The Commodore and the Marine Artist [published Apr. 27, 1884]

      There has been a considerable amount of newspaper talk about William H. Vanderbilt’s picture gallery and his havin’ it open to the public. But there is a history connected with one of his pictures which comparatively few persons know anything about.

      William H’s father, the old Commodore, didn’t care much for art or artists, but he took a great likin’ to one particular artist and to one particular line of pictures.

      Some thirty years or more ago there was a painter livin’ in New York called John DeHaas, who was what is styled “a marine artist.” He painted sea paintin’s, and painted ‘em well.

      This John DeHaas was a regular Bohemian, very smart, but careless of himself. He never shaved, and I don’t believe ever washed. He had long hair, like the old Tribune crowd, and smoked terrifically long pipes. He lived in an old fashioned house on Varick street, and painted, slept, ate and drank there.

      He generally painted in bed. In fact, this bed was the main thing in his studio, and as he smoked while paintin’ it can be readily be understood that his bed on several occasions got on fire, though each time the fire was extinguished with comparatively little damage, except to his paintin’s, and that didn’t count.

      A few artists, of an independent sort, appreciated DeHaas, but the majority couldn’t understand him, and only laughed at him, or hissed him, whereas in reality he had more talent than the whole caboodle of ‘em.

      Yet his paintin’s seldom pleased the public. He generally managed to sell ‘em, it was true, but not at any fair rate or to any legitimate purchaser. He either raffled ‘em off at a drinking saloon, near his studio in Varick street, or he got “advances” on ‘em at his “uncle’s,” Simpson’s, the pawnbroker.

      But takin’ one consideration with another ,he contrived to keep the wolf from the door, though it was howlin’ like old Harry round the corner.

      One day he took an outin’ to Staten Island, and seeing an old wreck lyin’ in the sunshine on the beach, commenced to sketch it, puttin’ an umbrella over him as he sketched, to protect him from the heat.

      Suddenly, he was touched on the shoulder by a fine-lookin’, shrewd-lookin’ old gentleman, with superb physique, who called him “sonny” and asked him what he was doin’.

      “Don’t you see, I am sketching,” said DeHaas.

      “What for?” laconically asked the old man.

      “Well–really that’s hard to answer,” said DeHaas. “Partly for likin’ and partly for lucre, I hope some day; half for myself and the other half for money.”

      “And of the two halves,” said the old man. “I guess the money half is the biggest, ain’t it, sonny?”

      “I’d like it to be, but it isn’t,” answered the artist frankly.

      The old gent seemed to appreciate this frankness of spirit, and chuckled to himself. Then suddenly he asked the artist a rather singular question. “Can you paint ferry boats, sonny?” he said.

      “Well, of course, I can if I must,” answered the the artist reflectively. “I can paint anythin’.”  

      “Well, then, sonny, just paint me the Staten Island ferry boats, as they are goin’ up and down the bay, passin’ each other, for instance,” said the old gent,  “and I will pay you handsomely if I like the picture. And I guess I will if it’s like the boats. You see, young man, I have made my money off of ferry boats, and I have got kind o’ attached to ‘em. So is it a bargain? Will you paint me my ferry boats.”

      “Your name then is–”

      “Cornelius Vanderbilt, sonny. You may have heard of me afore?”

      “I have, and I rather like what I have heard of you, too,” said the artist, in his rather independent air, as if patronizin’ the even then millionaire.

      “All right, then, sonny,” said the old Commodore, who immensely enjoyed the manner of the artist as a most agreeable relief to the subservancy and the flunkyism to which he was even then gettin’ to be accustomed; “I shall look to you for the ferry boats.”

      And he did not look in vain. Abandonin’ his previous Staten Island picture of the old wreck, DeHaas set to work paintin’ the Staten Island ferry boats passin’ each other, and produced a realistic picture which tickled the old Commodore immensely.

