LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA. Accession . Class nooKs cieiaced y the borrowerj x 7 ' ( o-i+.n/toL* THE OF AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY BY JULES BRETON TRANSLATED BY MARY J. SERRANO NEW^YORK D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 1890 COPYRIGHT, 1890, BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. MESSRS. D. APPLE TON AND COMPANY, New York. Gentlemen : It is with great pleasure that I authorize you to publish the translation of the Life of an Artist. The importance of your house, and the conscientious care which it gives to all its publications, are to me a sure guar- antee of the attention which this book will receive from you. This history of my life is at the same time the genesis of my art. It offers also portraits of the painters who were my friends or contemporaries, and the history of the move- ment of art since 1848 of which I have been a part. The great favor with which this book has been received in France will find, I hope, its echo among American read- ers. I am deeply interested in their opinion, for I am full of gratitude for the constant success with which their noble and puissant country has been pleased to encourage my work as a painter. Please receive, gentlemen, the assurance of my best wishes. JULES BRETON. CoURRlfeRES, October 77, 1890. 93584 INTRODUCTION. WITH charming frankness and simplicity Jules Bre- ton relates in this volume his memories of boyhood, the aspirations and struggles of youth, and the associa- tions of those later years when Delacroix, Millet, Corot, Rousseau, Daubigny, and others of that memorable company still lived to the glory of the national art which Breton himself represents so worthily. Of his own great successes he speaks with becoming modesty, but we in America have learned long since to value Breton's best work wholly apart from the unthinking admiration aroused for the artist whose *' Evening at Finistere " brought a price at the Seney sale in New York which was deemed phenomenal until, at the Mor- gan sale in 1886, his painting of "The First Commun- ion" reached the astonishing price of $45,500. But neither the contention of millionaires for Breton's paint- ings nor their presence in most of our larger collections nor the exact rank of his art need concern the reader of this delightfully intimate autobiography, written not from the standpoint of the technician or craftsman, but from that of a man whose quick perceptions, fine sensi- bility, and command of literary as well as pictorial ex- pression impart a rare value to his story of a life which has touched or included so many of the significant 2 INTRODUCTION. political, artistic, and literary movements of this cent- ury in France. It is always, however, as the man or the artist that Breton writes his recollections, and we can see that politics and social problems have rarely disturbed a life singularly serene and devoted to one purpose. The picture which he presents is a personal one, and in harmony with the dedication of the original to "my daughter Virginie, for whom alone the first chapters were written originally." A few Americans know Breton's poems, but in this autobiography we may justly claim the pleasure of presenting the famous painter to our public as an author whose hope that Americans will find something of interest in this story of his life will not, we think, be disappointed. fK 'OF OM \VER*TY ; s E '.FE OF AN ARTIST. i. THE Garden of Delight, the cradle of Adam, we have all dwelt in it. Those sudden bursts of joy whose source is unknown to us, mysterious smiles that without cause gladden our hearts, are but dim reminiscences of it. Thus does the eye preserve the image of the sun long after it has ceased to look at it. We all treasure in our memories the splendors of a wondrous time, when the light was clearer, the dawn rosier, the air more vibrant, the skies deeper and more softly blue, than they are now. Who does not remember this earliest spring-time, when the tender buds mingled their wild fragrance with the aroma of the earth ; when we felt the soft clay of the garden-paths, still moist from the winter snows and only partially hardened by the sun, yield under our tread ? In those days joyous bushes bloomed with starlike flowers, rosy and white, and, forever in motion, buzzed with clouds of golden bees. Where now are those trees that lived and sang? And how many animals were there that we no longer meet with in the gardens ? One of these was that little elephant, smaller than a mouse, that pushed its slender trunk through the crevices in the wall, watching me 4 THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. from the shadows with malignant glance, and quickly disappearing at my approach. Birds of a pale-green color, like that of our grasshoppers, sang among the corn. I heard sounds around me as of the voice of one talking alone, and I was not afraid. It was the voice of God. And the setting sun ! How large it seemed on warm, stormy evenings ; how gloriously it shone among the golden clouds that took new and strange forms at every moment ! I saw among them the figures of ani- mals, of men, and sometimes of the Virgin. But my mother never appeared to me, and my eye sought for her in vain in those celestial processions; I missed her, for I had known her only for a short time on earth, and I knew she was there above. The elderly cousin who came in the summer to cut the grass on our lawn she had seen her ! This woman and I understood each other, she was so old and I so little. She knew so many things ; she sang such beauti- ful songs in her drawling voice ! One very stormy day she had felt herself raised sud- denly in the air and carried bodily to a distance, to- gether with her bundle of grass ; and she had seen the lightning pass close by her under the form of a fiery cock, with swords instead of feathers in its tail. I loved her dearly. She seemed venerable to me, especially when her figure grew indistinct in the twilight as she returned home in the evening. I loved her on this account, and also on account of her sickle, which looked so like the crescent moon. THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. II. THAT my mother was in heaven I had no doubt, but I never knew just how she had left us. I preserved a recollection of her at once vague and intense, which at occasional delightful hours was always present with me, revived by certain colors, odors, sounds, or states of the atmosphere. Then I saw again her languid beauty, her sweet pale face, her mouth, expressing mingled melancholy and goodness, and her deep-set brown eyes, circled with dark shadows, that shone with so tender a light under their large white lids ! I fancied I could feel again her passionate embraces. Ah, I loved her well ! She had been ill a long, long time. I recalled her sitting in the corner of the wide chimney-place of our little kitchen, at times with her breast uncovered, to which horrible black reptiles clung, and there it was that she one day said to me, " I am going to die ! " Did I understand her ? Why did I weep ? I recalled those words and others, very commonplace ones. When the period arrived at which I was to put off skirts and wear for the first time the dress of a boy, she saw through the window the tailor coming toward the house, and said to me, " Jules, here is your suit ! " Since I have grown up I have often shed lender tears thinking of my mother and repeating to myself those welcome words, " Jules, here is your suit ! " My mother ! Again I see the straw hat trimmed with wild flowers, and the red and yellow shawl you wore in your languid walks in the garden, where you were soon to bid farewell to the flowers you loved, and that beheld you die ! 