The first modest workroom on the Boulevard Montparnasse was soon too small to hold the pupils who crowded under this newly raised banner, and a move was made to more commodious² quarters near the master’s private studio.  Sargent, Dannat, Harrison, Beckwith, Hinckley, and many others whom it is needless to mention here, will—if these lines come under their notice—doubtless recall with a thrill of pleasure the roomy one-storied structure in the rue³ Notre-Dame des Champs where we established our atelier d’élèves, a self-supporting cooperative concern, each student contributing ten francs a month toward rent, fire, and models, “Carolus”—the name by which this master is universally known abroad—not only refusing all compensation, according to the immutable⁴ custom of French painters of distinction, but, as we discovered later, contributing too often from his own pocket to help out the massier at the end of a difficult season, or smooth the path of some improvident⁵ pupil.

 

Those were cloudless, enchanted⁶ days we passed in the tumbled down old atelier: an ardent⁷ springtime of life when the future beckons⁸ gayly and no doubts of success obscure the horizon.  Our young master’s enthusiasm fired his circle of pupils, who, as each succeeding year brought him increasing fame,

分享到：