The charm of Fontainebleau is a thing apart. It is a place that people love even more than they admire. The vigorous forest air, the silence, the majestic1 avenues of highway, the wilderness2 of tumbled boulders4, the great age and dignity of certain groves5—these are but ingredients, they are not the secret of the philtre. The place is sanative; the air, the light, the perfumes, and the shapes of things concord6 in happy harmony. The artist may be idle and not fear the “blues.” He may dally7 with his life. Mirth, lyric8 mirth, and a vivacious9 classical contentment are of the very essence of the better kind of art; and these, in that most smiling forest, he has the chance to learn or to remember. Even on the plain of Biére, where the Angelus of Millet10 still tolls11 upon the ear of fancy, a larger air, a higher heaven, something ancient and healthy in the face of nature, purify the mind alike from dulness and hysteria. There is no place where the young are more gladly conscious of their youth, or the old better contented12 with their age.
The fact of its great and special beauty further recommends this country to the artist. The field was chosen by men in whose blood there still raced some of the gleeful or solemn exultation13 of great art—Millet who loved dignity like Michelangelo, Rousseau whose modern brush was dipped in the glamour14 of the ancients. It was chosen before the day of that strange turn in the history of art, of which we now perceive the culmination15 in impressionistic tales and pictures—that voluntary aversion of the eye from all speciously16 strong and beautiful effects—that disinterested17 love of dulness which has set so many Peter Bells to paint the river-side primrose18. It was then chosen for its proximity19 to Paris. And for the same cause, and by the force of tradition, the painter of to-day continues to inhabit and to paint it. There is in France scenery incomparable for romance and harmony. Provence, and the valley of the Rhone from Vienne to Tarascon, are one succession of masterpieces waiting for the brush. The beauty is not merely beauty; it tells, besides, a tale to the imagination, and surprises while it charms. Here you shall see castellated towns that would befit the scenery of dreamland; streets that glow with colour like cathedral windows; hills of the most exquisite21 proportions; flowers of every precious colour, growing thick like grass. All these, by the grace of railway travel, are brought to the very door of the modern painter; yet he does not seek them; he remains22 faithful to Fontainebleau, to the eternal bridge of Gretz, to the watering-pot cascade23 in Cernay valley. Even Fontainebleau was chosen for him; even in Fontainebleau he shrinks from what is sharply charactered. But one thing, at least, is certain, whatever he may choose to paint and in whatever manner, it is good for the artist to dwell among graceful24 shapes. Fontainebleau, if it be but quiet scenery, is classically graceful; and though the student may look for different qualities, this quality, silently present, will educate his hand and eye.
But, before all its other advantages—charm, loveliness, or proximity to Paris—comes the great fact that it is already colonised. The institution of a painters’ colony is a work of time and tact25. The population must be conquered. The innkeeper has to be taught, and he soon learns, the lesson of unlimited26 credit; he must be taught to welcome as a favoured guest a young gentleman in a very greasy27 coat, and with little baggage beyond a box of colours and a canvas; and he must learn to preserve his faith in customers who will eat heartily28 and drink of the best, borrow money to buy tobacco, and perhaps not pay a stiver for a year. A colour merchant has next to be attracted. A certain vogue29 must be given to the place, lest the painter, most gregarious30 of animals, should find himself alone. And no sooner are these first difficulties overcome, than fresh perils31 spring up upon the other side; and the bourgeois32 and the tourist are knocking at the gate. This is the crucial moment for the colony. If these intruders gain a footing, they not only banish33 freedom and amenity34; pretty soon, by means of their long purses, they will have undone36 the education of the innkeeper; prices will rise and credit shorten; and the poor painter must fare farther on and find another hamlet. “Not here, O Apollo!” will become his song. Thus Trouville and, the other day, St. Raphael were lost to the arts. Curious and not always edifying37 are the shifts that the French student uses to defend his lair38; like the cuttlefish39, he must sometimes blacken the waters of his chosen pool; but at such a time and for so practical a purpose Mrs. Grundy must allow him licence. Where his own purse and credit are not threatened, he will do the honours of his village generously. Any artist is made welcome, through whatever medium he may seek expression; science is respected; even the idler, if he prove, as he so rarely does, a gentleman, will soon begin to find himself at home. And when that essentially40 modern creature, the English or American girl-student, began to walk calmly into his favourite inns as if into a drawing-room at home, the French painter owned himself defenceless; he submitted or he fled. His French respectability, quite as precise as ours, though covering different provinces of life, recoiled41 aghast before the innovation. But the girls were painters; there was nothing to be done; and Barbizon, when I last saw it and for the time at least, was practically ceded42 to the fair invader43. Paterfamilias, on the other hand, the common tourist, the holiday shopman, and the cheap young gentleman upon the spree, he hounded from his villages with every circumstance of contumely.