6 THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. I must have been bad indeed to have vexed you at such a time. I had received that morning, from my godfather, my first sword. I fancied myself a rural guard ! And I went to the end of the village in search of some delin- quent. I arrived very opportunely. A boy of about my own age was crossing the nearest cultivated field. I called to him to leave it, and, as he refused to do so, I made use of my weapon. The blow struck him full in the face, and the poor little fellow's nose began to bleed. At the sight of the blood I began to realize the wicked- ness of my conduct. I returned home ashamed of it. From the garden, where I had taken refuge, I soon heard angry cries filling the court-yard. On my account the mother of the injured child was abusing my poor mother. Mamma called to me, and, as I did not answer, she hurried in search of me. Then, seeing myself on the point of being discovered, I slipped for safety into an asparagus-bed which had not yet been cut, and which was impenetrable to every one but me, and there awaited the cessation of the storm. Soon the young invalid walked no longer in the garden. She kept her room, then her bed, and every evening before going to sleep my brother and I went up- stairs to kiss her. After kissing us tenderly she gave us bonbons. And one day, when the bonbons were all exhausted, mamma went to Arras to buy some more. I did not understand then why she remained there. I did not understand, either, why she took us, before setting out, to the house of a relation who lived at a distance from us in the vil- lage, and why we spent the whole day there and received more caresses than usual. But on our return home I suspected that something strange had happened, for THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. 7 going into the empty room, I found Mile. Rosalie there crying. She could cry then, this Mile. Rosalie, who was so terrible when she punished the children with her long switch at the infants' school which we attended, and of which she was the mistress. III. BUT let us leave Mile. Rosalie. I should like to go still further back into the past, to those first sensations which stand out faintly from the confused mist in which my memory, becoming fainter and fainter, finally loses itself the dawn of the begin- ning, the light which dimly illuminates nothingness. There I see vague white shapes move about, and faces bend over me, of which all the features are indistinct, except the eyes that shine like stars, there I see smiles and eddying whirlpools. When I begin to discern more clearly the forms of things, building was going on at our house. They were adding a new wing to the old part of the structure. Im- mense walls rose into the air, and on ladders which seemed to reach into infinity men were perpetually going up and down. They had dug a hole for a pump, and the water they drew out of it at first was quite white. I thought it was milk milk from the earth ! I wanted to drink some of it. On account of my mother's delicate health, I had been brought up by a nurse. Her name was Henriette. I called her Mtmtre. She was a young widow, a brunette, very active in her movements, and she loved me as she did her own children an attachment which I reciprocated to the end. 8 THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. Poor, and extremely neat, she lived in a room in a cottage in the neighborhood, which she divided by means of a curtain of cheap material, ornamented with blue flowers on a white ground. A single window, open- ing on to the street, lighted up an oaken wardrobe, kept scrupulously clean, surmounted by an etagire on which were a few pewter vessels, always bright, and some rustic earthenware. A high fireplace with white- washed, rough-cast walls, a black hearth covered with sticky soot, and a few straw chairs complete the picture. When the curtain was raised a double alcove, so dark that one could scarcely distinguish the two beds in it, was revealed to view by the light of a small window set in the wall. There it was that Memere often put me to sleep to the droning sound of some village lament. When I was able to walk, I still went quite naturally to the house of Memere to play with her two boys, both of them a little older than I. I preferred their coarse food to ours, and I always arrived at meal-times. Hen- riette would bring to the threshold of the open door the large black pot filled with steaming potatoes, their skins bursting open, and, seated on the floor around it, our hands for forks, we all would eat heartily. One day, coming in hastily, I struck my foot against some obstacle which lay in the way, and fell with all my force against the edge of the pot, cutting myself severely under the lower lip. Henriette ran to me on hearing my cries and, frightened at the sight of the blood gush- ing forth, clasped me in her arms and carried me quickly to her little garden that opened out on the fields. It was a beautiful sunny afternoon in spring. The pain grew less ; I restrained my tears and stam- mered : " Memere, don't cry ; 'tis nothing ! " Suddenly I pointed with my finger to a large yellow mass at the end of the garden, so bright, so extraordinarily bright, THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. g that only to think of it dazzles me with an excess of splendor. Henriette understood what my outbursts of delight and my extended arms meant, and carried me toward this marvel, which was nothing more than a field of colza in bloom. I have never seen another like it, but every other colza -field delights me because of that one. My nurse plucked me a branch, and since then colza- flowers always smell sweet to me. It was at about this time that I first knew what fear was. Me"mere brought me home one evening from a house at some distance from ours, where night had overtaken us. The streets were dark, the outlines of the roofs blended imperceptibly into the blackness of the sky, and everything appeared still darker from the lines of light that escaped through the cracks of the closed shutters, fiery arrows that all pointed in the darkness toward my eyes with a persistency that had something like sorcery in it. I buried my head in Henriette's bosom, and remained per- fectly still. I had already been told of the horrors of hell, and the thought of them redoubled my terror. Suddenly at the turn of a street an extraordinary noise burst forth, and at the same time I heard a crowd of people, passing and repassing, close beside me. We were in the midst of the tumult the harsh sound of rattles, the cracking of whips, the clashing of iron pots and pans. Frozen with terror I clung closer and closer to Henriette. I closed my eyes convulsively, shutting the lids tight, and yet I saw I saw a legion of black devils, who pur- sued me, brandishing long bars of red-hot iron, and ut- tering ferocious chuckles and abominable cries. When we reached the house I heard my nurse say, u They are blowing the horns for Zague"e." IO THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. To blow the horns for any one means, with us peas- ants, to give him a charivari. They were blowing the horns then, for Zague*e, an old beggar-woman, who, with her owl's head and red eyes, looked more like a sorceress than an ordinary human being. IV. I HAVE since seen many magnificent gardens, but never one that could make me forget the garden of my father for me the first and only garden. Surrounded by walls covered with espaliers, and crowned by vines with a verdant frieze, it was divided into squares by wide sanded walks, into which paths, bordered with sorrel, opened. At the various points where the paths met, pear-trees spread out their branches in the form of an arch. A true French garden, with its beds of vegetables and its flower-borders. At the entrance, between two grass-plots, a low mar- ble pillar, surmounted by a sun-dial, rose from the midst of a clump of anemones. But the wonder of the garden was the grotesque stone figures at its four corners, that gleamed in the sunshine, perched on high wooden columns painted green. They represented the four seasons. Spring, Summer, and Autumn, chubby-cheeked and plump, bore, one of them her basket of flowers, another her sheaf, and the third her vine-branch, laden with black grapes. As for Winter, I do not know why it bore no resem- blance to the other seasons. It was represented by the THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. n naked figure of a woman, of larger proportions than theirs, the head and shoulders only being covered with a kind of sackcloth. Huddled up and crouching with the cold, this figure seemed to shiver, in spite of the brands that burned at its feet. This want of harmony in the statues puzzled me. Doubtless this figure replaced a former Winter, broken by some accident, for it was newer than