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Updated: June 21, 2025
Afterwards befell the meeting with Rose Varcoe; and he thought of how he praised his friend Lepage to her, and brought him to be introduced to her. He recalled all those visions that came to him when, his professional triumphs achieved, he should have a happy home, and happy faces by his fireside.
"He has not succeeded in life," she repeated softly. Looking down at her, his brow burning with a white heat, Lepage said: "He is a great man, Rose." "I am sure he is a good man," she added. Perhaps Lepage had borrowed some strength not all his own, for he said almost sternly: "He is a great man." His wife looked up half-startled and said: "Very well, dear; he is a good man and a great man."
Then he sat down and held near the firelight the letter the factor had given him. His features grew stern and set as he read it. Once he paused in the reading and looked into the fire, drawing his breath sharply between his teeth. Then he read it to the end without a sign. A pause, and he said aloud: "So this is how the lines meet again, Varre Lepage!"
Rembrandt is an example of beginning the tone relationships from the light side of the scale, and a large part of his canvas is in consequence always dark. Bastien Lepage is an example of the second method, that of fixing upon two extremes and working-relatively between them.
Shall we call Bastien Lepage a follower of Millet, or say that in these men there was a unity of spirit; that while they realized the poetry of their subjects intensely, they fully estimated the reality as well? The "Joan of Arc" is a phenomenal example of this art. The landscape is carefully realistic, and like that in which a French peasant girl of any period would live.
You owe it to your wife to me." He had pulled his heart up to this demand and had lived. But what lay before him? He saw a stony track, and he shuddered. As he sat there facing the future, Hume came to him and said: "If you feel up to it, Lepage, we will start for Edmonton on Monday. I think it will be quite safe, and your wife is anxious.
I wanted to see her, and I went and stood for hours in a crowd of curious women, and saw the wedding party enter the great Fifth Avenue Church, and discovered that my Sylvia's hair was golden, and her eyes a strange and wonderful red-brown. And this was the moment that fate had chosen to throw Claire Lepage into my arms, and give me the key to the future of Sylvia's life.
The wife looked at the yellow brood drawing close to their mother, and her eyes grew wistful. She thought of their one baby asleep in an English grave. But thinking of the words of the captain of the White Guard, Lepage said firmly: "We will begin the world again." She smiled, and rose to kiss him as the hen and chickens hastened away from the door, and a clear bugle call sounded in the square.
A shadow fell across the sunlight that streamed upon Lepage. He looked up. There was a startled cry of joy, an answering exclamation of love, and Rose was clasped in her husband's arms. A few moments afterwards the sweet-faced woman said: "Who was that man who rode away to the north as I came up, Clive? He reminded me of some one."
She was sitting by a dark, broad-shouldered young man when I came in; they were sitting close together; he rose out of a corner and showed me an impressionistic picture of a railway station. He was one of the many young men who at that time thought the substitution of dots of pink and yellow for the grey and slate and square brushwork of Bastien Lepage was the certain way to paint well.
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