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    Chapter 3

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    Chapter 3
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    THE charm of Fontainebleau is a thing apart. It is a place that
    people love even more than they admire. The vigorous forest air,
    the silence, the majestic avenues of highway, the wilderness of
    tumbled boulders, the great age and dignity of certain groves -
    these are but ingredients, they are not the secret of the philtre.
    The place is sanative; the air, the light, the perfumes, and the
    shapes of things concord in happy harmony. The artist may be idle
    and not fear the "blues." He may dally with his life. Mirth,
    lyric mirth, and a vivacious classical contentment are of the very
    essence of the better kind of art; and these, in that most smiling
    forest, he has the chance to learn or to remember. Even on the
    plain of Biere, where the Angelus of Millet still tolls upon the
    ear of fancy, a larger air, a higher heaven, something ancient and
    healthy in the face of nature, purify the mind alike from dulness
    and hysteria. There is no place where the young are more gladly
    conscious of their youth, or the old better contented with their

    The fact of its great and special beauty further recommends this
    country to the artist. The field was chosen by men in whose blood
    there still raced some of the gleeful or solemn exultation of great
    art - Millet who loved dignity like Michelangelo, Rousseau whose
    modern brush was dipped in the glamour of the ancients. It was
    chosen before the day of that strange turn in the history of art,
    of which we now perceive the culmination in impressionistic tales
    and pictures - that voluntary aversion of the eye from all
    speciously strong and beautiful effects - that disinterested love
    of dulness which has set so many Peter Bells to paint the river-
    side primrose. It was then chosen for its proximity to Paris. And
    for the same cause, and by the force of tradition, the painter of
    to-day continues to inhabit and to paint it. There is in France
    scenery incomparable for romance and harmony. Provence, and the
    valley of the Rhone from Vienne to Tarascon, are one succession of
    masterpieces waiting for the brush. The beauty is not merely
    beauty; it tells, besides, a tale to the imagination, and surprises
    while it charms. Here you shall see castellated towns that would
    befit the scenery of dreamland; streets that glow with colour like
    cathedral windows; hills of the most exquisite proportions; flowers
    of every precious colour, growing thick like grass. All these, by
    the grace of railway travel, are brought to the very door of the
    modern painter; yet he does not seek them; he remains faithful to
    Fontainebleau, to the eternal bridge of Gretz, to the watering-pot
    cascade in Cernay valley. Even Fontainebleau was chosen for him;
    even in Fontainebleau he shrinks from what is sharply charactered.
    But one thing, at least, is certain, whatever he may choose to
    paint and in whatever manner, it is good for the artist to dwell
    among graceful shapes. Fontainebleau, if it be but quiet scenery,
    is classically graceful; and though the student may look for
    different qualities, this quality, silently present, will educate
    his hand and eye.

    But, before all its other advantages - charm, loveliness, or
    proximity to Paris - comes the great fact that it is already
    colonised. The institution of a painters' colony is a work of time
    and tact. The population must be conquered. The innkeeper has to
    be taught, and he soon learns, the lesson of unlimited credit; he
    must be taught to welcome as a favoured guest a young gentleman in
    a very greasy coat, and with little baggage beyond a box of colours
    and a canvas; and he must learn to preserve his faith in customers
    who will eat heartily and drink of the best, borrow money to buy
    tobacco, and perhaps not pay a stiver for a year. A colour
    merchant has next to be attracted. A certain vogue must be given
    to the place, lest the painter, most gregarious of animals, should
    find himself alone. And no sooner are these first difficulties
    overcome, than fresh perils spring up upon the other side; and the
    bourgeois and the tourist are knocking at the gate. This is the
    crucial moment for the colony. If these intruders gain a footing,
    they not only banish freedom and amenity; pretty soon, by means of
    their long purses, they will have undone the education of the
    innkeeper; prices will rise and credit shorten; and the poor
    painter must fare farther on and find another hamlet. "Not here, O
    Apollo!" will become his song. Thus Trouville and, the other day,
    St. Raphael were lost to the arts. Curious and not always edifying
    are the shifts that the French student uses to defend his lair;
    like the cuttlefish, he must sometimes blacken the waters of his
    chosen pool; but at such a time and for so practical a purpose Mrs.
    Grundy must allow him licence. Where his own purse and credit are
    not threatened, he will do the honours of his village generously.
    Any artist is made welcome, through whatever medium he may seek
    expression; science is respected; even the idler, if he prove, as
    he so rarely does, a gentleman, will soon begin to find himself at
    home. And when that essentially modern creature, the English or
    American girl-student, began to walk calmly into his favourite inns
    as if into a drawing-room at home, the French painter owned himself
    defenceless; he submitted or he fled. His French respectability,
    quite as precise as ours, though covering different provinces of
    life, recoiled aghast before the innovation. But the girls were
    painters; there was nothing to be done; and Barbizon, when I last
    saw it and for the time at least, was practically ceded to the fair
    invader. Paterfamilias, on the other hand, the common tourist, the
    holiday shopman, and the cheap young gentleman upon the spree, he
    hounded from his villages with every circumstance of contumely.

