"Because thou hast believed the wheels of life
Stand never idle, but go always round;
Hast labored, but with purpose; hast become
Laborious, persevering, serious, firm--
For this thy track across the fretful foam
Of vehement actions without scope or term,
Call'd history, keeps a splendor, due to wit,
Which saw one clue to life and followed it."
Matthew Arnold.
The day so long anxiously looked for of the great reception at the Royal
Academy came at last. Fortunately the weather was beautiful, and the sun
shone on the London streets with an unusual brightness even for that time
of year.
Long rows of carriages lined the streets approaching the entrance to the
Academy. The great staircase leading into the main hall was carpeted with
crimson baize, for Royal visitors were expected, and on each stair were
placed luxuriant pots of hothouse plants which perfumed the heated air
with an almost over-powering fragrance.
As the lucky possessors of invitation cards passed in, a footman
resplendent in crimson and gold livery handed each a catalogue of the
pictures.
What a motley throng it was! Bohemia rubbing shoulders with orthodox
conventionality. Duchesses, actors, artists, bishops, newspaper men out
at elbows, deans, girl art students, spruce looking Eton boys in tall
hats and short jackets, all eagerly pushing their way to the envied goal.
A frantic endeavor it was, too. To tell the truth, few of the throng came
to see the pictures; most of them, firmly believing that "the proper
study of mankind is man," assembled to view each other. Of course there
were some conscientious art critics, but these were few and far between.
The Gallery rapidly filled, and the guests by degrees formed themselves
into little groups.
Four or five men of the most Bohemian type were gathered in front of
a large canvas hung on the line, an enviable position. They were all
foreigners, and were attracting much attention by their shrill voices and
gesticulations. "Yes," said one, a little Frenchman, "I know he's not an
Englishman, no Englishman ever painted like that. No, I should think not.
The tone, the purity, the--the----"
"No, he's not an Englishman," said a representative of the British nation
passing just then, and pausing to take up the cudgels for his country.
"He's not an Englishman, but I don't like your prejudice; he's not a
Frenchman either, for that matter, so you can't claim him."
"What is he, then?" demanded the little Frenchman.
"He's a Canadian."
"Canadian, ah! What's his name?"
"Lacroix."
"Oh! he's half French at any rate," said the little artist triumphantly,
"and I know he studied in Paris. Well, this is a masterpiece I know, no
matter who painted it."
The picture which had caused so much discussion was a very large one,
covering some five feet of canvas. In the foreground was a long sandy
road, on which was a procession of all manner of vehicles of different
kinds. Hay-carts, calashes, buck-boards, and rude specimens of cabs were
being driven by French-Canadian habitants along the road. In the middle
distance was a churchyard crowded with people, most of them looking very
ill, and many of them leaning on crutches. The invalids seemed to be
attended by their relatives or friends, whose strongly-knit frames and
sun-burned faces contrasted vividly with those of the pilgrims.
The wonderful thing about this picture was the distinct manner with which
each of the many faces was brought out on the canvas. In a marvellous
way, too, the interior of the church just beyond the graveyard was
portrayed. Through the door, flung widely open, and crowded with an eager
multitude, could be seen the High Altar, the candles brightly burning in
honor of the Holy Sacrament, and at the rail were lines of pilgrims
awaiting the approach of the officiating priest.
The priest, an imposing figure clad in the gorgeous vestments of the
Roman Catholic church, was bending down and allowing the worshippers to
touch a relic of the Good St. Anne, in whose miraculous power of healing
they so firmly trusted.
A well-put together picture, the critics said, and a new scene which in
these days is much to be desired. The manner in which Lacroix had
arranged to show both the exterior and interior of the church was a
clever hit, every one agreed. Outside, with the clear blue sky for
background, the spire of the church was clearly defined, and on a niche
just above the main doorway stood an exquisitely carved statue of the
patron St. Anne, holding by the hand her little daughter, the Blessed
Virgin. And beyond the church and the mass of sorrowing, suffering human
life at its doors was the great River St. Lawrence, a molten silver
stream glimmering with a million iridescent lights, flowing swiftly,
silently on.
Far across its broad expanse, in the dim distance, like huge clouds, were
the misty blue Laurentian hills, grand, eternal, steadfast, an emblem of
Omnipotence itself.
"Where is the painter of this masterpiece?" asked one; and a friend of
his, a Royal Academician of some standing, replied:
"Oh! Lacroix has just come in. The prince admired 'The Pilgrimage' and
inquired for the artist, so the president sent for him. The prince was
most affable to him, and, it is said, has bought the picture. Ah! there
is Lacroix now. Wait a moment and I will bring him over here."
Presently he returned with Lacroix, who was enthusiastically received by
his fellow artists, and congratulated heartily on his success. Lacroix
was a tall, rather uncouth-looking man of between thirty-five and forty,
and his face wore a stern, care-worn expression. But, to an observer who
cared to study his countenance, over the stern gravity of the artist's
face there was often a gleam of pleasing expression, more particularly
when lighted up by one of his rare smiles. To-day he did not seem very
much elated by his success; rather the contrary. Success had come to
Lacroix too late in life for him to have any very jubilant feeling about
it. It seemed that he had long out-lived his youth, its hopes and
ambitions. Work was what he lived for now, work and his art; if success
followed, well and good; if not, he did not much care.