This purely44 artistic45 society is excellent for the young artist. The lads are mostly fools; they hold the latest orthodoxy in its crudeness; they are at that stage of education, for the most part, when a man is too much occupied with style to be aware of the necessity for any matter; and this, above all for the Englishman, is excellent. To work grossly at the trade, to forget sentiment, to think of his material and nothing else, is, for awhile at least, the king’s highway of progress. Here, in England, too many painters and writers dwell dispersed46, unshielded, among the intelligent bourgeois. These, when they are not merely indifferent, prate47 to him about the lofty aims and moral influence of art. And this is the lad’s ruin. For art is, first of all and last of all, a trade. The love of words and not a desire to publish new discoveries, the love of form and not a novel reading of historical events, mark the vocation48 of the writer and the painter. The arabesque49, properly speaking, and even in literature, is the first fancy of the artist; he first plays with his material as a child plays with a kaleidoscope; and he is already in a second stage when he begins to use his pretty counters for the end of representation. In that, he must pause long and toil50 faithfully; that is his apprenticeship52; and it is only the few who will really grow beyond it, and go forward, fully51 equipped, to do the business of real art—to give life to abstractions and significance and charm to facts. In the meanwhile, let him dwell much among his fellow-craftsmen. They alone can take a serious interest in the childish tasks and pitiful successes of these years. They alone can behold54 with equanimity55 this fingering of the dumb keyboard, this polishing of empty sentences, this dull and literal painting of dull and insignificant56 subjects. Outsiders will spur him on. They will say, “Why do you not write a great book? paint a great picture?” If his guardian57 angel fail him, they may even persuade him to the attempt, and, ten to one, his hand is coarsened and his style falsified for life.
And this brings me to a warning. The life of the apprentice53 to any art is both unstrained and pleasing; it is strewn with small successes in the midst of a career of failure, patiently supported; the heaviest scholar is conscious of a certain progress; and if he come not appreciably59 nearer to the art of Shakespeare, grows letter-perfect in the domain60 of A-B, ab. But the time comes when a man should cease prelusory gymnastic, stand up, put a violence upon his will, and, for better or worse, begin the business of creation. This evil day there is a tendency continually to postpone61: above all with painters. They have made so many studies that it has become a habit; they make more, the walls of exhibitions blush with them; and death finds these aged62 students still busy with their horn-book. This class of man finds a congenial home in artist villages; in the slang of the English colony at Barbizon we used to call them “Snoozers.” Continual returns to the city, the society of men farther advanced, the study of great works, a sense of humour or, if such a thing is to be had, a little religion or philosophy, are the means of treatment. It will be time enough to think of curing the malady63 after it has been caught; for to catch it is the very thing for which you seek that dream-land of the painters’ village. “Snoozing” is a part of the artistic education; and the rudiments64 must be learned stupidly, all else being forgotten, as if they were an object in themselves.
Lastly, there is something, or there seems to be something, in the very air of France that communicates the love of style. Precision, clarity, the cleanly and crafty65 employment of material, a grace in the handling, apart from any value in the thought, seem to be acquired by the mere20 residence; or if not acquired, become at least the more appreciated. The air of Paris is alive with this technical inspiration. And to leave that airy city and awake next day upon the borders of the forest is but to change externals. The same spirit of dexterity66 and finish breathes from the long alleys67 and the lofty groves, from the wildernesses68 that are still pretty in their confusion, and the great plain that contrives69 to be decorative70 in its emptiness.
II
In spite of its really considerable extent, the forest of Fontainebleau is hardly anywhere tedious. I know the whole western side of it with what, I suppose, I may call thoroughness; well enough at least to testify that there is no square mile without some special character and charm. Such quarters, for instance, as the Long Rocher, the Bas-Bréau, and the Reine Blanche, might be a hundred miles apart; they have scarce a point in common beyond the silence of the birds. The two last are really conterminous; and in both are tall and ancient trees that have outlived a thousand political vicissitudes71. But in the one the great oaks prosper72 placidly74 upon an even floor; they beshadow a great field; and the air and the light are very free below their stretching boughs75. In the other the trees find difficult footing; castles of white rock lie tumbled one upon another, the foot slips, the crooked76 viper77 slumbers79, the moss80 clings in the crevice81; and above it all the great beech82 goes spiring83 and casting forth84 her arms, and, with a grace beyond church architecture, canopies85 this rugged86 chaos87. Meanwhile, dividing the two cantons, the broad white causeway of the Paris road runs in an avenue: a road conceived for pageantry and for triumphal marches, an avenue for an army; but, its days of glory over, it now lies grilling88 in the sun between cool groves, and only at intervals89 the vehicle of the cruising tourist is seen far away and faintly audible along its ample sweep. A little upon one side, and you find a district of sand and birch and boulder3; a little upon the other lies the valley of Apremont, all juniper and heather; and close beyond that you may walk into a zone of pine trees. So artfully are the ingredients mingled90. Nor must it be forgotten that, in all this part, you come continually forth upon a hill-top, and behold the plain, northward91 and westward92, like an unrefulgent sea; nor that all day long the shadows keep changing; and at last, to the red fires of sunset, night succeeds, and with the night a new forest, full of whisper, gloom, and fragrance93. There are few things more renovating94 than to leave Paris, the lamplit arches of the Carrousel, and the long alignment95 of the glittering streets, and to bathe the senses in this fragrant96 darkness of the wood.