    This purely artistic society is excellent for the young artist.
    The lads are mostly fools; they hold the latest orthodoxy in its
    crudeness; they are at that stage of education, for the most part,
    when a man is too much occupied with style to be aware of the
    necessity for any matter; and this, above all for the Englishman,
    is excellent. To work grossly at the trade, to forget sentiment,
    to think of his material and nothing else, is, for awhile at least,
    the king's highway of progress. Here, in England, too many
    painters and writers dwell dispersed, unshielded, among the
    intelligent bourgeois. These, when they are not merely
    indifferent, prate to him about the lofty aims and moral influence
    of art. And this is the lad's ruin. For art is, first of all and
    last of all, a trade. The love of words and not a desire to
    publish new discoveries, the love of form and not a novel reading
    of historical events, mark the vocation of the writer and the
    painter. The arabesque, properly speaking, and even in literature,
    is the first fancy of the artist; he first plays with his material
    as a child plays with a kaleidoscope; and he is already in a second
    stage when he begins to use his pretty counters for the end of
    representation. In that, he must pause long and toil faithfully;
    that is his apprenticeship; and it is only the few who will really
    grow beyond it, and go forward, fully equipped, to do the business
    of real art - to give life to abstractions and significance and
    charm to facts. In the meanwhile, let him dwell much among his
    fellow-craftsmen. They alone can take a serious interest in the
    childish tasks and pitiful successes of these years. They alone
    can behold with equanimity this fingering of the dumb keyboard,
    this polishing of empty sentences, this dull and literal painting
    of dull and insignificant subjects. Outsiders will spur him on.
    They will say, "Why do you not write a great book? paint a great
    picture?" If his guardian angel fail him, they may even persuade
    him to the attempt, and, ten to one, his hand is coarsened and his
    style falsified for life.

    And this brings me to a warning. The life of the apprentice to any
    art is both unstrained and pleasing; it is strewn with small
    successes in the midst of a career of failure, patiently supported;
    the heaviest scholar is conscious of a certain progress; and if he
    come not appreciably nearer to the art of Shakespeare, grows
    letter-perfect in the domain of A-B, ab. But the time comes when a
    man should cease prelusory gymnastic, stand up, put a violence upon
    his will, and, for better or worse, begin the business of creation.
    This evil day there is a tendency continually to postpone: above
    all with painters. They have made so many studies that it has
    become a habit; they make more, the walls of exhibitions blush with
    them; and death finds these aged students still busy with their
    horn-book. This class of man finds a congenial home in artist
    villages; in the slang of the English colony at Barbizon we used to
    call them "Snoozers." Continual returns to the city, the society
    of men farther advanced, the study of great works, a sense of
    humour or, if such a thing is to be had, a little religion or
    philosophy, are the means of treatment. It will be time enough to
    think of curing the malady after it has been caught; for to catch
    it is the very thing for which you seek that dream-land of the
    painters' village. "Snoozing" is a part of the artistic education;
    and the rudiments must be learned stupidly, all else being
    forgotten, as if they were an object in themselves.

