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'On the contrary, you have awakened it. I was just thinking how vivid you looked with that setting of overhanging bushes and the background of fields. I I think it must have been your gown that gave such a quaintly incongruous effect. 'And, of course, there is nothing incongruous in a dinner-jacket near a trout-stream? If I were an artist I should paint you, and call the picture "Despondency."
"How could they refuse that picture without having every drop of the vermilion in my Red Sea rise up in their faces and cover them with shame?" murmured Marcel, as he gazed at the painting. "When one thinks that it contains a good hundred crowns' worth of paint, and a million of genius, not to speak of the fair days of my youth, fast growing bald as my hat!
And they always paint it such a lovely blue! Really, uncle, the Swiss Government ought to return you your money." "You wait till you see it tomorrow or next day," said the uncle, vaguely. He closed his eyes, and welcomed a drowsy mood. As he went off to sleep, the jolting racket of the train mellowed itself into a murmur of "tomorrow or next day, tomorrow or next day," in his ears.
"Yes, she was nice to paint from, but it was difficult to get her to sit. A concierge's daughter you wouldn't think it, would you?" My astonishment amused him, and he began to laugh. "You don't know her?" he said. "That is Marie Pellegrin," and when I asked him where he had met her he told me, at Alphonsine's; but I did not know where Alphonsine's was. "I'm going to dine there to-night.
We went to the Hotel du Louvre, then so new that it smelt of plaster and paint. In those days, big, splendid hotels were almost unknown in Europe. The vast dining-hall, with its palatial decoration, impressed my inexperience very strongly. During my stay in the Hotel du Louvre, I made the acquaintance of some English officers.
Although Holbein could do and did do anything that was demanded of him, what he liked best was to paint portraits. Romantic subjects such as the fight of St. George and the dragon, or an idyll of the Golden Age, little suited the artistic leanings of a German.
Notwithstanding the efforts of those who prepared the body for burial, his head went to its last resting-place still marked by some of the paint that portrayed him as a barren fig-tree. But not all of the people had such a low conception of religion. God had some true children in that part of the country.
"It was your mother, exactly as she looked when. . . . She did not treat either of us rightly but she! the Christian must forgive; and as she was your mother why I should like . . . perhaps it is not possible; but if you could paint her picture, not as a Madonna, only as she looked when a young wife. . . ." "I can, I will!" cried Ulrich, in joyous excitement.
Now no one replied immediately to her remarks, and she continued: "If I were an artist I should wish to paint that scene, given that the lights were not so bright and that mill machinery not so sharply defined. There is almost too much limelight, as it were; too much earnestness in the thing.
When I would say to her, in familiar gallantry, which, however, always offended her: "'You are as beautiful as a planet to-day, Miss Harriet, a little blood would immediately mount into her cheeks, the blood of a young maiden, the blood of sweet fifteen. "Then she would become abruptly savage and cease coming to watch me paint.
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