In this continual variety the mind is kept vividly97 alive. It is a changeful place to paint, a stirring place to live in. As fast as your foot carries you, you pass from scene to scene, each vigorously painted in the colours of the sun, each endeared by that hereditary98 spell of forests on the mind of man who still remembers and salutes99 the ancient refuge of his race.
And yet the forest has been civilised throughout. The most savage100 corners bear a name, and have been cherished like antiquities101; in the most remote, Nature has prepared and balanced her effects as if with conscious art; and man, with his guiding arrows of blue paint, has countersigned102 the picture. After your farthest wandering, you are never surprised to come forth upon the vast avenue of highway, to strike the centre point of branching alleys, or to find the aqueduct trailing, thousand-footed, through the brush. It is not a wilderness; it is rather a preserve. And, fitly enough, the centre of the maze103 is not a hermit104’s cavern105. In the midst, a little mirthful town lies sunlit, humming with the business of pleasure; and the palace, breathing distinction and peopled by historic names, stands smokeless among gardens.
Perhaps the last attempt at savage life was that of the harmless humbug106 who called himself the hermit. In a great tree, close by the highroad, he had built himself a little cabin after the manner of the Swiss Family Robinson; thither107 he mounted at night, by the romantic aid of a rope ladder; and if dirt be any proof of sincerity108, the man was savage as a Sioux. I had the pleasure of his acquaintance; he appeared grossly stupid, not in his perfect wits, and interested in nothing but small change; for that he had a great avidity. In the course of time he proved to be a chicken-stealer, and vanished from his perch110; and perhaps from the first he was no true votary111 of forest freedom, but an ingenious, theatrically-minded beggar, and his cabin in the tree was only stock-in-trade to beg withal. The choice of his position would seem to indicate so much; for if in the forest there are no places still to be discovered, there are many that have been forgotten, and that lie unvisited. There, to be sure, are the blue arrows waiting to reconduct you, now blazed upon a tree, now posted in the corner of a rock. But your security from interruption is complete; you might camp for weeks, if there were only water, and not a soul suspect your presence; and if I may suppose the reader to have committed some great crime and come to me for aid, I think I could still find my way to a small cavern, fitted with a hearth112 and chimney, where he might lie perfectly113 concealed114. A confederate landscape-painter might daily supply him with food; for water, he would have to make a nightly tramp as far as to the nearest pond; and at last, when the hue115 and cry began to blow over, he might get gently on the train at some side station, work round by a series of junctions116, and be quietly captured at the frontier.
Thus Fontainebleau, although it is truly but a pleasure-ground, and although, in favourable117 weather, and in the more celebrated118 quarters, it literally119 buzzes with the tourist, yet has some of the immunities120 and offers some of the repose121 of natural forests. And the solitary122, although he must return at night to his frequented inn, may yet pass the day with his own thoughts in the companionable silence of the trees. The demands of the imagination vary; some can be alone in a back garden looked upon by windows; others, like the ostrich123, are content with a solitude124 that meets the eye; and others, again, expand in fancy to the very borders of their desert, and are irritably125 conscious of a hunter’s camp in an adjacent county. To these last, of course, Fontainebleau will seem but an extended tea-garden: a Rosherville on a by-day. But to the plain man it offers solitude: an excellent thing in itself, and a good whet126 for company.
III
I was for some time a consistent Barbizonian; et ego127 in Arcadia vixi, it was a pleasant season; and that noiseless hamlet lying close among the borders of the wood is for me, as for so many others, a green spot in memory. The great Millet was just dead, the green shutters128 of his modest house were closed; his daughters were in mourning. The date of my first visit was thus an epoch129 in the history of art: in a lesser130 way, it was an epoch in the history of the Latin Quarter. The Petit Cénacle was dead and buried; Murger and his crew of sponging vagabonds were all at rest from their expedients131; the tradition of their real life was nearly lost; and the petrified132 legend of the Vie de Bohéme had become a sort of gospel, and still gave the cue to zealous133 imitators. But if the book be written in rose-water, the imitation was still farther expurgated; honesty was the rule; the innkeepers gave, as I have said, almost unlimited credit; they suffered the seediest painter to depart, to take all his belongings134, and to leave his bill unpaid135; and if they sometimes lost, it was by English and Americans alone. At the same time, the great influx136 of Anglo-Saxons had begun to affect the life of the studious. There had been disputes; and, in one instance at least, the English and the Americans had made common cause to prevent a cruel pleasantry. It would be well if nations and races could communicate their qualities; but in practice when they look upon each other, they have an eye to nothing but defects. The Anglo-Saxon is essentially dishonest; the French is devoid137 by nature of the principle that we call “Fair Play.” The Frenchman marvelled138 at the scruples139 of his guest, and, when that defender140 of innocence141 retired142 over-seas and left his bills unpaid, he marvelled once again; the good and evil were, in his eyes, part and parcel of the same eccentricity143; a shrug144 expressed his judgment145 upon both.