the others, and its outlines, more delicate than theirs, had not yet quite disappeared under the numerous coats of paint which, for a long time past, had renovated the figures each suc- cessive year. Such was this garden, for me the garden of Eden ! Here, among the flowers and the insects, my first sensations, my first reveries, had birth. Often, in the silent solitude, I would lie stretched on my back on the grass in the sunshine. Close to my face were the long blades of grass, seeming tall as trees, and I would let my fancy wander far away with the clouds floating past, while above me the branches of an immense poplar, which grew in our neighbor's garden, reached, quivering against the blue sky, into space. At every breath of wind, every branch set in motion its flakes of cottony seeds that, becoming detached, fell softly at my feet ; and, through the shadowy depths of the tree, occasional glimpses of the sky gleamed like blue stars. And the swallows darted past, flew round and round, hovered above me and then soared high into the air, diminishing in size, until they seemed no larger than the insects on the dandelions beside me. Clumps of various flowers surrounded the grass-plot. Among the bees and insects that gleamed golden, pur- ple, and emerald as they flew, the day-moth would sud- denly appear like a flash of lightning, and, without 12 THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. pausing in its flight, would dart from flower to flower, hovering an instant above each with almost invisible wings, and plunging into its cup the slender proboscis that, lengthening itself out, wound round and round like a hunter's horn. And what delicate music accom- panied these pure visions ! Buzzings, rustlings, murmurs, the sound of insects brushing against the rose-leaves, and of birds sharpen- ing their bills. Where find again the ineffable delights of these twi- light hours when the red flowers were already black, while the blue ones still shone brightly ! The beetles whizzed blindly against my face, the night butterflies described indistinctly in the gathering darkness the abrupt zigzags of their flight, and from be- hind the trees the moon cast pale, trembling shadows on the walls. I experienced a certain pleasure in pene- trating into the darkest places among the foliage, and feeling mysterious shudders run down my back at see- ing some strange nocturnal animal, shrew-mouse or sala- mander, moving on the ground. The profound silence was broken only by the move- ment of some bird concealed among the branches, and which I had awakened ; or by the strange sound borne on the breeze from the distant marsh the harsh croak- ing of the innumerable frogs making there their accus- tomed tumult, and by the shrill and ceaseless chirping of countless grasshoppers. On one of those evenings when I had been allowed to remain out later than usual, the idea occurred to me to shake a rose-bush at the end of one of the walks, for the purpose of bringing down some cockchafers, I think it was. But what fell out of the bush began to hop about in the flower-border. Cock- chafers do not hop, frogs do not climb rose-bushes. Here there was some mystery which made me tremble THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. j^ at once with joy and terror. Yes, little living things were jumping and hopping about among the flowers. I trembled, but I had the courage to put my hand on one of these strange little beings. O joy ! I felt feathers ! The rose-bush sheltered a bird's nest ! When I look far back into the mystery of the past, I find among the flowers of the garden a little girl, fair and rosy, with blue eyes. This was my sister Julie, who had come into the world two years before me, and who was so soon to leave it. Important events make but slight impression on children, and I have no recollection of her death, which, they say, caused the death of my mother, who was in- consolable for her loss. But I remember that one day she was swinging from a ladder, her feet brushing the ground, and her charming head, from which the hair fell in a shower of golden curls, thrown back, while she sang in her sweet childish voice a couplet which I have never since heard, and of which the two following lines have remained in my memory : " Des souliers gris Pour aller au Paradis " I find, too, among the family relics, a curl of her hair, which seems still to keep a gleam of its former brightness. V. EVERY year, as soon as the fine weather set in, the painter Fremy came, and his arrival was a great event. I can see him now with his important air, his crook- ed nose, and his jacket of maroon-colored cloth, unpack- ing his painting implements and his color-pots. 14 THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. The first time I saw this man, I said to myself, " I will be a painter ! " He would glance at me severely whenever I touched his pencils or his book of gold-leaf. He was very grave, and scarcely ever spoke. When he felt in the humor, however, he would talk to me about the various chateaux where he had worked. He told me wonderful things about them, but I could not then imagine anything finer than the paternal house, especially after this same Fremy had repainted the wide plastered faade, with its pediment ornament- ed with a lyre of a bright rose-color, the large door yel- low, and the shutters a cheerful green. This most important part of the work being finished, the painter would descend to details, and now indeed my joy burst forth. I watched him as he took out the little pots that contained fine and brilliant colors, from his tin box. The first thing to be done was to retouch a painting of the setting sun on the ceiling above the staircase, and to renovate the marchande c? amour above the mirror on the parlor mantel-piece. Then the turn of the Chinese would come. The court-yard of the house was in the form of a square, and was partly paved, partly sodded. It was in- closed on three sides by the main portion of the build- ing, and two side wings, composed of the dining-room, the kitchens, the bake-house, and various sheds. This yard was separated from the back yard and the garden by a railing. Overlooking the back yard was a square pigeon- house, resting on four pillars and terminating in a chef- tfceuvre of architecture. This pointed roof consisted, in the first place, of a sort of small, round wooden temple, supported on an iron shaft, and surrounded by little columns, the bases THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. jij of which, set in a circular flooring, remained in air. As the crowning glory of this diminutive temple of the sibyl, there hung over it a sort of extinguisher, ornamented with bells and terminating in a ball, through which passed the iron shaft on which turned an enormous weathercock the famous Chinese, who sat in the midst of the land- scape smoking his pipe. You may imagine the effect ! All this took up fully a third of the pigeon-house, and did not frighten the pigeons. I remember that some years later, on a certain stormy night, we heard an ominous sound, and in the morning the temple was found lying broken to pieces on the ground, and the Chinese, all disjointed, beside it. But we must not an- ticipate events. Fremy, assisted by a workman, set up his ladder and unfastened and took down the Chinese, who, with every step which Fremy took, seemed to grow larger, and soon I was able to look at him close by, and to measure the thickness of the flooring of the temple, which was strengthened by iron plates fastened with large nails. But if I clapped my hands with delight when the painter brightened the jacket of the figure with a splen- did chrome-yellow, what was my joy when I saw him, for the purpose of repainting its trousers, mixing blue with the yellow to obtain a most beautiful bright green ! After this, the " Four Seasons " were ranged around the shed, leaving their vacant pedestals and the deserted garden behind them. And, indeed, they stood in great need of the paint- er's help, for they were covered all over with spots where the old paint had blistered and fallen off in scales. High up on their pedestals this was scarcely noticeable, but close by it was hideous. Fremy scraped them carefully, gave them a first coat of white paint, and then, like a veritable magician, restored