    Lastly, there is something, or there seems to be something, in the
    very air of France that communicates the love of style. Precision,
    clarity, the cleanly and crafty employment of material, a grace in
    the handling, apart from any value in the thought, seem to be
    acquired by the mere residence; or if not acquired, become at least
    the more appreciated. The air of Paris is alive with this
    technical inspiration. And to leave that airy city and awake next
    day upon the borders of the forest is but to change externals. The
    same spirit of dexterity and finish breathes from the long alleys
    and the lofty groves, from the wildernesses that are still pretty
    in their confusion, and the great plain that contrives to be
    decorative in its emptiness.


    In spite of its really considerable extent, the forest of
    Fontainebleau is hardly anywhere tedious. I know the whole western
    side of it with what, I suppose, I may call thoroughness; well
    enough at least to testify that there is no square mile without
    some special character and charm. Such quarters, for instance, as
    the Long Rocher, the Bas-Breau, and the Reine Blanche, might be a
    hundred miles apart; they have scarce a point in common beyond the
    silence of the birds. The two last are really conterminous; and in
    both are tall and ancient trees that have outlived a thousand
    political vicissitudes. But in the one the great oaks prosper
    placidly upon an even floor; they beshadow a great field; and the
    air and the light are very free below their stretching boughs. In
    the other the trees find difficult footing; castles of white rock
    lie tumbled one upon another, the foot slips, the crooked viper
    slumbers, the moss clings in the crevice; and above it all the
    great beech goes spiring and casting forth her arms, and, with a
    grace beyond church architecture, canopies this rugged chaos.
    Meanwhile, dividing the two cantons, the broad white causeway of
    the Paris road runs in an avenue: a road conceived for pageantry
    and for triumphal marches, an avenue for an army; but, its days of
    glory over, it now lies grilling in the sun between cool groves,
    and only at intervals the vehicle of the cruising tourist is seen
    far away and faintly audible along its ample sweep. A little upon
    one side, and you find a district of sand and birch and boulder; a
    little upon the other lies the valley of Apremont, all juniper and
    heather; and close beyond that you may walk into a zone of pine
    trees. So artfully are the ingredients mingled. Nor must it be
    forgotten that, in all this part, you come continually forth upon a
    hill-top, and behold the plain, northward and westward, like an
    unrefulgent sea; nor that all day long the shadows keep changing;
    and at last, to the red fires of sunset, night succeeds, and with
    the night a new forest, full of whisper, gloom, and fragrance.
    There are few things more renovating than to leave Paris, the
    lamplit arches of the Carrousel, and the long alignment of the
    glittering streets, and to bathe the senses in this fragrant
    darkness of the wood.

    In this continual variety the mind is kept vividly alive. It is a
    changeful place to paint, a stirring place to live in. As fast as
    your foot carries you, you pass from scene to scene, each
    vigorously painted in the colours of the sun, each endeared by that
    hereditary spell of forests on the mind of man who still remembers
    and salutes the ancient refuge of his race.

    And yet the forest has been civilised throughout. The most savage
    corners bear a name, and have been cherished like antiquities; in
    the most remote, Nature has prepared and balanced her effects as if
    with conscious art; and man, with his guiding arrows of blue paint,
    has countersigned the picture. After your farthest wandering, you
    are never surprised to come forth upon the vast avenue of highway,
    to strike the centre point of branching alleys, or to find the
    aqueduct trailing, thousand-footed, through the brush. It is not a
    wilderness; it is rather a preserve. And, fitly enough, the centre
    of the maze is not a hermit's cavern. In the midst, a little
    mirthful town lies sunlit, humming with the business of pleasure;
    and the palace, breathing distinction and peopled by historic
    names, stands smokeless among gardens.