At Barbizon there was no master, no pontiff in the arts. Palizzi bore rule at Gretz—urbane, superior rule—his memory rich in anecdotes146 of the great men of yore, his mind fertile in theories; sceptical, composed, and venerable to the eye; and yet beneath these outworks, all twittering with Italian superstition147, his eye scouting148 for omens149, and the whole fabric150 of his manners giving way on the appearance of a hunchback. Cernay had Pelouse, the admirable, placid73 Pelouse, smilingly critical of youth, who, when a full-blown commercial traveller, suddenly threw down his samples, bought a colour-box, and became the master whom we have all admired. Marlotte, for a central figure, boasted Olivier de Penne. Only Barbizon, since the death of Millet, was a headless commonwealth151. Even its secondary lights, and those who in my day made the stranger welcome, have since deserted152 it. The good Lachèvre has departed, carrying his household gods; and long before that Gaston Lafenestre was taken from our midst by an untimely death. He died before he had deserved success; it may be, he would never have deserved it; but his kind, comely153, modest countenance154 still haunts the memory of all who knew him. Another—whom I will not name—has moved farther on, pursuing the strange Odyssey155 of his decadence156. His days of royal favour had departed even then; but he still retained, in his narrower life at Barbizon, a certain stamp of conscious importance, hearty157, friendly, filling the room, the occupant of several chairs; nor had he yet ceased his losing battle, still labouring upon great canvases that none would buy, still waiting the return of fortune. But these days also were too good to last; and the former favourite of two sovereigns fled, if I heard the truth, by night. There was a time when he was counted a great man, and Millet but a dauber; behold, how the whirligig of time brings in his revenges! To pity Millet is a piece of arrogance158; if life be hard for such resolute159 and pious160 spirits, it is harder still for us, had we the wit to understand it; but we may pity his unhappier rival, who, for no apparent merit, was raised to opulence161 and momentary162 fame, and, through no apparent fault was suffered step by step to sink again to nothing. No misfortune can exceed the bitterness of such back-foremost progress, even bravely supported as it was; but to those also who were taken early from the easel, a regret is due. From all the young men of this period, one stood out by the vigour163 of his promise; he was in the age of fermentation, enamoured of eccentricities164. “Il faut faire de la peinture nouvelle,” was his watchword; but if time and experience had continued his education, if he had been granted health to return from these excursions to the steady and the central, I must believe that the name of Hills had become famous.
Siron’s inn, that excellent artists’ barrack, was managed upon easy principles. At any hour of the night, when you returned from wandering in the forest, you went to the billiard-room and helped yourself to liquors, or descended165 to the cellar and returned laden166 with beer or wine. The Sirons were all locked in slumber78; there was none to check your inroads; only at the week’s end a computation was made, the gross sum was divided, and a varying share set down to every lodger’s name under the rubric: estrats. Upon the more long-suffering the larger tax was levied167; and your bill lengthened168 in a direct proportion to the easiness of your disposition169. At any hour of the morning, again, you could get your coffee or cold milk, and set forth into the forest. The doves had perhaps wakened you, fluttering into your chamber170; and on the threshold of the inn you were met by the aroma171 of the forest. Close by were the great aisles172, the mossy boulders, the interminable field of forest shadow. There you were free to dream and wander. And at noon, and again at six o’clock, a good meal awaited you on Siron’s table. The whole of your accommodation, set aside that varying item of the estrals, cost you five francs a day; your bill was never offered you until you asked it; and if you were out of luck’s way, you might depart for where you pleased and leave it pending173.