to them the l6 THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. appearance of youth and life, touching their lips and chubby cheeks with carmine, and their fixed and squint- ing eyes with brown, while thousands of little insects settled giddily on the fresh paint, to remain fastened there by their wings till the following spring. VI. I MADE the acquaintance of my uncle Boniface, whom at that time I called my Lille uncle, about 1830. My mother had not yet begun to keep her room, and still attended to the details of housekeeping. No one around us suspected the influence my uncle was fated to have on our destinies. But one might fancy I had a presentiment of it, for, although I was then only three years old, I remember the minutest details preceding and accompanying his arrival. The sun was shining. I was gay as a lark. I had promised to be very good ; and I was the more disposed to be so, as I expected some handsome present from a man coming from a large city, and who must be of some importance, judging from the assiduous preparations I observed going on. Ever since morning the house had worn an air of festivity and joyous anticipation, in which the masters, the servants, and even inanimate objects shared the fresh flowers on the chimney-piece, the table glittering with its shining silver, and the antique bottles covered with a bluish cloud, iridescent with time, and of which the corks were beginning to crumble into dust. I remem- ber with what respect and with how careful a touch my father set these bottles always in the same place on the console fastened to the parlor wall. THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. j^ My mother walked to and fro, and my father stood with his eyes fixed on the newspaper, reading it half- aloud in an indistinct voice. Taking up a sheet of paper I tried to imitate this odd way* of reading, making my parents, who saw in this a mark of a precocious intelligence, laugh, when (my dear uncle, you were no ordinary man, since I can recall and recount with pleasure details so insignificant regarding you) when the rolling of carriage - wheels was heard, first in the street, and then entering the court- yard. We hurried out, uttering joyful cries of welcome, and for the first time I felt myself raised in the arms of the generous man to whom I owe everything. I shall speak at length of him later on. All that I could ob- serve on this day was, that my uncle was a man of ele- gant bearing, that he wore a blue coat with gilt buttons, in the French fashion, light-colored trousers, and a wide white cravat ; that he held his head erect, and that his high and wide forehead was surmounted by a superb toupet, trimmed in the form of an arch, which must have been the object of special care. I was not disappointed in my expectations from him : he brought me a bright hunting-horn. I loved him at once. VII. BESIDES the persons already mentioned, there were in the house my maternal grandmother, Scholastique Fumery, who had long been a widow, my grandfather, Dr. Platel, having died many years before ; Joseph Car- pentier, an old soldier of the empire, and his wife, Phil- lipine. If we add to these the persons hired by the day 2 1 8 THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. the gardener, Buisine, nicknamed Frise, often accom- panied by his son; the bueresses (laundresses) ; the car- penter who split the firewood, a work that occupied a long time ; a joiner, who for months and months ham- mered, planed, and smoked innumerable pipes in the unfinished parlor of the new building ; and our little companions dressed up by their sisters, who came to play with us it will be seen that there was no lack of animation in our house. My father, the steward of the Duke de Duras, for whom he superintended important estates, among others the forest of Labroye, was compelled to be often absent from home. Besides this, the functions he exercised as assistant of the justice of the peace often detained him at Carvin, and compelled him to take a part in many-of the affairs of the canton. Thus it was that he was seldom at home, and when there he was always busy, scarcely ever leav- ing his desk, which was always covered with maps and books. Before his marriage he had been a lawyer's clerk in the office of my uncle Platel, at Herim-Lietard. He had been a member of the municipal band of that city, which explains the lyre on the faade of our house. I have seen his abandoned buccina, which for a long time was thrown from one corner to another, and which was finally hung up in the dark passage behind the stair- case. This snake, with its crocodile's head, its large, wide-open mouth, and its red eyes, often set me to think- ing. Its head and neck still preserved, in the midst of the verdigris that overlaid them, a few scales of lacquer and gold. My grandmother never left the house ; I may even say that she never left the little kitchen, where she sat THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. ^ in her chair beside the window looking into the yar,d. This window was to the left of the large chimney-piece, in the style of Louis XV, of finely carved marble, which had belonged to a chateau that had been pulled down, and in which Fremy had been. She walked with diffi- culty on account of her age, her stoutness, and the short- ness of her feet. Only on fine summer afternoons would she carry her chair to the grass-plot under the large cherry-tree in the yard. She spent whole hours there knitting, paring vegetables, or shelling peas. Emile's nurse would come with her charge and sit beside her in the shade, while I played on the grass with my little brother Louis. VIII. IT will be seen that under these circumstances I must have enjoyed a liberty almost without limit, spoiled as I was by the servants and by those of my playmates who were in an inferior position to mine ; and that I easily escaped from the surveillance of a father who was often absent, of a mother who was dying, and of a grand- mother who was almost helpless. I abused this liberty by running about the streets. I brought home from there bands of little scape- graces who gave me lessons in boyish tricks by which I profited only too well. I went so far one day as to throw stones at the windows which opened into the garden, breaking all the glass, only to prove to the little rascals who applauded me that I was far above considering the expense. Yet there was something good in me. I felt my heart filled with tenderness for my parents, and with 20 THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. compassion for the poor who, on Saturdays, crowded our court-yard. I even felt an inward satisfaction in conquering the disgust caused me by their beggars' rags, and above all by the sight of physical deformities a disgust which, in certain cases, became horror. I felt myself at times seized with a trembling when I held out the sou which I was charged by my grandmother to give to certain cripples. I shuddered only to hear the noise of their crutches on the pavement. But the idiot, Benesi, inspired me with no repug- nance, because he was always good and always clean, with his gray coat and his coarse shirt, whose collar cut his enormous ears, adorned with rings. I would scarce- ly even ridicule his stammering when it took him two minutes, in speaking to my uncle, to say, " Monsieur Biebieeniface. ' He had a strange appearance, however, with his large nose, wide mouth, and head the size of one's fist, close-cropped, and streaked with furrows like a potato-field. What solicitude, like that of a faithful dog, he mani- fested for his blind sister, whose guide and careful guard he always was ! Therefore it was that we protected Bene'si, and de- fended him against the street boys who threw stones at him and made fun of his insane but harmless fits of anger. My parents, seeing that I was beginning to grow wild, sought to put me under the care of a good woman of the neighborhood, who kept a school for little children. But, when we had reached the house, I rushed toward the door and clung to it so desperately, uttering furious and persistent cries the while, that they were obliged to take me home again. Some time afterward they had re- course to the terrible Mile. Rosalie, an old maid, a for- THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. 