"Yes," he said, in a voice with a slight French accent, in reply to some
question they had asked him, "I studied in Paris, then I came to London
last year, and have been here ever since; but, I may say, I received all
my training in France."
"Ah! I thought so," said the little French artist. "Your style is too
good for the English school. You are a Canadian, I hear. We have a good
many Canadians in London this year. I went to hear one sing last night
at Her Majesty's, Mademoiselle Laurentia. Do you know her? I can assure
you she is superb. She is a Canadian, too."
"I did know her many, years ago," said Lacroix; "but I have seldom seen
her of late; in fact, I don't think she would remember me now."
"She is here to-day, I am told," said the little Frenchman, looking round
the gallery. "Ah! there she is talking to Lady D----. See, there, that
little lady in grey!"
Lacroix glanced in the direction indicated. Was that fashionable little
lady conversing completely at her ease with one of the highest in the
land indeed Marie Gourdon, the daughter of the fisherman at Father Point?
Yes; there was no mistaking her, and he wondered a little whether Marie
had changed mentally as much as her outward circumstances had altered.
"So, you did know the prima donna before?" went on the little French
artist.
"Oh! yes; we are both natives of Father Point, on the Lower St.
Lawrence."
"Indeed, how interesting. Remain here a moment, and I shall ask
Mademoiselle Laurentia to come over and look at your picture;" and the
little man dashed off impulsively, and, detaching the prima donna from
Lady D----, brought her over to the spot where Eugène was standing.
No; she had not forgotten him, for she held out her hand and shook his
warmly, saying, in the frank, sympathetic voice he remembered so well:
"I am very glad, indeed, to see you, M. Lacroix. Let me add my
congratulations to the many you have already received. Your picture
is indeed a masterpiece."
"Thank you. You are, I suppose, the only one here to-day who can say
whether my picture is true to nature."
"Yes, indeed, I can; it takes me back to the old days at Father Point,
and how real it all is! There is M. Bois-le-Duc, dear M. Bois-le-Duc.
I can almost fancy I am standing on the road watching the pilgrims go
into the church."
"I am glad you like it. By the way, I heard from M. Bois-le-Duc by
yesterday's mail. He wrote me a long letter this time. Would you like to
read it?"
"Yes, very much," said the prima donna, eagerly; "very much, indeed."
"I think I have it here," searching hurriedly through his numerous
pockets. "Ah! no; but I shall send it to you."
"Why not bring it, M. Lacroix?"
"May I?"
"Yes. I shall be very pleased to see you as well as the letter," said
mademoiselle, smiling graciously. "I am always at home at five o'clock.
You know my address, number 17, The Grove, Highgate."
"Thanks, I will come to-morrow, with your permission. My time in London,
you know, is very short, for I sail for Canada the first week of next
month."
"Indeed, so soon? How I envy you. I am sorry you are going, though.
Good-bye for the present, I must go back to Lady D----. Remember, five
o'clock to-morrow."
"Au revoir, mademoiselle. I shall see you to-morrow."
Mademoiselle Laurentia had not left him many moments before the president
crossed the room to where he was standing, and said in a cordial tone:
"My dear Lacroix, I am happy to tell you that the prince has bought your
picture."
"'The Pilgrimage,' do you mean?"
"Yes, yes; you don't seem very delighted about it."
"Well," said Lacroix, "the fact is that I shall miss it. It has been part
of my life for the last four years. Oh! yes, I shall miss it."
"But, my dear Lacroix, do be practical. Just think of the price you will
get. Think, too, of the _éclat_. What a queer unworldly sort of creature
you are. Any other man would be fairly beside himself with joy at such
success as yours."
"Yes," replied Lacroix, wearily; "of course I know it is a great thing
for me. I appreciate it, indeed I do."
"You do not show your appreciation very enthusiastically," said the
president, as he moved off to speak to some other guests who were just
coming into the gallery.
Next day, early in the afternoon, Lacroix started for his long walk up
Highgate Hill, with M. Bois-le-Duc's letter safely in his pocket this
time. He was a good walker and used to outdoor exercise, and enjoyed the
prospect of the long tramp this bright summer day.
He did not hurry himself, for there was plenty of time before five
o'clock, and he stopped every few moments to examine some wayside plant,
and to listen with the ardor of a true lover of nature to the merry
voices of the thrush and blackbird singing a gladsome carol.
And he was often tempted by the fascinating beauty of the quiet
landscape, as he left the grimy smoke of London far behind him and
ascended into the pure fresh country, to take out his sketch-book and dot
down dainty little glimpses, thus laying up a store for future work.
But at length he reached number 17, The Grove, and the door was opened by
the trim little maid-servant, who replied, in answer to his inquiry--
"Yes, sir, Mademoiselle Laurentia is at home. Please walk up this way."