IV
Theoretically, the house was open to all corners; practically, it was a kind of club. The guests protected themselves, and, in so doing, they protected Siron. Formal manners being laid aside, essential courtesy was the more rigidly174 exacted; the new arrival had to feel the pulse of the society; and a breach175 of its undefined observances was promptly176 punished. A man might be as plain, as dull, as slovenly177, as free of speech as he desired; but to a touch of presumption178 or a word of hectoring these free Barbizonians were as sensitive as a tea-party of maiden179 ladies. I have seen people driven forth from Barbizon; it would be difficult to say in words what they had done, but they deserved their fate. They had shown themselves unworthy to enjoy these corporate180 freedoms; they had pushed themselves; they had “made their head”; they wanted tact to appreciate the “fine shades” of Barbizonian etiquette181. And once they were condemned182, the process of extrusion183 was ruthless in its cruelty; after one evening with the formidable Bodmer, the Baily of our commonwealth, the erring184 stranger was beheld185 no more; he rose exceeding early the next day, and the first coach conveyed him from the scene of his discomfiture186. These sentences of banishment187 were never, in my knowledge, delivered against an artist; such would, I believe, have been illegal; but the odd and pleasant fact is this, that they were never needed. Painters, sculptors188, writers, singers, I have seen all of these in Barbizon; and some were sulky, and some blatant189 and inane190; but one and all entered at once into the spirit of the association. This singular society is purely French, a creature of French virtues191, and possibly of French defects. It cannot be imitated by the English. The roughness, the impatience192, the more obvious selfishness, and even the more ardent193 friendships of the Anglo-Saxon, speedily dismember such a commonwealth. But this random194 gathering195 of young French painters, with neither apparatus196 nor parade of government, yet kept the life of the place upon a certain footing, insensibly imposed their etiquette upon the docile197, and by caustic198 speech enforced their edicts against the unwelcome. To think of it is to wonder the more at the strange failure of their race upon the larger theatre. This inbred civility—to use the word in its completest meaning—this natural and facile adjustment of contending liberties, seems all that is required to make a governable nation and a just and prosperous country.
Our society, thus purged199 and guarded, was full of high spirits, of laughter, and of the initiative of youth. The few elder men who joined us were still young at heart, and took the key from their companions. We returned from long stations in the fortifying200 air, our blood renewed by the sunshine, our spirits refreshed by the silence of the forest; the Babel of loud voices sounded good; we fell to eat and play like the natural man; and in the high inn chamber, panelled with indifferent pictures and lit by candles guttering201 in the night air, the talk and laughter sounded far into the night. It was a good place and a good life for any naturally-minded youth; better yet for the student of painting, and perhaps best of all for the student of letters. He, too, was saturated202 in this atmosphere of style; he was shut out from the disturbing currents of the world, he might forget that there existed other and more pressing interests than that of art. But, in such a place, it was hardly possible to write; he could not drug his conscience, like the painter, by the production of listless studies; he saw himself idle among many who were apparently203, and some who were really, employed; and what with the impulse of increasing health and the continual provocation204 of romantic scenes, he became tormented205 with the desire to work. He enjoyed a strenuous206 idleness full of visions, hearty meals, long, sweltering walks, mirth among companions; and still floating like music through his brain, foresights207 of great works that Shakespeare might be proud to have conceived, headless epics208, glorious torsos of dramas, and words that were alive with import. So in youth, like Moses from the mountain, we have sights of that House Beautiful of art which we shall never enter. They are dreams and unsubstantial; visions of style that repose upon no base of human meaning; the last heart-throbs of that excited amateur who has to die in all of us before the artist can be born. But they come to us in such a rainbow of glory that all subsequent achievement appears dull and earthly in comparison. We were all artists; almost all in the age of illusion, cultivating an imaginary genius, and walking to the strains of some deceiving Ariel; small wonder, indeed, if we were happy! But art, of whatever nature, is a kind mistress; and though these dreams of youth fall by their own baselessness, others succeed, graver and more substantial; the symptoms change, the amiable209 malady endures; and still, at an equal distance, the House Beautiful shines upon its hill-top.
V
Gretz lies out of the forest, down by the bright river. It boasts a mill, an ancient church, a castle, and a bridge of many sterlings. And the bridge is a piece of public property; anonymously210 famous; beaming on the incurious dilettante211 from the walls of a hundred exhibitions. I have seen it in the Salon212; I have seen it in the Academy; I have seen it in the last French Exposition, excellently done by Bloomer; in a black-and-white by Mr. A. Henley, it once adorned213 this essay in the pages of the Magazine of Art. Long-suffering bridge! And if you visit Gretz to-morrow, you shall find another generation, camped at the bottom of Chevillon’s garden under their white umbrellas, and doggedly214 painting it again.
The bridge taken for granted, Gretz is a less inspiring place than Barbizon. I give it the palm over Cernay. There is something ghastly in the great empty village square of Cernay, with the inn tables standing215 in one corner, as though the stage were set for rustic216 opera, and in the early morning all the painters breaking their fast upon white wine under the windows of the villagers. It is vastly different to awake in Gretz, to go down the green inn-garden, to find the river streaming through the bridge, and to see the dawn begin across the poplared level. The meals are laid in the cool arbour, under fluttering leaves. The splash of oars58 and bathers, the bathing costumes out to dry, the trim canoes beside the jetty, tell of a society that has an eye to pleasure. There is “something to do” at Gretz. Perhaps, for that very reason, I can recall no such enduring ardours, no such glories of exhilaration, as among the solemn groves and uneventful hours of Barbizon. This “something to do” is a great enemy to joy; it is a way out of it; you wreak217 your high spirits on some cut-and-dry employment, and behold them gone! But Gretz is a merry place after its kind: pretty to see, merry to inhabit. The course of its pellucid218 river, whether up or down, is full of gentle attractions for the navigator: islanded reed-mazes where, in autumn, the red berries cluster; the mirrored and inverted219 images of trees, lilies, and mills, and the foam220 and thunder of weirs221. And of all noble sweeps of roadway, none is nobler, on a windy dusk, than the highroad to Nemours between its lines of talking poplar.