    Perhaps the last attempt at savage life was that of the harmless
    humbug who called himself the hermit. In a great tree, close by
    the highroad, he had built himself a little cabin after the manner
    of the Swiss Family Robinson; thither he mounted at night, by the
    romantic aid of a rope ladder; and if dirt be any proof of
    sincerity, the man was savage as a Sioux. I had the pleasure of
    his acquaintance; he appeared grossly stupid, not in his perfect
    wits, and interested in nothing but small change; for that he had a
    great avidity. In the course of time he proved to be a chicken-
    stealer, and vanished from his perch; and perhaps from the first he
    was no true votary of forest freedom, but an ingenious,
    theatrically-minded beggar, and his cabin in the tree was only
    stock-in-trade to beg withal. The choice of his position would
    seem to indicate so much; for if in the forest there are no places
    still to be discovered, there are many that have been forgotten,
    and that lie unvisited. There, to be sure, are the blue arrows
    waiting to reconduct you, now blazed upon a tree, now posted in the
    corner of a rock. But your security from interruption is complete;
    you might camp for weeks, if there were only water, and not a soul
    suspect your presence; and if I may suppose the reader to have
    committed some great crime and come to me for aid, I think I could
    still find my way to a small cavern, fitted with a hearth and
    chimney, where he might lie perfectly concealed. A confederate
    landscape-painter might daily supply him with food; for water, he
    would have to make a nightly tramp as far as to the nearest pond;
    and at last, when the hue and cry began to blow over, he might get
    gently on the train at some side station, work round by a series of
    junctions, and be quietly captured at the frontier.

    Thus Fontainebleau, although it is truly but a pleasure-ground, and
    although, in favourable weather, and in the more celebrated
    quarters, it literally buzzes with the tourist, yet has some of the
    immunities and offers some of the repose of natural forests. And
    the solitary, although he must return at night to his frequented
    inn, may yet pass the day with his own thoughts in the
    companionable silence of the trees. The demands of the imagination
    vary; some can be alone in a back garden looked upon by windows;
    others, like the ostrich, are content with a solitude that meets
    the eye; and others, again, expand in fancy to the very borders of
    their desert, and are irritably conscious of a hunter's camp in an
    adjacent county. To these last, of course, Fontainebleau will seem
    but an extended tea-garden: a Rosherville on a by-day. But to the
    plain man it offers solitude: an excellent thing in itself, and a
    good whet for company.


    I was for some time a consistent Barbizonian; ET EGO IN ARCADIA
    VIXI, it was a pleasant season; and that noiseless hamlet lying
    close among the borders of the wood is for me, as for so many
    others, a green spot in memory. The great Millet was just dead,
    the green shutters of his modest house were closed; his daughters
    were in mourning. The date of my first visit was thus an epoch in
    the history of art: in a lesser way, it was an epoch in the
    history of the Latin Quarter. The PETIT CENACLE was dead and
    buried; Murger and his crew of sponging vagabonds were all at rest
    from their expedients; the tradition of their real life was nearly
    lost; and the petrified legend of the VIE DE BOHEME had become a
    sort of gospel, and still gave the cue to zealous imitators. But
    if the book be written in rose-water, the imitation was still
    farther expurgated; honesty was the rule; the innkeepers gave, as I
    have said, almost unlimited credit; they suffered the seediest
    painter to depart, to take all his belongings, and to leave his
    bill unpaid; and if they sometimes lost, it was by English and
    Americans alone. At the same time, the great influx of Anglo-
    Saxons had begun to affect the life of the studious. There had
    been disputes; and, in one instance at least, the English and the
    Americans had made common cause to prevent a cruel pleasantry. It
    would be well if nations and races could communicate their
    qualities; but in practice when they look upon each other, they
    have an eye to nothing but defects. The Anglo-Saxon is essentially
    dishonest; the French is devoid by nature of the principle that we
    call "Fair Play." The Frenchman marvelled at the scruples of his
    guest, and, when that defender of innocence retired over-seas and
    left his bills unpaid, he marvelled once again; the good and evil
    were, in his eyes, part and parcel of the same eccentricity; a
    shrug expressed his judgment upon both.