21 mer servant of the cure*, who kept an infants' school. I was more docile in allowing myself to be taken there : in the first place, because my brother Louis, who was now old enough to go to school, accompanied me ; and, in the next, because the little carriage which they had ordered from the joiner of the large parlor, so long ago that they had forgotten all about it, being at last fin- ished, after the smoking of innumerable pipes, we had the glory of being driven to school by Joseph in this brilliant equipage. Besides, the implacable switch of the schoolmistress soon reduced me to good conduct. I fancy I can still feel her blows, when, at the least sign of rebellion, she would strike me heavily with it over the head. IX. THERE we were in a little room without ventilation, a crowd of children huddled closely together. Doubt- less our parents were not long in perceiving the bad effect of this rtfgime, from a hygienic point of view, for they took us away of their own accord from Mile. Rosa- lie's school. Those few months of unhealthy bondage made me better appreciate the joys of liberty. We resumed once more our life in the open air with our little playmates, and that was a happy time. Each season brought its games and its festivals. I shall have occasion enough to speak of summer. I wish now to say a word about our winter pleasures, which were worth all the others put together. Winter is not always, as we personify it, a melancholy and trembling old man, his beard hung with icicles ; nor the freezing, half-naked woman, her head covered with sackcloth, 22 THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. who shivered, huddled up in the garden, notwithstand- ing the plaster flames which Fremy had caused to burn with so beautiful a red. Does not Winter rather resem- ble, at certain times, a cold and beautiful young girl, clad in robes of dazzling whiteness, whose blue eyes smile through her veil of mist starred with diamonds ? Ah! what delight when the first snow-flakes eddy through the air, like a cloud of white butterflies, and fall with velvety softness upon the ground, which is gradually covered with their cold and immaculate splendor ! How our cries of joy re-echoed sonorously in this vibrant silence ! What an awakening for the morrow ! The rosy sunlight falls slantingly on the white roofs. The sky, of an extraordinary purity, casts a blue shadow on the smooth white carpet of snow in the court-yard. Among the branches of the cherry-tree, capricious rays of light play in rosy hues among the myriad sparkles of the iridescent hoar-frost. My eyes open wide with delight. They take in at a glance all this wonderful glory. All this white splendor reflects my soul, which grows white also. I rise quickly, impatient to press with my foot the unstained whiteness of the walks. Like the joyous wren that hops, dazzled, from branch to branch, making a fine rain of white flakes fall at every bound, my heart beats in a tumult of unalloyed ecstasy. How many surprises ! Everything looks different, The Chinese, whose hat is now adorned with a garniture of plush, smokes snow as he sits, motionless and frozen in his temple. The walls of the pigeon-house, pink be- fore, look as if they had been painted a brownish-red, Here comes Mylord, our spaniel, bounding toward me, flecking the snow joyously with his tail. But has ho been rolling in the mud ? How yellow and soiled hi3 THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. 23 coat, generally so clean and white, looks now ! The garden in its robe of hoar-frost looks gayer than in the spring-time. I go into the kitchen, of which the floor, contrariwise to Mylord, is whiter than on other days. How bright it is ! What mysterious embroidery has covered all the window-panes with flowers ? I think all the world ought to rejoice as I do, and I am very much surprised to hear my grandmother say : II The snow has come. The poor are going to suffer now ! " For us, who thought only of our sports, the snow meant skating on the ponds, joyous combats with snow- balls, and bombardings of the pigeon-house, with occa- sional interruptions caused by the numbness and stiff- ness of our fingers from the cold, followed by sharp pain when we warm them at the fire. Soon the snow grows softer and more yielding, and we learn to roll it up and heap it in enormous blocks that become hard and ugly and are pierced by little holes, and which it takes an eternity to melt. How soiled and unsightly the garden then looks, with its dahlias and chrysanthemums, their leaves hang- ing sadly in blackened, shriveled shreds ! How those plants must have suffered! X. IN the evenings Joseph takes us into the garden, which is all bathed in mist and blue moonlight. He holds his lantern high up toward the trees which he shakes. At times, a sparrow, suddenly awakened, flies 24 THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. terrified against the light, extinguishing it. But Jo- seph has already shut the lantern, taking the bird cap- tive. At other times it would be a hunt with pactoires. Pactoires we called a string attached to the end of a long pole and stretched on hoops by means of forked slicks. This was a surer and more formal way of trap- ping sparrows. I was indeed excited when we set out at night, our pactoires on our shoulders. Nocturnal things took on a fantastic aspect. Here we were, five or six little boys, holding our breaths, we who were so noisy in the day- time. Joseph set down his lantern on the ground in our midst, and our shadows prolonged themselves in- definitely in the mist, like the dark spokes of an im- mense wheel. A pale light trembled on the walls of the barns under the old thatched roofs, whose outlines faded imperceptibly into the sky. From time to time Joseph set the pavilion of the pactoire. Sparrows flew into it from all directions, dazed by the light, striking themselves against the hoops and uttering little cries of terror accompanied by that noc- turnal sound of wings, unheard in the daytime. The captives struggled wildly to escape. We remained dumb with mingled fear and delight. At times the forked sticks became detached from the hoops, and it was a matter of some difficulty to set the pactoire upright again. We went along looking for the thatched roofs ; we crossed court-yards where Jo- seph was acquainted with the dogs. These would first bark at us and would then come toward us amicably wagging their tails. But sometimes we stumbled on a dung-hill which we did not see until it was too late, and into which we plunged up to the knees. We went on to the barns, where everything had a weird and unfamil- THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. 25 iar aspect. But the grinning plowshares were less ter- rible than the impenetrable darkness of the corners. XI. WHEN the weather was bad, when the wind howled down the chimney, and the furious and storm-beaten figure grinned on the pigeon-house, Louis Memere (the son of Henriette) would tell us stories. He knew a great many that he had heard from his grandfather and from the brickmakers who employed him occasionally as a workman. These simple and fabulous tales struck our dawning imagination with wonder. Sor- cerers, ogres, and demons were mixed up in them with God and the Virgin. According as the rude plot of the story unfolded, I seemed to see pass before me living pictures. I saw the peasant who boiled his soup by the light of the sun, by means of a magic whistle. I saw Jean d'Arras, the shoemaker who hunted in the forest with only his tools for weapons. What a skillful man must Jean d'Arras have been ! With what skill he could strike a hare on the forehead with a bit of wax ! It was not long before this hare ran against another, and behold the two fastened together, forehead to forehead, and unable to stir from the spot. How adroitly Jean d'Arras escaped from the wild-boar, that, rushing toward him one day, missed him and struck the trunk of a tree instead with his terrible tusk, piercing it through and through ! How quickly Jean turned round, took his hammer, riveted the tusk, and killed the monster with a stroke of his knife ! But when, having lost himself far, far away in the 26 THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. forest, urged by hunger, he entered a, solitary house, I