But even Gretz is changed. The old inn, long shored and trussed and buttressed223, fell at length under the mere weight of years, and the place as it was is but a fading image in the memory of former guests. They, indeed, recall the ancient wooden stair; they recall the rainy evening, the wide hearth, the blaze of the twig224 fire, and the company that gathered round the pillar in the kitchen. But the material fabric is now dust; soon, with the last of its inhabitants, its very memory shall follow; and they, in their turn, shall suffer the same law, and, both in name and lineament, vanish from the world of men. “For remembrance of the old house’ sake,” as Pepys once quaintly225 put it, let me tell one story. When the tide of invasion swept over France, two foreign painters were left stranded226 and penniless in Gretz; and there, until the war was over, the Chevillons ungrudgingly harboured them. It was difficult to obtain supplies; but the two waifs were still welcome to the best, sat down daily with the family to table, and at the due intervals were supplied with clean napkins, which they scrupled227 to employ. Madame Chevillon observed the fact and reprimanded them. But they stood firm; eat they must, but having no money they would soil no napkins.
VI
Nemours and Moret, for all they are so picturesque228, have been little visited by painters. They are, indeed, too populous229; they have manners of their own, and might resist the drastic process of colonisation. Montigny has been somewhat strangely neglected, I never knew it inhabited but once, when Will H. Low installed himself there with a barrel of piquette, and entertained his friends in a leafy trellis above the weir222, in sight of the green country and to the music of the falling water. It was a most airy, quaint109, and pleasant place of residence, just too rustic to be stagey; and from my memories of the place in general, and that garden trellis in particular—at morning, visited by birds, or at night, when the dew fell and the stars were of the party—I am inclined to think perhaps too favourably230 of the future of Montigny. Chailly-en-Bière has outlived all things, and lies dustily slumbering231 in the plain—the cemetery232 of itself. The great road remains to testify of its former bustle233 of postilions and carriage bells; and, like memorial tablets, there still hang in the inn room the paintings of a former generation, dead or decorated long ago. In my time, one man only, greatly daring, dwelt there. From time to time he would walk over to Barbizon like a shade revisiting the glimpses of the moon, and after some communication with flesh and blood return to his austere235 hermitage. But even he, when I last revisited the forest, had come to Barbizon for good, and closed the roll of Chaillyites. It may revive—but I much doubt it. Achères and Recloses still wait a pioneer; Bourron is out of the question, being merely Gretz over again, without the river, the bridge, or the beauty; and of all the possible places on the western side, Marlotte alone remains to be discussed. I scarcely know Marlotte, and, very likely for that reason, am not much in love with it. It seems a glaring and unsightly hamlet. The inn of Mother Antonie is unattractive; and its more reputable rival, though comfortable enough, is commonplace. Marlotte has a name; it is famous; if I were the young painter I would leave it alone in its glory.
VII
These are the words of an old stager; and though time is a good conservative in forest places, much may be untrue to-day. Many of us have passed Arcadian days there and moved on, but yet left a portion of our souls behind us buried in the woods. I would not dig for these reliquiæ; they are incommunicable treasures that will not enrich the finder; and yet there may lie, interred236 below great oaks or scattered237 along forest paths, stores of youth’s dynamite238 and dear remembrances. And as one generation passes on and renovates239 the field of tillage for the next, I entertain a fancy that when the young men of to-day go forth into the forest they shall find the air still vitalised by the spirits of their predecessors240, and, like those “unheard melodies” that are the sweetest of all, the memory of our laughter shall still haunt the field of trees. Those merry voices that in woods call the wanderer farther, those thrilling silences and whispers of the groves, surely in Fontainebleau they must be vocal241 of me and my companions? We are not content to pass away entirely242 from the scenes of our delight; we would leave, if but in gratitude243, a pillar and a legend.
