tious cries.
Joe W. Grimes, who was in Savannai
recently, is the heaviest bicycle ridei
in the world. He created a sensatioc
from the time he reached that plac«
until he left for Augusta. Grlmei
weighs 524^ pounds, and with all that
avoirdupois rides a wheel Ilka a three
year-old.
23