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I found a poem the other day, a love-song of De Musset. Do you know that you lived in this very city years ago, Fatalité, and he saw you and loved you? How else could he have written this? "Avez-vous vu en Barcelone, Une Andalouse au sein bruni, Pâle comme un beau soir d'Autômne, C'est ma maitresse, ma lionne, La Marchesa d'Amagui."
It is said that Baroche revenged himself for the rebuff by whispering to an acquaintance near him: "This Monsieur Hugo is madder still than is supposed." Over the coffin, as it was laid under the ground near the ashes of Charles Nodier and Casimir Delavigne, the author of Les Miserables and Les Feuilles d'Automne pronounced an oration which was a generous tribute to the talent of his great rival.
Lewis the absence of vulgarity and false sentiment, the sobriety of colour, the painstaking search for design without forgetting that in the Salon d'Automne or the Salon des Indépendants a picture by him would neither merit nor obtain from the most generous critic more than a passing word of perfunctory encouragement; for in Paris there are perhaps five hundred men and women drawn from the four quarters of the earth all trying to do what Mr.
The motto "Safety first" did, I will confess, just float across my eyes as I walked through the last salon d'automne. And, then, Derain may feel that there is in him something besides his power of creation and sense of form, something which philosophers would call, I dare say, a sense of absolute beauty in things, of external harmony.
On the other hand, if by comparison with the salon d'automne of 1911 that of '2l seems unexciting, we must not fail to do justice to the extraordinarily high level of painting that has now been attained.
Many are like the music en sourdine of Paul Verlaine in his "Chanson D'Automne" or "Le Piano que Baise une Main Frele." They are essentially for the twilight, for solitary enclosures, where their still, mysterious tones "silent thunder in the leaves" as Yeats sings become eloquent and disclose the poetry and pain of their creator.
Here all is twilight. The royal magnificences of the sunset have passed, the solemn beatitude of the night is at hand but not yet here; the ways are veiled with shadow, and lit with dresses, white, that the hour has touched with blue, yellow, green, mauve, and undecided purple; the voices? strange contraltos; the forms? not those of men or women, but mystic, hybrid creatures, with hands nervous and pale, and eyes charged with eager and fitful light..."un soir équivoque d'automne"..."les belles pendent rêveuses
His first words were not to tell me how ill he had been, but that that morning he had been well enough to put the last strokes to the score of his Souvenirs d'Automne. He was as I most like to remember him: so calm and happy and tired; not gay, as he usually is, but just contented and tired with that heavenly tiredness that comes after a good work done at last.
Such passages are to be found among the lyrics of Les Feuilles d'Automne, Les Rayons et Les Ombres, Les Contemplations, in the brilliant descriptions and lofty imagery of La Légende des Siècles, in the burning invective of Les Châtiments.
Hesterna Rosa, I may cry with the blind old bard of Tusculum; or shall we say, Hesterna Margaritae? Yesterday's Daisy, yesterday's Rose, were it of Paestum, who values it to-day? Mais ou sont les neiges d'automne? However, yesterday the day before yesterday, rather Miss Annie P. Miller was well enough.
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