    At Barbizon there was no master, no pontiff in the arts. Palizzi
    bore rule at Gretz - urbane, superior rule - his memory rich in
    anecdotes of the great men of yore, his mind fertile in theories;
    sceptical, composed, and venerable to the eye; and yet beneath
    these outworks, all twittering with Italian superstition, his eye
    scouting for omens, and the whole fabric of his manners giving way
    on the appearance of a hunchback. Cernay had Pelouse, the
    admirable, placid Pelouse, smilingly critical of youth, who, when a
    full-blown commercial traveller, suddenly threw down his samples,
    bought a colour-box, and became the master whom we have all
    admired. Marlotte, for a central figure, boasted Olivier de Penne.
    Only Barbizon, since the death of Millet, was a headless
    commonwealth. Even its secondary lights, and those who in my day
    made the stranger welcome, have since deserted it. The good
    Lachevre has departed, carrying his household gods; and long before
    that Gaston Lafenestre was taken from our midst by an untimely
    death. He died before he had deserved success; it may be, he would
    never have deserved it; but his kind, comely, modest countenance
    still haunts the memory of all who knew him. Another - whom I will
    not name - has moved farther on, pursuing the strange Odyssey of
    his decadence. His days of royal favour had departed even then;
    but he still retained, in his narrower life at Barbizon, a certain
    stamp of conscious importance, hearty, friendly, filling the room,
    the occupant of several chairs; nor had he yet ceased his losing
    battle, still labouring upon great canvases that none would buy,
    still waiting the return of fortune. But these days also were too
    good to last; and the former favourite of two sovereigns fled, if I
    heard the truth, by night. There was a time when he was counted a
    great man, and Millet but a dauber; behold, how the whirligig of
    time brings in his revenges! To pity Millet is a piece of
    arrogance; if life be hard for such resolute and pious spirits, it
    is harder still for us, had we the wit to understand it; but we may
    pity his unhappier rival, who, for no apparent merit, was raised to
    opulence and momentary fame, and, through no apparent fault was
    suffered step by step to sink again to nothing. No misfortune can
    exceed the bitterness of such back-foremost progress, even bravely
    supported as it was; but to those also who were taken early from
    the easel, a regret is due. From all the young men of this period,
    one stood out by the vigour of his promise; he was in the age of
    fermentation, enamoured of eccentricities. "Il faut faire de la
    peinture nouvelle," was his watchword; but if time and experience
    had continued his education, if he had been granted health to
    return from these excursions to the steady and the central, I must
    believe that the name of Hills had become famous.

    Siron's inn, that excellent artists' barrack, was managed upon easy
    principles. At any hour of the night, when you returned from
    wandering in the forest, you went to the billiard-room and helped
    yourself to liquors, or descended to the cellar and returned laden
    with beer or wine. The Sirons were all locked in slumber; there
    was none to check your inroads; only at the week's end a
    computation was made, the gross sum was divided, and a varying
    share set down to every lodger's name under the rubric: ESTRATS.
    Upon the more long-suffering the larger tax was levied; and your
    bill lengthened in a direct proportion to the easiness of your
    disposition. At any hour of the morning, again, you could get your
    coffee or cold milk, and set forth into the forest. The doves had
    perhaps wakened you, fluttering into your chamber; and on the
    threshold of the inn you were met by the aroma of the forest.
    Close by were the great aisles, the mossy boulders, the
    interminable field of forest shadow. There you were free to dream
    and wander. And at noon, and again at six o'clock, a good meal
    awaited you on Siron's table. The whole of your accommodation, set
    aside that varying item of the ESTRALS, cost you five francs a day;
    your bill was never offered you until you asked it; and if you were
    out of luck's way, you might depart for where you pleased and leave
    it pending.


