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The pawnbroker smiled as he examined the goods. "I can give you nothing upon them," said he. "What!" cried Simon; "not even the worth of the silver?" "No; I could buy them at that price at the 'Cafe Morisot, Rue de la Verrerie, where, I suppose, you got them a little cheaper."
The skin of the giraffe was the largest I have ever seen; it had been found necessary to cut it in two before it could be removed. Morisot, by the way, had a startling adventure with a lion. We were camped at the Crocodile River Drift; lions were more plentiful in the neighborhood than I have ever known them elsewhere; all night long they growled or gruntled around our encampment.
The rencontre of Morisot and Campbell at Constantinople reminds me of a somewhat similar experience. When I was camped near Ship Mountain, a messenger arrived one night from the camp of the hunters recently alluded to, asking whether we had, by any chance, a man among us possessing any surgical knowledge. One of the party, a man named Tyrer, had been gored by a buffalo and badly hurt.
He reminds more of an ancient Gothic craftsman, than of a modern artist, and he is full of repose as a contrast to the dazzling virtuosity of so many painters. Berthe Morisot will remain the most fascinating figure of Impressionism, the one who has stated most precisely the femineity of this luminous and iridescent art.
He named the region, and the man who was interrogated answered "Yes," he did remember it. "You brought a giraffe's heart into the camp," said Morisot, "and asked leave to roast it at our fire." "I did," the other answered, "and, by Jove! you're the man who was in command of that party." They renewed their acquaintance with a cordial handgrip, and clinked glasses together.
Berthe Morisot, Paul Cézanne, Whistler, Sargent, Hassam, and many others.
It was no disagreeable or ridiculous parody of Corot; it was Corot feminised, Corot reflected in a woman's soul, a woman's love of man's genius, a lake-reflected moon. But Corot's influence did not endure. Through her sister's marriage Madame Morisot came in contact with Manet, and she was quick to recognise him as being the greatest artist that France had produced since Delacroix.
My own idea is that Morisot went to sleep and was awakened by the lion growling within a few inches of his face. One could hardly blame him for being demoralized under such circumstances. Those who nowadays travel by rail through the denuded tract between Delagoa Bay and the Drakensberg can form no idea as to the marvelous richness of animal life on those plains in the early seventies.
Only one woman did this, and that woman is Madame Morisot, and her pictures are the only pictures painted by a woman that could not be destroyed without creating a blank, a hiatus in the history of art.
But when all has been said, I prefer Manet in the quieter and I think the more original mood in the portrait of his sister-in-law, Madame Morisot. The portrait is in M. Duret's collection; it hangs in a not too well lighted passage, and if I did not spend six or ten minutes in admiration before this picture, I should feel that some familiar pleasure had drifted out of my yearly visit to Paris.
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