III

When a pupil, Fougeres had studied drawing with Servin, who was

thought a great draughtsman in academic circles. After that he went to

Schinner's, to learn the secrets of the powerful and magnificent color

which distinguishes that master. Master and scholars were all

discreet; at any rate Pierre discovered none of their secrets. From

there he went to Sommervieux' atelier, to acquire that portion of the

art of painting which is called composition, but composition was shy

and distant to him. Then he tried to snatch from Decamps and Granet

the mystery of their interior effects. The two masters were not

robbed. Finally Fougeres ended his education with Duval-Lecamus.

During these studied and these different transformations Fougeres'

habits and ways of life were tranquil and moral to a degree that

furnished matter of jesting to the various ateliers where he

sojourned; but everywhere he disarmed his comrades by his modesty and

by the patience and gentleness of a lamblike nature. The masters,

however, had no sympathy for the good lad; masters prefer bright

fellows, eccentric spirits, droll or fiery, or else gloomy and deeply

reflective, which argue future talent. Everything about Pierre Grassou

smacked of mediocrity. His nickname "Fougeres" (that of the painter in

the play of "The Eglantine") was the source of much teasing; but, by

force of circumstances, he accepted the name of the town in which he

had first seen light.

Grassou of Fougeres resembled his name. Plump and of medium height, he

had a dull complexion, brown eyes, black hair, a turned-up nose,

rather wide mouth, and long ears. His gentle, passive, and resigned

air gave a certain relief to these leading features of a physiognomy

that was full of health, but wanting in action. This young man, born

to be a virtuous bourgeois, having left his native place and come to

Paris to be clerk with a color-merchant (formerly of Mayenne and a

distant connection of the Orgemonts) made himself a painter simply by

the fact of an obstinacy which constitutes the Breton character. What

he suffered, the manner in which he lived during those years of study,

God only knows. He suffered as much as great men suffer when they are

hounded by poverty and hunted like wild beasts by the pack of

commonplace minds and by troops of vanities athirst for vengeance.

As soon as he thought himself able to fly on his own wings, Fougeres

took a studio in the upper part of the rue des Martyrs, where he began

to delve his way. He made his first appearance in 1819. The first

picture he presented to the jury of the Exhibition at the Louvre

represented a village wedding rather laboriously copied from Greuze's

picture. It was rejected. When Fougeres heard of the fatal decision,

he did not fall into one of those fits of epileptic self-love to which

strong natures give themselves up, and which sometimes end in

challenges sent to the director or the secretary of the Museum, or

even by threats of assassination. Fougeres quietly fetched his canvas,

wrapped it in a handkerchief, and brought it home, vowing in his heart

that he would still make himself a great painter. He placed his

picture on the easel, and went to one of his former masters, a man of

immense talent,--to Schinner, a kind and patient artist, whose triumph

at that year's Salon was complete. Fougeres asked him to come and

criticise the rejected work. The great painter left everything and

went at once. When poor Fougeres had placed the work before him

Schinner, after a glance, pressed Fougeres' hand.

"You are a fine fellow," he said; "you've a heart of gold, and I must

not deceive you. Listen; you are fulfilling all the promises you made

in the studios. When you find such things as that at the tip of your

brush, my good Fougeres, you had better leave colors with Brullon, and

not take the canvas of others. Go home early, put on your cotton

night-cap, and be in bed by nine o'clock. The next morning early go to

some government office, ask for a place, and give up art."

"My dear friend," said Fougeres, "my picture is already condemned; it

is not a verdict that I want of you, but the cause of that verdict."

"Well--you paint gray and sombre; you see nature being a crape veil;

your drawing is heavy, pasty; your composition is a medley of Greuze,

who only redeemed his defects by the qualities which you lack."

While detailing these faults of the picture Schinner saw on Fougeres'

face so deep an expression of sadness that he carried him off to

dinner and tried to console him. The next morning at seven o'clock

Fougeres was at his easel working over the rejected picture; he warmed

the colors; he made the corrections suggested by Schinner, he touched

up his figures. Then, disgusted with such patching, he carried the

picture to Elie Magus. Elie Magus, a sort of Dutch-Flemish-Belgian,

had three reasons for being what he became,--rich and avaricious.

Coming last from Bordeaux, he was just starting in Paris, selling old

pictures and living on the boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle. Fougeres, who

relied on his palette to go to the baker's, bravely ate bread and

nuts, or bread and milk, or bread and cherries, or bread and cheese,

according to the seasons. Elie Magus, to whom Pierre offered his first

picture, eyed it for some time and then gave him fifteen francs.

"With fifteen francs a year coming in, and a thousand francs for

expenses," said Fougeres, smiling, "a man will go fast and far."

Elie Magus made a gesture; he bit his thumbs, thinking that he might

have had that picture for five francs.

For several days Pierre walked down from the rue des Martyrs and

stationed himself at the corner of the boulevard opposite to Elie's

shop, whence his eye could rest upon his picture, which did not obtain

any notice from the eyes of the passers along the street. At the end

of a week the picture disappeared; Fougeres walked slowly up and

approached the dealer's shop in a lounging manner. The Jew was at his

door.

"Well, I see you have sold my picture."

"No, here it is," said Magus; "I've framed it, to show it to some one

who fancies he knows about painting."

Fougeres had not the heart to return to the boulevard. He set about

another picture, and spent two months upon it,--eating mouse's meals

and working like a galley-slave.

One evening he went to the boulevard, his feet leading him fatefully

to the dealer's shop. His picture was not to be seen.

"I've sold your picture," said Elie Magus, seeing him.

"For how much?"

"I got back what I gave and a small interest. Make me some Flemish

interiors, a lesson of anatomy, landscapes, and such like, and I'll

buy them of you," said Elie.

Fougeres would fain have taken old Magus in his arms; he regarded him

as a father. He went home with joy in his heart; the great painter

Schinner was mistaken after all! In that immense city of Paris there

were some hearts that beat in unison with Pierre's; his talent was

understood and appreciated. The poor fellow of twenty-seven had the

innocence of a lad of sixteen. Another man, one of those distrustful,

surly artists, would have noticed the diabolical look on Elie's face

and seen the twitching of the hairs of his beard, the irony of his

moustache, and the movement of his shoulders which betrayed the

satisfaction of Walter Scott's Jew in swindling a Christian.

Fougeres marched along the boulevard in a state of joy which gave to

his honest face an expression of pride. He was like a schoolboy

protecting a woman. He met Joseph Bridau, one of his comrades, and one

of those eccentric geniuses destined to fame and sorrow. Joseph

Bridau, who had, to use his own expression, a few sous in his pocket,

took Fougeres to the Opera. But Fougeres didn't see the ballet, didn't

hear the music; he was imagining pictures, he was painting. He left

Joseph in the middle of the evening, and ran home to make sketches by

lamp-light. He invented thirty pictures, all reminiscence, and felt

himself a man of genius. The next day he bought colors, and canvases

of various dimensions; he piled up bread and cheese on his table, he

filled a water-pot with water, he laid in a provision of wood for his

stove; then, to use a studio expression, he dug at his pictures. He

hired several models and Magus lent him stuffs.

After two months' seclusion the Breton had finished four pictures.

Again he asked counsel of Schinner, this time adding Bridau to the

invitation. The two painters saw in three of these pictures a servile

imitation of Dutch landscapes and interiors by Metzu, in the fourth a

copy of Rembrandt's "Lesson of Anatomy."

"Still imitating!" said Schinner. "Ah! Fougeres can't manage to be

original."

"You ought to do something else than painting," said Bridau.

"What?" asked Fougeres.

"Fling yourself into literature."