    Theoretically, the house was open to all corners; practically, it
    was a kind of club. The guests protected themselves, and, in so
    doing, they protected Siron. Formal manners being laid aside,
    essential courtesy was the more rigidly exacted; the new arrival
    had to feel the pulse of the society; and a breach of its undefined
    observances was promptly punished. A man might be as plain, as
    dull, as slovenly, as free of speech as he desired; but to a touch
    of presumption or a word of hectoring these free Barbizonians were
    as sensitive as a tea-party of maiden ladies. I have seen people
    driven forth from Barbizon; it would be difficult to say in words
    what they had done, but they deserved their fate. They had shown
    themselves unworthy to enjoy these corporate freedoms; they had
    pushed themselves; they had "made their head"; they wanted tact to
    appreciate the "fine shades" of Barbizonian etiquette. And once
    they were condemned, the process of extrusion was ruthless in its
    cruelty; after one evening with the formidable Bodmer, the Baily of
    our commonwealth, the erring stranger was beheld no more; he rose
    exceeding early the next day, and the first coach conveyed him from
    the scene of his discomfiture. These sentences of banishment were
    never, in my knowledge, delivered against an artist; such would, I
    believe, have been illegal; but the odd and pleasant fact is this,
    that they were never needed. Painters, sculptors, writers,
    singers, I have seen all of these in Barbizon; and some were sulky,
    and some blatant and inane; but one and all entered at once into
    the spirit of the association. This singular society is purely
    French, a creature of French virtues, and possibly of French
    defects. It cannot be imitated by the English. The roughness, the
    impatience, the more obvious selfishness, and even the more ardent
    friendships of the Anglo-Saxon, speedily dismember such a
    commonwealth. But this random gathering of young French painters,
    with neither apparatus nor parade of government, yet kept the life
    of the place upon a certain footing, insensibly imposed their
    etiquette upon the docile, and by caustic speech enforced their
    edicts against the unwelcome. To think of it is to wonder the more
    at the strange failure of their race upon the larger theatre. This
    inbred civility - to use the word in its completest meaning - this
    natural and facile adjustment of contending liberties, seems all
    that is required to make a governable nation and a just and
    prosperous country.

    Our society, thus purged and guarded, was full of high spirits, of
    laughter, and of the initiative of youth. The few elder men who
    joined us were still young at heart, and took the key from their
    companions. We returned from long stations in the fortifying air,
    our blood renewed by the sunshine, our spirits refreshed by the
    silence of the forest; the Babel of loud voices sounded good; we
    fell to eat and play like the natural man; and in the high inn
    chamber, panelled with indifferent pictures and lit by candles
    guttering in the night air, the talk and laughter sounded far into
    the night. It was a good place and a good life for any naturally-
    minded youth; better yet for the student of painting, and perhaps
    best of all for the student of letters. He, too, was saturated in
    this atmosphere of style; he was shut out from the disturbing
    currents of the world, he might forget that there existed other and
    more pressing interests than that of art. But, in such a place, it
    was hardly possible to write; he could not drug his conscience,
    like the painter, by the production of listless studies; he saw
    himself idle among many who were apparently, and some who were
    really, employed; and what with the impulse of increasing health
    and the continual provocation of romantic scenes, he became
    tormented with the desire to work. He enjoyed a strenuous idleness
    full of visions, hearty meals, long, sweltering walks, mirth among
    companions; and still floating like music through his brain,
    foresights of great works that Shakespeare might be proud to have
    conceived, headless epics, glorious torsos of dramas, and words
    that were alive with import. So in youth, like Moses from the
    mountain, we have sights of that House Beautiful of art which we
    shall never enter. They are dreams and unsubstantial; visions of
    style that repose upon no base of human meaning; the last heart-
    throbs of that excited amateur who has to die in all of us before
    the artist can be born. But they come to us in such a rainbow of
    glory that all subsequent achievement appears dull and earthly in
    comparison. We were all artists; almost all in the age of
    illusion, cultivating an imaginary genius, and walking to the
    strains of some deceiving Ariel; small wonder, indeed, if we were
    happy! But art, of whatever nature, is a kind mistress; and though
    these dreams of youth fall by their own baselessness, others
    succeed, graver and more substantial; the symptoms change, the
    amiable malady endures; and still, at an equal distance, the House
    Beautiful shines upon its hill-top.


    Gretz lies out of the forest, down by the bright river. It boasts
    a mill, an ancient church, a castle, and a bridge of many
    sterlings. And the bridge is a piece of public property;
    anonymously famous; beaming on the incurious dilettante from the
    walls of a hundred exhibitions. I have seen it in the Salon; I
    have seen it in the Academy; I have seen it in the last French
    Exposition, excellently done by Bloomer; in a black-and-white by
    Mr. A. Henley, it once adorned this essay in the pages of the
    MAGAZINE OF ART. Long-suffering bridge! And if you visit Gretz
    to-morrow, you shall find another generation, camped at the bottom
    of Chevillon's garden under their white umbrellas, and doggedly
    painting it again.

