The Books: The Complete Essays of Mark Twain, ‘Down the Rhône’

On the essays shelf:

The Complete Essays Of Mark Twain

I’m not sure when this essay was published, or if it was. It recalls a boat-trip that Mark Twain took “down the Rhône” in 1891. He had been going strong with constant work and speaking engagements for months and needed a little R&R. He wanted to just sit on a barge, and float down a river, and have no obligations whatsoever. Re-charge the batteries, relax. And, all in all, that is what he did. It was just him and the boatman, and they floated along the river, stopping occasionally for food, or pulling off to the side to get lodging for the night, before floating off again. Mark Twain kept a log, and he includes entries from the log in the essay, which give an approximation of just how fast that river flows, how quick the current is. There are no grand people, no rich people, the people he encounters along the way are peasant folk, regular old villagers, trusting people who let him bunk in a room that has the family jewelry in it. He is impressed with what he sees, especially the women, who are tireless, hard-working, and dogged – unlike the men, who basically laze around in inns with their feet up.

With all the travel stuff though, the piece is a bit monotonous, and doesn’t have the depth of Twain’s usual travelogue pieces. It’s basically just re-counting what he sees along the banks of the river.

However, this is one section, a digression, really, about the “Mona Lisa”, that has stuck with me. I think of it often, especially when I hear “beginners” scoff at art created by generations before them, or “old masters” or whatever. Sometimes beginners have to go through that phase in order to claim a spot for themselves, but hopefully they grow past it. I remember listening to a young actor in grad school babble on to me his totally stupid theories on acting, based on complete ignorance: To this young man, people like Robert DeNiro INVENTED good acting. I said something about “Spencer Tracy” and he sort of rolled his eyes. “Please, he just played himself.” I believe I have made it clear how I feel about those who use that statement. I have no problem calling it stupid, and I have no problem saying that those who use such words have not thought deeply enough about what they are saying. And so I certainly do not take them seriously as someone to be listened to, considered. Not all opinions are valid.

So. That’s what the following anecdote makes me think of. It’s pretty great!

The Complete Essays Of Mark Twain, ‘Down the Rhône’, by Mark Twain

A woman paddled across – a rather young woman with a face like the “Mona Lisa.” I had seen the “Mona Lisa” only a little while before, and stood two hours in front of that painting, repeating to myself, “People come from around the globe to stand here and worship. What is it they find in it?” To me it was merely a serene and subdued face, and there an end. There might be more in it, but I could not find it. The complexion was bad; in fact, it was not even human; there are no people of that color. I finally concluded that maybe others still saw in the picture faded and vanished marvels which had been there once and were now forever vanished.

Then I remembered something told me once by Noel Flagg, the artist. There was a time, he said, when he wasn’t yet an artist but thought he was. His pictures sold, and gave satisfaction, and that seemed a good-enough verdict. One day he was daubing away in his studio and feeling good and inspired, when Dr. Horace Bushnell, that noble old Roman, straggled in there without an invitation and fastened that deep eye of his on the canvas. The youth was proud enough of such a call, and glad there was something on the easel that was worthy of it. After a long look the great divine said:

“You have talent, boy.” (That sounded good.) “What you want is teaching.”

Teaching – he, an accepted and competent artist! He didn’t like that. After another long look:

“Do you know higher mathematics?”
“I? No, sir.”
“You must acquire them.”
“As a proper part of an artist’s training?” This with veiled irony.
“An essential part of it. Do you know anatomy?”
“No, sir.”
“You must learn how to dissect a body. What are you studying now – principally?”
“Nothing, I believe.”
“And the time flying, the time flying! Where are your books? What do you read?”
“There they are, on the shelves.”
“I see. Poetry and romance. They must wait. Get to your mathematics and your anatomy right away. Another point: you must train your eye – you must teach yourself to see.”
“Teach myself to see? I believe I was born with that ability.”
“But nobody is born with a trained ability – nobody. A cow sees – she sees all the outsides of things, no doubt, but it is only the trained eye that sees deeper, sees the soul of them, the meaning of them, the spiritual essence. Are you sure that you see more than the cow sees? You must go to Paris. You will never learn to see here. There they’ll teach you; there they’ll train you; there they’ll work you like a slave; there they’ll bring out the talent that’s in you. Be off! Don’t twaddle here any longer!”

Flagg thought it over and resolved that the advice was worth taking. He and his brother cleared for Paris. They put in their first afternoon there scoffing at the works of the old masters in the Louvre. They laughed at themselves for crossing a wide ocean to learn what masterly painting might be by staring at these odious things. As for the “Mona Lisa,” they exhausted their treasure of wit in making fun of it.

Next day they put themselves into the hands of the Beaux Arts people, and that was the end of play. They had to start at the very bottom of their trade and learn it over again, detail by detail, and learn it right, this time. They slaved away, night and day for three months, and wore themselves to shadows. Then they had a day off, and drifted into the Louvre. Neither said a word for some time; each disliked to begin; but at last, in front of the “Mona Lisa,” after standing mute awhile one of them said:

“Speak out. Say it.”
“Say it yourself.”
“Well, then, we were cows before!”
“Yes – it’s the right name for it. That is what we were. It is unbelievable, the change that has come over these pictures in these months. It is the difference between a landscape in the twilight and the same landscape in the daytime.” Then they fell into each other’s arms.

This all came back to me, now, as I saw this living “Mona Lisa” punting across L’Eau Morte.