trembled with him at the thought that this house was inhabited by an ogre just about to dine, and whose wife was serving him with soup, a meager repast for a giant. And scenting in advance the delicious supper he would make of him in the evening, what covetous looks he would cast at poor Jean, paralyzed with fear! On the other hand, as he was polite, he invited our shoemaker to partake of his soup. But the unhappy man, whose teeth chattered with fear, could not eat even a spoonful of it; and, in order not to disoblige so amiable a host, he pretended to carry the spoon to his mouth, but poured the contents of it into the pocket of his leathern apron, casting meanwhile a glance of ter- ror toward the half-open door. At last, the ogre having gone out for an instant, Jean escaped. Oh, terror ! It was not long before he heard behind him, close in pursuit, his ferocious enemy. Jean was a swift runner, but the confounded pocket, heavy with soup, struck against his stomach and retarded his progress. He seized his knife, made a large slit in the pocket, and all the soup ran out. Then the ogre cried out: "Ah, you knave, I understand your ruse! The soup I have drunk keeps me too from running ! " And with his long sword he rips his belly open, and falls dead. One might fill a volume with the tales that Louis Me'mere related to us. But we must not delay. It is plain that winter was indeed a pleasant season. This was the case in those days white with hoar- frost, and since, when, enveloped in delightful mystery, the guardians of the joys of childhood descended from paradise, through openings in the blue sky. St. Catharine was the first to come, bringing with her heart-shaped spiced cakes, in the center of which, above THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. 27 her wheel, was her likeness in starch, surrounded by arabesques made of little dots of colored sugar. Francois L , my father's secretary, generally met her on the eve of her festival, on the road from Carvin, when he was returning from the office of the justice of the peace. He announced her coming to us, representing her under the form of a simple peasant, seated on an ass between two panniers. Once he even brought us bon- bons which he had taken from her after threatening her with his pitchfork, and tumbling her and her ass into a ditch by the wayside. And, little ingrates that we were, we had not a word of blame for this unworthy proceeding, or in defense of the poor saint. Afterward came St. Nicholas. He descended through the air and entered by the chimney to fill our shoes with chocolate May-bugs. It was in this way that he escaped Franois L , who was never able to plunder him. We regaled ourselves on his bonbons, without showing him for our parts, either, any very great gratitude. But the child Jesus was the object of all our affec- tion. A little boy like ourselves, although the Son of God ! What admiration, what respect, what emotion he awakened in us ! Have you ever observed that those children, who are the boldest in the presence of grown-up persons, be- come timid and embarrassed in a tete-b-tete with other children who are strangers to them ? This is what hap- pened to us in the presence of this mysterious comrade, radiant with celestial glory. What a fascination his image exercised over us ! A rosy child enveloped in white, fleecy clouds and clad in gauze sprinkled with golden spangles, who smiled at us with his porcelain eyes ! In those days they had not 28 THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. yet introduced into our villages the Christmas trees, that blaze with a thousand lights ; and yet what a delighted awakening, when we found under our pillows those cakes of a familiar shape, called coquilles^ and which in- spired us with such veneration that we hesitated for a long time, between greediness and respect, before we could make up our minds to bite them ! And New-Year's-day ! What a festival ! At mid- night we were awakened by the rolling of drums, the tumult of the big drum and the shrill sound of clario- net and flute. The band was serenading in their turns the members of the five or six companies of archers. They executed in unison the same music more than four hundred times in succession an air which must have come down from the remotest antiquity, so strange and barbarous it was. We could hear it at our house, at times faint as a murmur, at times loud as thunder, according as the mu- sicians receded or approached, and when it sounded be- fore the house all the windows shook and our beds trembled at the boum-boum of the big drum, while the shrill sound of the fife pierced our ears like an auger. We could not sleep all night ; but we did not mind this, in the first place because the music amused us, and in the next because it foretold to us handsome Ne\v- Year's gifts, sous and silver pieces, which the magnifi- cent velvet purses made by our grandmother had been waiting for, for some days past. When day dawned we jumped out of bed to run and kiss our parents. How many people came to the house during the day ! How radiant did every face look ! The archers filed into our court-yard, their ensign floating in the breeze, women following them and then there was dancing. The music of the night before began again THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. 2 9 with daybreak, and now we could see the musicians. One of these especially, old Gaspard, who played upon the flute, delighted us with his red face and hair, and his big blue eyes. A hard drinker and a large eater, he was soon to end his life at table, at the banquet of St. Sebastian, without having so much as finished his soup. As he remained there a long time without eating, his neighbor pushed him gently, saying to him, "Why don't you eat, Gaspard ? " And the poor old man fell over dead. But he did not now foresee this misfortune, and he played his flute with calm animation while we all went out to visit our neighbors and friends, tramping through the snow, our hands stretched out before us, holding open our large purses. XII. THE recollection of these hours of childhood comes to me like the memory of some delightful dream. Ah, with what enchanting tenderness those far-off days were filled! What dazzling splendor they assume, seen in the midst of the cruel disenchantment of age ! What aspirations we had toward heaven ! And at the same time how we felt ourselves comrades of the flowers and the beloved animals ! Ah, the days of our childhood ! To be one's self the dawn and to behold the dawn ! Days of marvelous discoveries ! To run about where we chose, as we chose, over roads which at times termi- nated abruptly, as if there were nothing beyond, as if that were the end of the world. To be received, on our return home, with fond ca- resses by our grandmother. 30 THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. And to express all these emotions, so delightful be- cause they are infinite and inexpressible, I must make use of words which I was then ignorant of. But if one were to express one's self as a child does, one would say nothing. At that age it is enough to feel. There were fresh summer mornings in the garden, when the roses were wet with dew, and we plunged our noses into their hearts to breathe in the perfume, and at times the little insects, that made us sneeze. But did it never rain in those days as it rains now ? I can scarcely remember any bad weather. I search my memory in vain, I can recall only sunshine. I think this must be because the Chinese always turned his pipe in the direction whence fair weather came ; because there was a sort of witchcraft about this figure, so that we could always tell beforehand whether we would have rain or fine weather by the position he condescended to take. Every one consulted him ; even Joseph, who had seen so many things when he was in Russia ! When his pipe was turned toward the dining-room, we could hear the " beast," pan, pan, pan ! pan, pan, pan ! This cry would be repeated all day at regular intervals, with ter- rible and persistent monotony. All we knew was that the " beast " was far off in the fields, and that it was called Torgeos. But when the Chinese faced the back yard, this noise could not be heard, or was so faint that we had to put our ears to the ground in order to perceive a