    The bridge taken for granted, Gretz is a less inspiring place than
    Barbizon. I give it the palm over Cernay. There is something
    ghastly in the great empty village square of Cernay, with the inn
    tables standing in one corner, as though the stage were set for
    rustic opera, and in the early morning all the painters breaking
    their fast upon white wine under the windows of the villagers. It
    is vastly different to awake in Gretz, to go down the green inn-
    garden, to find the river streaming through the bridge, and to see
    the dawn begin across the poplared level. The meals are laid in
    the cool arbour, under fluttering leaves. The splash of oars and
    bathers, the bathing costumes out to dry, the trim canoes beside
    the jetty, tell of a society that has an eye to pleasure. There is
    "something to do" at Gretz. Perhaps, for that very reason, I can
    recall no such enduring ardours, no such glories of exhilaration,
    as among the solemn groves and uneventful hours of Barbizon. This
    "something to do" is a great enemy to joy; it is a way out of it;
    you wreak your high spirits on some cut-and-dry employment, and
    behold them gone! But Gretz is a merry place after its kind:
    pretty to see, merry to inhabit. The course of its pellucid river,
    whether up or down, is full of gentle attractions for the
    navigator: islanded reed-mazes where, in autumn, the red berries
    cluster; the mirrored and inverted images of trees, lilies, and
    mills, and the foam and thunder of weirs. And of all noble sweeps
    of roadway, none is nobler, on a windy dusk, than the highroad to
    Nemours between its lines of talking poplar.

    But even Gretz is changed. The old inn, long shored and trussed
    and buttressed, fell at length under the mere weight of years, and
    the place as it was is but a fading image in the memory of former
    guests. They, indeed, recall the ancient wooden stair; they recall
    the rainy evening, the wide hearth, the blaze of the twig fire, and
    the company that gathered round the pillar in the kitchen. But the
    material fabric is now dust; soon, with the last of its
    inhabitants, its very memory shall follow; and they, in their turn,
    shall suffer the same law, and, both in name and lineament, vanish
    from the world of men. "For remembrance of the old house' sake,"
    as Pepys once quaintly put it, let me tell one story. When the
    tide of invasion swept over France, two foreign painters were left
    stranded and penniless in Gretz; and there, until the war was over,
    the Chevillons ungrudgingly harboured them. It was difficult to
    obtain supplies; but the two waifs were still welcome to the best,
    sat down daily with the family to table, and at the due intervals
    were supplied with clean napkins, which they scrupled to employ.
    Madame Chevillon observed the fact and reprimanded them. But they
    stood firm; eat they must, but having no money they would soil no


    Nemours and Moret, for all they are so picturesque, have been
    little visited by painters. They are, indeed, too populous; they
    have manners of their own, and might resist the drastic process of
    colonisation. Montigny has been somewhat strangely neglected, I
    never knew it inhabited but once, when Will H. Low installed
    himself there with a barrel of PIQUETTE, and entertained his
    friends in a leafy trellis above the weir, in sight of the green
    country and to the music of the falling water. It was a most airy,
    quaint, and pleasant place of residence, just too rustic to be
    stagey; and from my memories of the place in general, and that
    garden trellis in particular - at morning, visited by birds, or at
    night, when the dew fell and the stars were of the party - I am
    inclined to think perhaps too favourably of the future of Montigny.
    Chailly-en-Biere has outlived all things, and lies dustily
    slumbering in the plain - the cemetery of itself. The great road
    remains to testify of its former bustle of postilions and carriage
    bells; and, like memorial tablets, there still hang in the inn room
    the paintings of a former generation, dead or decorated long ago.
    In my time, one man only, greatly daring, dwelt there. From time
    to time he would walk over to Barbizon like a shade revisiting the
    glimpses of the moon, and after some communication with flesh and
    blood return to his austere hermitage. But even he, when I last
    revisited the forest, had come to Barbizon for good, and closed the
    roll of Chaillyites. It may revive - but I much doubt it. Acheres
    and Recloses still wait a pioneer; Bourron is out of the question,
    being merely Gretz over again, without the river, the bridge, or
    the beauty; and of all the possible places on the western side,
    Marlotte alone remains to be discussed. I scarcely know Marlotte,
    and, very likely for that reason, am not much in love with it. It
    seems a glaring and unsightly hamlet. The inn of Mother Antonie is
    unattractive; and its more reputable rival, though comfortable
    enough, is commonplace. Marlotte has a name; it is famous; if I
    were the young painter I would leave it alone in its glory.