One generation after another fall like honey-bees upon this memorable244 forest, rifle its sweets, pack themselves with vital memories, and when the theft is consummated245 depart again into life richer, but poorer also. The forest, indeed, they have possessed246, from that day forward it is theirs indissolubly, and they will return to walk in it at night in the fondest of their dreams, and use it for ever in their books and pictures. Yet when they made their packets, and put up their notes and sketches247, something, it should seem, had been forgotten. A projection248 of themselves shall appear to haunt unfriended these scenes of happiness, a natural child of fancy, begotten249 and forgotten unawares. Over the whole field of our wanderings such fetches are still travelling like indefatigable250 bagmen; but the imps234 of Fontainebleau, as of all beloved spots, are very long of life, and memory is piously251 unwilling252 to forget their orphanage253. If anywhere about that wood you meet my airy bantling, greet him with tenderness. He was a pleasant lad, though now abandoned. And when it comes to your own turn to quit the forest, may you leave behind you such another; no Antony or Werther, let us hope, no tearful whipster, but, as becomes this not uncheerful and most active age in which we figure, the child of happy hours.
No art, it may be said, was ever perfect, and not many noble, that has not been mirthfully conceived.
And no man, it may be added, was ever anything but a wet blanket and a cross to his companions who boasted not a copious254 spirit of enjoyment255. Whether as man or artist let the youth make haste to Fontainebleau, and once there let him address himself to the spirit of the place; he will learn more from exercise than from studies, although both are necessary; and if he can get into his heart the gaiety and inspiration of the woods he will have gone far to undo35 the evil of his sketches. A spirit once well strung up to the concert-pitch of the primeval out-of-doors will hardly dare to finish a study and magniloquently ticket it a picture. The incommunicable thrill of things, that is the tuning-fork by which we test the flatness of our art. Here it is that Nature teaches and condemns256, and still spurs up to further effort and new failure. Thus it is that she sets us blushing at our ignorant and tepid257 works; and the more we find of these inspiring shocks the less shall we be apt to love the literal in our productions. In all sciences and senses the letter kills; and to-day, when cackling human geese express their ignorant condemnation258 of all studio pictures, it is a lesson most useful to be learnt. Let the young painter go to Fontainebleau, and while he stupefies himself with studies that teach him the mechanical side of his trade, let him walk in the great air, and be a servant of mirth, and not pick and botanise, but wait upon the moods of nature. So he will learn—or learn not to forget—the poetry of life and earth, which, when he has acquired his track, will save him from joyless reproduction.
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1
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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2
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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boulder
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| n.巨砾；卵石，圆石 | |
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boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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concord
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| n.和谐；协调 | |
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dally
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| v.荒废(时日)，调情 | |
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8
lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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millet
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| n.小米，谷子 | |
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tolls
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| （缓慢而有规律的）钟声( toll的名词复数 )； 通行费； 损耗； （战争、灾难等造成的）毁坏 | |
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12
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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13
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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14
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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culmination
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| n.顶点；最高潮 | |
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speciously
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| adv.似是而非地；外观好看地，像是真实地 | |
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17
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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18
primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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19
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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20
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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21
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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22
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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23
cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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24
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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25
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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26
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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27
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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29
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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gregarious
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| adj.群居的，喜好群居的 | |
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31
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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32
bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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33
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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34
amenity
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| n.pl.生活福利设施，文娱康乐场所；（不可数）愉快，适意 | |
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35
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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37
edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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38
lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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39
cuttlefish
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| n.乌贼，墨鱼 | |
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40
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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41
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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42
ceded
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| v.让给，割让，放弃( cede的过去式 ) | |
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43
invader
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| n.侵略者，侵犯者，入侵者 | |
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44
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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45
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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46
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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47
prate
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| v.瞎扯，胡说 | |
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48
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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49
arabesque
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| n.阿拉伯式花饰；adj.阿拉伯式图案的 | |
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50
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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51
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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52
apprenticeship
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| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
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53
apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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54
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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55
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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56
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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57
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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58
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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59
appreciably
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| adv.相当大地 | |
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60
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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61
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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62
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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63
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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64
rudiments
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| n.基础知识，入门 | |
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65
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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66
dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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67
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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68
wildernesses
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| 荒野( wilderness的名词复数 )； 沙漠； （政治家）在野； 不再当政（或掌权） | |
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69
contrives
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的第三人称单数 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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70
decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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71
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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72
prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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73
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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75
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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76
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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77
viper
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| n.毒蛇；危险的人 | |
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78
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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80
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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81
crevice
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| n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝；缺口 | |
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82
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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83
spiring
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| v.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的现在分词 ) | |
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84
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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85
canopies
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| （宝座或床等上面的）华盖( canopy的名词复数 )； （飞行器上的）座舱罩； 任何悬于上空的覆盖物； 森林中天棚似的树荫 | |
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86
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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87
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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88
grilling
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| v.烧烤( grill的现在分词 )；拷问，盘问 | |
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89
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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90
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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91
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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92
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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93
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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94
renovating
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| 翻新，修复，整修( renovate的现在分词 ) | |
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95
alignment
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| n.队列；结盟，联合 | |
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96
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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97
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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98
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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99
salutes
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| n.致敬，欢迎，敬礼( salute的名词复数 )v.欢迎，致敬( salute的第三人称单数 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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100
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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101
antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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102
countersigned
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| v.连署，副署，会签 （文件）( countersign的过去式 ) | |
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103
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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104
hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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105
cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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106
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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107
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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108
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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109
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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110
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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111
votary
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| n.崇拜者；爱好者；adj.誓约的，立誓任圣职的 | |
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112
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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113
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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114
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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115
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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junctions
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| 联结点( junction的名词复数 )； 会合点； （公路或铁路的）交叉路口； （电缆等的）主结点 | |
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117
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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118
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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119
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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120
immunities
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| 免除，豁免( immunity的名词复数 )； 免疫力 | |
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121