faint pan, pan, pan ! pan, pan, pan ! And, enveloped as it thus was in mystery, this cry awoke within us a feeling that was almost awe. This strange beast must have been gifted with a mysterious power, for I heard Joseph say at times : " We can hear the Torgeos more plainly now ; it is going to rain." THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. ^j But this must have happened very seldom ; for, as I said before, I can scarcely recall any but sunny days and feast-days. When the first cherries began to redden at the time of the peonies and new rushes, how gay the Sundays were, with their snow-white chapels at the cross-roads and close by the hedges, all decked out for the pro- cession How joyous we were ! How fine we were ! Every- body was in an ecstasy of delight over our beautiful caps and our new suits ! And we walked along, our hearts brimming over with happiness, holding ourselves erect, and clutching tightly the cuffs of our sleeves, which were too long. The street was full of sunshine. Pious women with reverent zeal fastened red and blue ribbons in zigzag fashion, bunches of flowers, and silver hearts, to the dazzlingly white bedclothes hung against the walls, near these improvised chapels. Joseph, assisted by the gardener, carried our fine laurel-trees in their green boxes to the front of the house and set them down before our great door, covering the earth in the boxes with white napkins, while we sat there in chairs, somewhat ill at ease in our Sunday clothes, our hearts beating with expectancy. When we grew tired waiting, we would go to the garden and put our ears to the ground to listen for the sound of the coming procession. The bells pealed with all their might, and familiar sounds announced the distant chants. The procession was approaching. Then we would return to our chairs near the great door. Joseph would make haste to finish strewing on the ground the rushes, the tall grass, and the reeds that he had cut that morning in the marsh, mixed with flowers from the garden. The perfume of 32 THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. wild mint, peonies, and roses filled the air with fra- grance. The old men, sitting at the grating of their yards, would kneel down slowly and carefully. On either side of the procession boys walked, carrying on their shoul- ders the supports for the litters of the saints which were to be placed before the temporary altars, and which there had been a struggle to get possession of on account of the two sous paid for this service. They ran at a gallop, and deposited these supports before our chapel. Then the saints themselves appeared under slender arches covered with leaves and flowers : St. Piat, our patron saint, clad in a silver robe ; St. Roch, showing the wound in his thigh, his spaniel lying at his feet ; St. Sebastian, scarcely two feet in height, but whose sides were pierced by arrows of the natural size, followed by the brothers of the order, their ensign, on which the death of the martyred saint was represented in silk em- broidery, floating on the breeze ; St. Catharine, with her wheel, and the Holy Virgin, supported by young girls dressed in white. All these saints, strangely hideous, painted, gilded, and silvered by our painter Fremy, passed along triumph- antly, shaking and jolting on the iron pedestals that rose from amid the peonies that covered the floors of the litters, and among which the simple bearers did not fail to deposit their rustic caps. The defaced and ugly figures of all these saints in- spired me with a vague fear, and I could never bring myself to laugh at them. At times even the clouds of incense and the flickering flame of the tapers seemed to transfigure them, and they appeared to live with a super- natural life, and from their holy mouths mystic psalms seemed to proceed, mingled with the bellowing of the chanters and the soft plaints of the ophicleide. THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. 33 The cure* now mounted the steps of our chapel, and while the children of the choir swung their censers and rang their bells, and the roses fell about in a shower, he blessed the humble peasants, and the rustic procession passed on again. After the dais of the cur came the notables of the village, the municipal authorities in their midst. I knew them well. Their faces were indeed the same, and yet they seemed different, as if surrounded by a mystic aureole. These men had lost every trace of vulgarity. They seemed to move in a divine atmosphere. And they walked gravely, with bent head, carrying rev- erently their large torches, the almost invisible flames of which flickered in the air, and which from time to time they held downward to pour out the melted wax, that it might not drop on their clothes. They walked on, soon to be lost to view among the fields at the end of the village, as since then, alas ! al- most all the persons who composed that procession have one by one disappeared in the shadows of oblivion. XIII. OTHERS, too, have passed into oblivion all those friends of my father who, at the Ducasse, rilled our house, and in three days devoured the mountain of viands that the butcher of Carvin had brought in his wagon on the eve of the feast. I fancy I can see now the fillets, the calves' livers, the rounds, the cutlets, the sirloins, the sausages, the calves' heads, the legs of mutton, the sheep's feet, the hams, the smoked tongues, and I know not how many other things, as they were unpacked from the wagon. 3 34 THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. The pantry was filled with them. I can still perceive the savory smell that came from the kitchen, and escaped by puffs into the street, to meet the guests whose hearts it gladdened. These arrived red and heated by their walk, but with sparkling eyes, mopping their foreheads with their handkerchiefs ; all eager, all happy, and all present. There were among them some curious and excellent types. The repast lasted all the afternoon. Ah ! where has all this sprightly gayety gone ? XIV. RED epaulets yellow epaulets yellow as the coucous (primroses) that I gathered the other day in the meadows. The red I have seen before (the firemen of Carvin with their beautiful tricolored plumes, who were here re- cently, had red epaulets), but the yellow ? I made this remark to myself as I stood watching countless soldiers defiling past our door. For a long time the red epaulets and the yellow had been passing, passing, following one another in endless succession, to say nothing of the epaulets shaped like a clover-leaf, and without fringe, of the soldiers who carried the drums. Could it be possi- ble there were so many soldiers in the world ! At every moment I thought the last of them had passed, and it seemed as if the procession were only just beginning. They wore large gray cloaks ; broad shakos, on which the copper chin-bands glittered ; and sabers that were very big, but not much longer than mine. From time to time, at the entrance to the village, clarions sounded. These soldiers appeared tired. My eyes, too, were THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. 