Talkin’ the other night about the recent “flurry” in Wall street, and about the misfortunes of actors and other professional men who had come to grief by dabblin’ in stocks, brought to my mind the case of Henry Inman, the noted portrait painter, who, as an artist, had “few equals and no superior.”
Inman was a clever sort of a man generally, and a good deal of a Bohemian in his tastes. At one time he had been worth a good deal of money, made by his paintin’s; but he wasn’t satisfied to leave well enough alone, and put his money into Wall street stocks; of course, lost it all, and after that died a broken-hearted man.
When he died he left a family, and his friends were exercised in spirit how to get some money for their necessities.
Hackett, the actor, was then alive, and very popular, and somebody asked Hackett what his ideas about gettin’ some money for the Inman family might be.
“Get up a benefit for ‘em,” said Hackett.
“But Inman wasn’t an actor,” was the reply. “He had no claim on the theatrical profession.”
“But, I mean,” said Hackett, “to make Inman appear for his own benefit.”
“Why, this is but jestin’,” was the reply to this; “Ill-timed jestin’, too.”
“I am not jestin’,” insisted Hackett, “and I say Inman can appear, by proxy, by his own paintin’s he left behind him. Let his friends go round New York and get all the paintin’s that Inman painted, as far as they can, and let ‘em make a public exhibition of these collected paintin’s, at so much admission, lettin’ the public know that the proceeds go to the family. It will be a big ‘benefit,’ with the dead painter appearin’ to the best advantage. That’s my idea,” said Hackett.
And a very good idea it proved to be. It was acted on at once, and one hundred and twenty-seven paintin’s, all by Inman, were loaned by their different owners, for the purposes of this exhibition, which resulted in a round sum for the family of the deceased artist, who thus reaped the benefit of a novel “benefit” suggested by a “live” actor, realizin’ the strange idea of a dead man appearin’ in public for his own benefit.
Inman’s life was a peculiar one. His very appearance was peculiar. He had a little body and a big head, long hair, a snub nose, and a dimple on his chin. He was rather vexed at his nose, but made it up by bein’ very proud of his dimple.
Inman’s first big lift in life was when he met Wesley Jarvis, the painter. Jarvis was a handsome chap, and very lively. He was fond of a good time, and at the same time was very keen and quick and could see chances for money where nobody else in his line could.
He took a likin’ to young Inman, and offered to take him to Albany, where he himself lived. His offer was accepted, and so Wesley Jarvis and Inman settled down at the old Crittenden House, Albany, then quite a stylish and expensive place.
Jarvis spent his money as fast as he made it, and always went in for a good eatin’ and drinkin’. When he had cash he paid cash, but when he was dead broke he lived well all the same, for he lived on credit. Jarvis spent the most money when he had the least to spend; and it is no wonder if, with such an example as Jarvis before him all the time, Inman became careless and extravagant.
Jarvis left Albany for awhile and Inman stayed behind at Crittenden’s, and soon got terribly in debt. When Jarvis returned Inman told him of his trouble. “Just as I expected,” said Jarvis; “but, come; we will put our heads and hands together and get you out of this scrape.”
As a preliminary to “gettin’ out of this scrape” Jarvis ordered up a bottle of wine, which he and Inman soon emptied. Then he sent for a box of cigars, and the two smoked like chimneys. Finally, after a social game of cards, Jarvis got his ideas adjusted and told Inman his plan for gettin’ out of the scrape–raisin’ money to pay Inman’s board bill.
“I have the very idea,” cried Jarvis, slappin’ Inman on the shoulder and callin’ to the waiter for another bottle. “We–that is, you–must try the Legislature.”
“Try the legislature!” cried Inman. “What can you mean?”
“Why, paint the legislature,” explained Jarvis.
But Inman didn’t understand the explanation. “The legislature don’t care anythin’ about paintin’” said Inman, and he said the truth. The men had Albany then didn’t care a copper for all the art and all the artists in the world.
But they were vain, though, just as vain as–vainer perhaps then most other men–and it was on pure vanity, not on pure love of art, that Jarvis calculated on his scheme for raisin’ Inman’s board bill.
He called on two or three prominent members of the Legislature and proposed to have their portraits painted for a mere song. The prominent members of course sent it to his proposition, and Inman, instructed by Jarvis, set to work and painted good likenesses of those prominent members.
Then those prominent members were tickled with their pictures, and showed ‘em to all their friends in the Legislature. And these friends of course all wanted their own pictures taken, and of course Inman painted ‘em, and Jarvis charged ‘em heavy, makin’ up on the many members who were not so prominent what he had lost on the pictures of the few members who were prominent.
Before that session was through at Albany Inman had painted the pictures of not less than thirty members of the Legislature at from $25 to $100 a portrait, so that all Inman’s board bill was settled, and all Jarvis’s besides, in addition to having plenty of money for other expenses, and for a good time generally.
Inman was very expert at takin’ portraits, and after he settled in New York made big money in that line.
He was great on catchin’ the expression of a person’s face, the most difficult point in portrait paintin’. And when he chose he could make his portraits “flatter” very much, and yet be like the parties. There is the biggest kind of money in this kind of portrait paintin’.
One rich New York family was put under lastin’ obligations to Inman by his skill in catchin’ expression–or rather, conveyin’ it, this time. For in this case he conveyed on canvas what didn’t really exist at all then, though it once had existed.
A young lady, the pet daughter of this rich family, had died, and all that remained of her was a memory and a rude sketch by some country artist, taken one summer in a hurry.
The father came to Inman and asked him if he wouldn’t paint a life-size portrait of his dead child from this rude sketch.
“But there is no expression in the face in this sketch at all,” said Inman.
“But I will tell you how she looked,” said the father.
Well, Inman said to work, and with only this rude sketch and the father’s descriptions to guide him, absolutely succeeded in producin’ a portrait of the dead girl, whom he had never seen, which was lifelike–pronounced so even by her mother and her lover. Succeeded, above all, in reproducin’ the favorite expression of the dead girl’s face, a task seldom attempted, and scarcely ever successful. The delighted father gave Inman a thousand dollars for this picture, then a big sum of money, and brought him plenty of well-payin’ patrons.
Just then Inman was in financial straits, but this portrait set him up once more. “A dead girl has brought him to life,” he used to say. Inman could paint very rapidly. Col. Stone once brought into his studio, on some pretext or other, a gentleman, a friend of the Colonel’s, who had always refused to have his picture taken, but whose picture the Colonel had determined to get. By arrangement, the Colonel got talkin’ with the gentleman about some matters in which he was interested, while Inman pretended to be attendin’ to some fancy pictures, and not payin’ any attention to the Colonel or his friend. After about an hour or so of talk, Inman interrupted the conversation by askin’ the Colonel’s friend opinion of a certain picture he wanted to show him. “Oh, I am no judge of pictures, sir,” said the Colonel’s friend to Inman. “You are the best judge in the world of this particular picture, sir, I assure you,” said Inman, leadin’ the gentleman up to the picture in which the gentleman once recognized a portrait of himself. Inman had “stolen his likeness,” much to his wonder and Stone’s delight.
If Inman had stuck to paintin’ only, and left speculatin’ alone, he would have been comfortably “fixed,” but a Bohemian in Wall street has as much chance as a minnow among sharks. Although his portrait lay was the best lay in the world, he died a poor man and with a broken heart–one of the many thousands killed in Wall street playin’ a “game they don’t understand.”
