A GREAT ARTIST AND A GREAT HERO
Before the days of the Great War, there lived in Breton, France, an
artist whose beautiful pictures had caused people to think of him as
one of the greatest of French painters. His name was Jean Lemoidant,
and he loved to paint pictures of the quaint villages of Brittany where
lived the simpleminded fisher-folk who braved the dangers of the deep.
Jean Lemoidant’s first pictures were of fishermen mending their nets;
of little children romping in the sand; of peasants wending their way
to the churches they so loved; of anxious women waiting for the return
of the fishing boats, and sometimes of angry seas that in their fury
hurled themselves against the rocks. Jean Lemoidant loved the simple
people among whom he lived, and they in turn gazed in wonder at his
paintings and told each other that some day there would be a great
artist in France and his name would be Jean Lemoidant.
Then the artist was given a task which occupied him every day for two
whole years. In an old village hotel there were fine large panels on
the wall, and he was asked to paint a suitable design for the entire
wall, which was sixty feet long, thirty feet wide, and fifteen feet
high. So exquisite was the design that Jean Lemoidant conceived that
when it was completed admiring crowds came great distances to see it
and the fame of the artist spread to Paris. He was given the contract
to paint the interior of the magnificent municipal theatre at Rennes.
He had almost completed this important task when the Great War broke
out, and although he was thirty-seven years of age and could have
remained in the Home Defence Corps, he enlisted in one of the regiments
soon to go to the front, and before the war was many weeks old he was
in the trenches facing the Germans.
Jean Lemoidant proved himself as capable a soldier as he had been a
painter, and led his men in many daring engagements, where his courage
was put to the test. He was badly wounded at Charleroi, and in spite
of advice he refused to go to the hospital at the base. Later he was
wounded at the Marne, and a third time at Artois. At Artois his right
arm was rendered useless; he was wounded in the leg, and his knee was
smashed, and the joint was made stiff so that he walked in a halting
fashion.
In spite of these gruelling experiences he still refused to leave the
firing line and insisted on staying with his men and joining them in
the attack before Arras. In that attack he was struck by a bullet.
Afterwards he said that it seemed at the time as if his head had been
completely smashed. For forty-eight hours he lay unconscious, and when
he came to himself he lay among the dead and the dying, scarcely able
to move. He heard around him the groans of dying men. Even then his
great courage showed itself, for when he saw a Breton lad dying he
crawled to him and comforted him in his last moments.
When, at last, Jean Lemoidant was found, along with others he was taken
to a German hospital and placed among the serious cases. Then the
darkness came--that terrible darkness which put an end to his fondest
hopes. At first he did not know what was the matter with him. Anxiously
he asked the nurses: “Why does the night last so long? It seems as if
the morning will never come.” When the news was told him that he was
blind, he was staggered. “I had thought of death,” he said, “and even
thought I might be maimed for life, but I never thought of having to
live in the dark all my days.”
Then he showed that supreme courage which caused even the brutal
Germans to wonder and admire. He moved among his fellow prisoners and
partly to while away the time and partly in order to help them, he
began to give lectures on painting. Then a great hope came to him. His
eyes were put back into their place and he began to see a little--not
much more than a glimmer at first--but enough to make him radiant with
hope. Each day he told himself that his eyesight was just a little
better than the day before, then one day a terrible thing happened and
his hopes were dashed to the ground.
He was in the midst of a lecture when something seemed to snap, and
instantly every ray of light vanished. Then he knew that he was blind.
It was a terrible disappointment, but he did not stop speaking. He
continued his lecture. Those who were listening were aware that
something had happened although they did not know what it was. At the
close of the lecture they rushed forward, only to make the discovery
that Jean Lemoidant’s hopes were vain--he was totally blind.
Blind, lame, and with all his hopes of ever being a great artist now
completely gone, Jean Lemoidant faced the world again. When at the
conclusion of the war he turned his face towards his beloved France
he began to hope once more. He thought that the instant the train
passed on to French soil there might be a miracle and his sight would
be restored. He became greatly excited and asked the nurses not to
forget to tell him the instant that the border was passed. In one sense
there was no miracle when at last Jean Lemoidant entered France, but
in another way there was a miracle, for the courage and cheerfulness
of this brave man became almost more than human. No sooner did he get
settled down in his beloved France than he began to lecture on the
art he so much loved, that of painting. Soon he had large classes of
appreciative students to whom he lectured daily on the subject, and the
amazing knowledge and cheerfulness of this maimed and blinded soldier
aroused his hearers to reverence and enthusiasm. As they gazed into his
pale face with the sightless eyes, their hearts were strangely moved.
An English traveller tells of a visit he paid to Brittany after the
war, and of a quaint village festival he attended. Hundreds of peasants
moved around the village green clad in their spotless holiday attire.
Among the laughing maidens and jovial men he saw one man who seemed to
radiate sunshine wherever he went. Then he discovered that this prince
of fun-makers was the blinded artist--Jean Lemoidant.
For several years now he has been lecturing on art, and in 1919 he
visited the United States of America in order to have conferred upon
him a very great distinction, the Howland Prize. This prize is only
conferred upon such as have displayed extraordinary skill in some
branch of science. The condition reads that it can only be conferred
on “The citizen of any country in recognition of some achievement
of marked distinction in the field of literature, fine arts, or the
science of government.”
In years to come no doubt the Howland Prize will be conferred upon many
great men; deservedly distinguished for their great gifts as authors,
musicians, statesmen or soldiers, but one would feel safe in saying
that it is improbable that the great honour will ever be conferred upon
any braver man than Jean Lemoidant, who, although maimed and blinded,
just when he seemed to be nearing the goal of his ambition, faced the
world with a smile upon his lips and a song of hope and cheer in his
brave heart.