35 tired from looking at this continual movement, but I could not take them away, for it was all very beautiful, and very amusing, especially the yellow epaulets, yellow as the coucous that Joseph, Louis, and I had gathered in the Malaquis meadows, that were all yellow and fra- grant with them. We had brought home a large basket- ful. And what happiness it was in the evening after we had made them up into fine bouquets to which long strings were attached, to throw them after the bats, crying : " Katt' soris Rapasse par chi T'auras du pain musi Et de 1'eau a boire Katt' sori tout noir ! " At last the red epaulets and the yellow epaulets have all passed, and the last of them have stopped in the vil- lage square, where something to drink is distributed among them. In the evening I was made very happy by seeing some soldiers come to the house, among them a superior officer, who had so much gold on his uniform that I took him for a king. A sight so new to me had confused my head, and I dreamed of it all night, and in my dreams I saw again our brilliant officer. He had on, like the Charles X in the picture in my father's room, a large ermine mantle, and he wore a golden crown. He was seated gravely on Mile. Rosalie's red arm-chair on the great stand over against the gable end of the town-hall ; and beside him, in place of the scepter, rose the terrible switch. He was teaching the alphabet to the soldiers ranged in front of him, and his primer was nothing else than the var- nished leather chin-band of my cap that I had lost some time ago. 36 THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. But the evening advanced and the time for recrea- tion arrived. The bats flew round and round in the air, and the soldiers threw their yellow epaulets at them, crying : " Katt' soris Rapasse par chi ! " XV. ON the following day the troops departed, and I thought no more of them ; but for some time afterward I heard a phrase repeated continually which I had never heard before, "The Citadel of Antwerp/' This must have had reference to some great event, I thought. Contrary to the habit of most children, I scarcely ever asked questions, preferring to find out for myself the explanation of things, either through laziness, or in order to keep my judgment unbiased. But the great event of the day was when the little band that my father was organizing came to rehearse at our house. I now discovered that the words " Citadel of Antwerp " must be the title of the quickstep played by this embryo orchestra. This band was to form a part of the company of fire- men, recently organized also by my father, and in which he had refused to accept any grade, in order thus to ele- vate the position of simple fireman, and to stifle the germs of discord caused by disappointed ambition. Every one's thoughts, then, were full of this band. Some fifteen young men came to our yard, at first without instruments, to learn to march (one, two ; one, two) ; and, when they lost step, they would take a little skip on one foot to fall into it again. THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. 37 This brought a number of people around our great door ; and the Lhivers, our neighbors, would climb upon the wall which separated our back yard from their little farm. Then, after two or three rehearsals of this kind, the bright copper instruments arrived, unknown, for the most part until then, in our village. My father had chosen the piston, at that time a nov- elty. His buccina, however, that neglected hydra, which had so long kept guard over the staircase, made its reap- pearance in the light of day, on the shoulder of a rustic, after it had been so effectually cleaned that all the lac- quer and gold had disappeared from it, leaving only a little red in the center of the eyes. Then this orchestra came every Saturday evening to rehearse in our large, unfinished parlor, immediately under my room, and I found it delightful to go to sleep to the discordant sounds of "The Citadel of Antwerp." That was a happy day when we saw the firemen and heard their music at the mass of the first St. Barbara. They walked to the church in military fashion, hold- ing tightly their guns, that gleamed like silver, followed by crowds of street boys and gaping girls. They all wore military uniforms the coat with its velvet plastron and gilt buttons. But what variety in this unity ! On one, the uniform, too tight across the waist, opened out its skirts like the petals of a flower ; on an- other, too loose, its tails would hang down like the tail of a frightened dog. There were also a great variety of shakos. Some were of oil-cloth, shaped like a blunder- buss, the crown bordered by a velvet band, with flames and hatchets painted on it. Others, of felt, diminished in size toward the crown, and bore symbolic ornaments of real copper. 38 THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. There was the same difference in the pompons : some, thin and scraggy, hung down sadly ; others spread themselves out proudly, blooming like fresh peonies. And no one dreamed of laughing ! XVI. THIS morning I awoke earlier than . usual. Why ? And why this gladness that fills my heart ? My mind, still clouded by sleep, does not clearly perceive the cause, but it is filled with joy at the confused recollec- tion of some extraordinarily happy event. I allow my- self to be lulled by this vague remembrance, and pre- tend to be still asleep, in order to prolong this state of delicious torpor. My grandmother has risen, and I hear her movements : the rustling of her petticoat ; the noise of her steps, slow and a little heavy, as she walks across the floor which trembles at times ; the splashing of the water as she pours it out into her basin. Outside, the cocks are crowing everywhere : those in our back yard clear as a clarion ; ose of our old cousin Catharine, those of the Lhivers, and those of Charles Ambroise, our neighbors, somewhat less clearly, while the crowing of the cocks farther away I perceive only by a slight trembling of the air. How pleasant it is to listen to all this in the soft warmth of the bed ! I half open my eyes ; a ray of light illumines a cor- ner of the ceiling and the top of the wall, that, lower down, is the color of the sky. My eyes wander to the picture hanging on the wall near the foot of the bed, a " Return from the Chase," where beautiful women are seen going to meet hand- THE LIFE OF AN ARTIST. 39 some men who carry guns, wear black gaiters, and are followed by servants bearing hares and partridges. Then my grandmother comes to waken me with smil- ing caresses. Ah ! now I know, now I know why my heart is filled with gladness, why the sunlight dances on the wall. The newly risen sun looks me full in the face, pouring in through the window his glorious rays. I know why he raises himself above the roofs to smile on me thus. It is because this day which has just begun is to be marked by a memorable event my first journey ! Last night my grandmother said to me, " To-morrow is St. Druon's day, and we must get up early, because it is a long distance from here to Epinoy, where we are go- ing." A league ! Only think ! And I who until now have scarcely been outside of the village ! Therefore it is that I spring quickly out of bed and let myself be dressed without making mischievous resistance ; without thrusting out my feet when my grandmother hands me my stockings, or burying my head in her bosom when she comes to put on my shirt. A journey ! At first we passed familiar things : fragrant and daz- zling colzas, on which millions of little black insects were gorging themselves; corn in the blade, from which flocks cf larks soared up into the air, hovering above us, beating their wings and celebrating our departure by ever sweeter songs. I saw the same golden blossoms, the same dande- lions, the same butterflies, the same brilliant beetles that waddle on the road and exhale a disagreeable odor. But as we crossed the wooden bridge over the little river, oh ! first surprise ! A wonderful bird darts from the bank, uttering a shrill and prolonged cry. Its breast is of fire, and its back of a splendid green, more 4O THE LIF E OF AN ARTIST. brilliant than the stone of the bracelet that my mother forgot to wear when " A kingfisher," my grandmother tells me. Here the unexplored regions begin. There is a river, a real river, three or four times as large as our little river, with real boats on it, that have pretty little houses with white windows and green chim- neys. The river is like a wide strip of sky. A little farther on we found ourselves face to face with mountains, almost as high as the walls of our gar- den, and as my grandmother sat down here to rest, I explored their summits, but without finding there any- thing remarkable. At last I utter a cry. I have discov- ered a new flower ; a little white bell-flower, delicately shaped. From this spot we could descry the chapel of St. Druon with its slender spire of shining slates. " St. Druon," my grandmother tells me, " was a sim- ple shepherd, who lived at Epinoy, and we are going presently to see his well, all that remains now of his farm. He had the gift of being in several places at the same time in church, where he prayed, and in the fields, where he kept his sheep. He made miraculous cures, and this is why you see those people going now to his shrine." In fact, at every moment we met groups on the road who quickly overtook and passed us. We could distin- guish among them the gray figure of the idiot B