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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122
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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123
ostrich
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| n.鸵鸟 | |
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124
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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125
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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126
whet
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| v.磨快，刺激 | |
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127
ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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128
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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129
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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130
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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131
expedients
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| n.应急有效的，权宜之计的( expedient的名词复数 ) | |
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132
petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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133
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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134
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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135
unpaid
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| adj.未付款的，无报酬的 | |
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136
influx
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| n.流入，注入 | |
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137
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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138
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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140
defender
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| n.保卫者，拥护者，辩护人 | |
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141
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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142
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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143
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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144
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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145
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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146
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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147
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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148
scouting
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| 守候活动，童子军的活动 | |
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149
omens
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| n.前兆，预兆( omen的名词复数 ) | |
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150
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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151
commonwealth
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| n.共和国，联邦，共同体 | |
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152
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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153
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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154
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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155
odyssey
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| n.长途冒险旅行；一连串的冒险 | |
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156
decadence
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| n.衰落，颓废 | |
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157
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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158
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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159
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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160
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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161
opulence
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| n.财富，富裕 | |
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162
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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163
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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164
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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165
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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166
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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167
levied
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| 征（兵）( levy的过去式和过去分词 )； 索取； 发动（战争）； 征税 | |
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168
lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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169
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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170
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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171
aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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172
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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173
pending
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|
| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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174
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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175
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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176
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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177
slovenly
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|
| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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178
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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179
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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180
corporate
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| adj.共同的，全体的；公司的，企业的 | |
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181
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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182
condemned
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|
| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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183
extrusion
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|
| n.挤出；推出；喷出；赶出 | |
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184
erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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185
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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186
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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187
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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188
sculptors
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| 雕刻家，雕塑家( sculptor的名词复数 )； [天]玉夫座 | |
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189
blatant
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| adj.厚颜无耻的；显眼的；炫耀的 | |
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190
inane
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| adj.空虚的，愚蠢的，空洞的 | |
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191
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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192
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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193
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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194
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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195
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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196
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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197
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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198
caustic
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| adj.刻薄的，腐蚀性的 | |
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199
purged
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| 清除（政敌等）( purge的过去式和过去分词 )； 涤除（罪恶等）； 净化（心灵、风气等）； 消除（错事等）的不良影响 | |
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200
fortifying
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| 筑防御工事于( fortify的现在分词 )； 筑堡于； 增强； 强化（食品） | |
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201
guttering
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| n.用于建排水系统的材料；沟状切除术；开沟 | |
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202
saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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203
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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204
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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205
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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206
strenuous
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|
| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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207
foresights
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| 先见（foresight的复数形式） | |
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208
epics
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| n.叙事诗( epic的名词复数 )；壮举；惊人之举；史诗般的电影（或书籍） | |
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209
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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210
anonymously
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| ad.用匿名的方式 | |
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211
dilettante
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| n.半瓶醋，业余爱好者 | |
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212
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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213
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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214
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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215
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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216
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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217
wreak
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| v.发泄；报复 | |
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218
pellucid
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| adj.透明的，简单的 | |
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219
inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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220
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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221
weirs
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| n.堰，鱼梁（指拦截游鱼的枝条篱）( weir的名词复数 ) | |
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222
weir
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| n.堰堤，拦河坝 | |
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223
buttressed
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| v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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224
twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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225
quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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226
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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227
scrupled
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| v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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228
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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229
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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230
favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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231
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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232
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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233
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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234
imps
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| n.（故事中的）小恶魔( imp的名词复数 )；小魔鬼；小淘气；顽童 | |
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235
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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236
interred
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| v.埋，葬( inter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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237
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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238
dynamite
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| n./vt.(用)炸药(爆破) | |
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239
renovates
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| 翻新，修复，整修( renovate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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240
predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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241
vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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242
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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243
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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244
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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245
consummated
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| v.使结束( consummate的过去式和过去分词 )；使完美；完婚；（婚礼后的）圆房 | |
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246
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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247
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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248
projection
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| n.发射，计划，突出部分 | |
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249
begotten
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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250
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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251
piously
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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252
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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253
orphanage
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| n.孤儿院 | |
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254
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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255
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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256
condemns
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的第三人称单数 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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257
tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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258
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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