    These are the words of an old stager; and though time is a good
    conservative in forest places, much may be untrue to-day. Many of
    us have passed Arcadian days there and moved on, but yet left a
    portion of our souls behind us buried in the woods. I would not
    dig for these reliquiae; they are incommunicable treasures that
    will not enrich the finder; and yet there may lie, interred below
    great oaks or scattered along forest paths, stores of youth's
    dynamite and dear remembrances. And as one generation passes on
    and renovates the field of tillage for the next, I entertain a
    fancy that when the young men of to-day go forth into the forest
    they shall find the air still vitalised by the spirits of their
    predecessors, and, like those "unheard melodies" that are the
    sweetest of all, the memory of our laughter shall still haunt the
    field of trees. Those merry voices that in woods call the wanderer
    farther, those thrilling silences and whispers of the groves,
    surely in Fontainebleau they must be vocal of me and my companions?
    We are not content to pass away entirely from the scenes of our
    delight; we would leave, if but in gratitude, a pillar and a

    One generation after another fall like honey-bees upon this
    memorable forest, rifle its sweets, pack themselves with vital
    memories, and when the theft is consummated depart again into life
    richer, but poorer also. The forest, indeed, they have possessed,
    from that day forward it is theirs indissolubly, and they will
    return to walk in it at night in the fondest of their dreams, and
    use it for ever in their books and pictures. Yet when they made
    their packets, and put up their notes and sketches, something, it
    should seem, had been forgotten. A projection of themselves shall
    appear to haunt unfriended these scenes of happiness, a natural
    child of fancy, begotten and forgotten unawares. Over the whole
    field of our wanderings such fetches are still travelling like
    indefatigable bagmen; but the imps of Fontainebleau, as of all
    beloved spots, are very long of life, and memory is piously
    unwilling to forget their orphanage. If anywhere about that wood
    you meet my airy bantling, greet him with tenderness. He was a
    pleasant lad, though now abandoned. And when it comes to your own
    turn to quit the forest, may you leave behind you such another; no
    Antony or Werther, let us hope, no tearful whipster, but, as
    becomes this not uncheerful and most active age in which we figure,
    the child of happy hours.

    No art, it may be said, was ever perfect, and not many noble, that
    has not been mirthfully conceived.

    And no man, it may be added, was ever anything but a wet blanket
    and a cross to his companions who boasted not a copious spirit of
    enjoyment. Whether as man or artist let the youth make haste to
    Fontainebleau, and once there let him address himself to the spirit
    of the place; he will learn more from exercise than from studies,
    although both are necessary; and if he can get into his heart the
    gaiety and inspiration of the woods he will have gone far to undo
    the evil of his sketches. A spirit once well strung up to the
    concert-pitch of the primeval out-of-doors will hardly dare to
    finish a study and magniloquently ticket it a picture. The
    incommunicable thrill of things, that is the tuning-fork by which
    we test the flatness of our art. Here it is that Nature teaches
    and condemns, and still spurs up to further effort and new failure.
    Thus it is that she sets us blushing at our ignorant and tepid
    works; and the more we find of these inspiring shocks the less
    shall we be apt to love the literal in our productions. In all
    sciences and senses the letter kills; and to-day, when cackling
    human geese express their ignorant condemnation of all studio
    pictures, it is a lesson most useful to be learnt. Let the young
    painter go to Fontainebleau, and while he stupefies himself with
    studies that teach him the mechanical side of his trade, let him
    walk in the great air, and be a servant of mirth, and not pick and
    botanise, but wait upon the moods of nature. So he will learn - or
    learn not to forget - the poetry of life and earth, which, when he
    has acquired his track, will save him from joyless reproduction.

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