Two Doyens of French Art

— Visitors last summer to the pretty forest town of Saint-Germain may have noticed a tremulous yet erect and keen-eyed old gentleman taking the morning air on the terrace, or standing rapt in contemplation before a bricabrac window in the Rue des Coches. More interesting than any souvenir on view behind the dusty panes this relic of a past generation, who was born before the century, who painted the fair ladies of Louis Philippe’s court (he would tell you that politics change, mais les jolies épaules des femmes ne changent pas), who culled, en passant, the glittering favors of the Third Empire, and last, but not least, while thrones tottered, received through many prosperous years a generous meed of patronage from the great house of Rothschild.

Eugène Lami passed away last winter, full of years and honor. To-day Fame trumpets her loudest over the manes of Meissonier. It is to be hoped that the cheering spectacle of honor paid where honor is due may help to encourage other less fortunate laborers in the arduous fields, while serving as a relief to that tragic picture of genius martyrized which has lately harrowed our sympathies in the case of Jean-François Millet.

At Saint-Germain, which stands on a bend of the river above poissy, separated by a strip of forest land, the eccentric, almost dwarfish figure of old Meissonier was also well known. Not a raw recruit in the cavalry regiment quartered there but could tell you his name, coupling it with the familiarly affectionate appellation of “ father.” Among the officers his popularity was associated with that of the great Napoleon, whose memory he had done so much to serve. I remember, two or three summers ago, hearing a young sous-lieutenant of chasseurs, then stationed in the town, describing an encounter he had had with le père Meissonier. The merry incident gained not a little by the inimitable verve and gayety of its narrator, a born raconteur, evidently, as well as joli garçon in his speckless sky-blue uniform.

Early in the morning, it appeared, he had been abroad exercising his squad, and was returning with it at a footpace along one of those straight, interminable avenues which traverse the forest, when midway a tall yellow dogcart swooped down upon him. Aloft sat a little old bonhomme, whose patriarchal beard floated to the wind like the famed white plume of Navarre.

“Hola! M. l’Officier ! ” the little man shouted, when within earshot. Hardly waiting to draw rein, he scrambled precipitately over the wheels of the charrette, and presented his card. It was now our lieutenant’s turn to spring to earth.

“Of what service can I be to M. Meissonier ? ”

“ The loan of your men, mon officier,” cried the fiery artist, “an affair of ten minutes ! You consent ? Très bien ! Follow me.”

Away rattled the yellow charrette at racing speed (Meissonier would brook no laggard iu his stables), our blue-coated chasseurs clattering fast on its tracks. Presently they passed the borders of the forest, and entered a wheat-field which skirted the road, unprotected by fence or hedge, as is the custom in most parts of France. The grain was ripe for harvest, and already a peasant proprietor, assisted by two or three farm lads, had begun operations at an upper corner. Calling halt to the company, Meissonier sped across the field to a parley with the farmers. An animated pantomime took place, in which coin of the country seemed to flow uncounted from capacious shooting-jacket pockets to some secret receptacle under the voluminous blue blouse. Then back again, aglow with generous enthusiasm.

“ Now, my dear sir,” the old painter cried, “all I have to ask of you is to station your men yonder, under shadow of those trees. At a signal from me — tiens ! I ’ll flutter this handkerchief — make a bee-line through the grain. Gallop straight for me.”

The officer did as desired, and was met by Meissonier in a high state of excitement. “Faster! faster!” he shouted, gesticulating wildly, notebook in one hand, crayon in the other. “ Try it again ! ”

Half a dozen times at least the soldiers charged, and devastated indeed lay that golden grain-field before word was given to desist. They were then courteously thanked, and dismissed with a forty-franc pourboire, that “ ces braves enfants might wet their throats after such dry work.” When last in sight, the old painter (verging at the time, be it remembered, on his eightieth year) occupied a grotesque attitude in the middle of the beaten field, taking an upside down view of his surroundings.