      Vanderbilt paid liberally for the paintin’, and spoke so well of the artist, that DeHaas soon got orders enough to enable him to go to Europe. Here he met the recognition at once that had been denied him in his own country, and soon was enjoyin’ the sweets of success and fame.

      His marine pictures, the very sort of paintin’s then most in demand, were soon displayed in Lumley’s Windows in Bond street, and Jordan’s in Piccadilly, and found eager purchasers in Belgravia. In short, Jack DeHass, the unknown artist of Varick street, New York, soon became the universally prized artist of London.

      But spite of his success abroad, Jack DeHaas’ soul pined for his old home in New York, and at last he returned to the city and engaged elegant quarters near Booth’s Theatre. Belmont and other art lovers gave him commissions, and altogether he was prosperous exceedin’ly. But he was a man every inch of him; there wasn’t an ounce of the snob, or the cad, in his whole composition, and amid all his success and glory, his soul yearned after the scenes and tokens of his early life in New York. He longed to see some relic that would remind him of the struggle of his early days.

      But a man can’t find himself, or traces of himself, after a lapse of years in New York. Life in Gotham is so rapid that it leaves few traces behind, and for a while DeHaas couldn’t find any signs of his old self at all. He called at his favorite saloon, but a new man kept the place, and all the old customers, himself included, were forgotten. Then he called at “Simpson’s,” and even there all traces of him were lost. There had been several pledges of him left with Simpson, it is true, but they had all been forfeited and sold, and that was the end of ‘em.

      The old house in Varick street where he had had his studio, had changed hands; its landlady knew him not. He began to feel as if he had never been.

      But one mornin’ while he was dropping in a moment at an old bookstore, he saw a paintin’, unframed but familiar. It was the picture of an old wreck on the beach, and DeHaas at once recognized it as the sketch he had been workin’ at when old Vanderbilt had met him and had laid the foundation of his fortune.

      How it got there was a mystery, but there it was. And it was the only relic of his early life of the Bohemian past he had as yet come across. He asked the old bookstore man what he wanted for the paintin’ and the old bookstore man, little dreamin’ of the identity of his customer, told him “he would take a dollar and fifty cents for it.” He would have taken fifty cents, but the customer seemed rather anxious, so he put up the price, but without a word DeHaas,  overjoyed, handed the astonished old bookman a five-dollar bill, and without waitin’ for his change, walked out with his picture. He would have paid fifty dollars for it almost as readily as five.

      It is a strange thing, but men generally love dearest what reminds ‘em most of their hardest days. And DeHaas cherished this relic of his poverty more than he prized all his wealth.

      He had a fine frame made for it, and hung it among his finest works. It had real merit, but he soon got offers for it. But DeHaas refused ‘em all. This reminder of his saloon-rafflin’ and pawnbroker visitin’ days was not for sale.

      And when he died he left in his will this picture of “The Old Wreck off Staten Island” to William H. Vanderbilt, the son of the old Commodore, as a mark of gratitude and esteem for the man who laid the foundation of his (DeHaas’s) fortune.

      The picture hangs in William H.’s collection now, along with other works of DeHaas, but it is a noticeable fact that there is no picture of any ferry boats of any kind in William H. Vanderbilt’s gallery.

      And there never will be. William H. don’t like to be reminded of his early days; and there are good many men in New York just like him.

[Editor’s notes: Though I’d love to unearth a forgotten story behind an artwork, the above anecdote is a puzzle. It appears to be referring to Maurits Frederik De Haas, not “John.” (There was an unrelated painter, Johannes De Haas, who painted livestock and never resided in America). M. F. De Haas painted many sea and shoreline scenes around New York City, and up and down the northeast coast.

However, the source where this anecdote originally appeared is not known (yet). Also, I’ve been unable to find any mention of De Haas paintings in the old Vanderbilt collections. If there ever was a De Haas depicting two passing Staten Island ferries, it is unknown; as is the sketch of a wreck on a Staten Island shore.

De Haas did find a patron in August Belmont.

So the anecdote has a ring of truth behind it, but no corroborating evidence.]