“Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.”
ECCLES. ix. 10.
FOR a considerable time after he had settled at Saintes, Palissy went on
surveying, painting, and designing, working industriously, and earning a
competent, though slender, income for the support of his household—an
increasing one—for he had now another baby to kiss, as well as a child
upon his arms. Conscious of his own strength, and dissatisfied with
labour which produced only food, he naturally felt eager to accomplish
something better than he had yet done.
There is often a long period, during which a man of genius is occupied in
gathering together materials, unconscious what use they shall eventually
serve; but the turning-point of his history comes, and suddenly, perhaps
through a passing and merely accidental circumstance, he receives an
impetus which directs him on to the fulfilment of his career. It was
thus in the case of Palissy. Some two years after the events related in
the preceding chapter, Bernard had received a little commission from one
of the great seigneurs who lived in the neighbourhood of Saintes. He was
a man of much taste in the fine arts, and had in his possession some
choice specimens of ancient Moorish pottery. After showing these to
Palissy (who had come to the château for directions), the nobleman, going
to the cabinet from which they had been taken, drew out an earthen cup,
turned and enamelled with so much beauty, that, at the sight of it, our
artist was struck dumb with admiration. He knew nothing of pottery, he
had no knowledge of clays, and he was aware of the fact that there was no
man in all France who could make enamels.
This last thought acted, perchance, as a stimulus to his ambition.
However that might be, the idea instantly took possession of his mind
that he would make enamels. They could be made, for here was a specimen.
To be the only man in the land who could produce these beautiful vases
would be not only to secure an abundant supply for the wants of his
family, but it would be a triumph of art—a riddle of deep interest to
solve, and an occupation after his heart.
That evening he called his wife to him, and told her what he had seen,
and how his heart was set upon learning to make enamels. The poor woman
saw by his beaming countenance that he was pleased; she knew that he
loved her and their children, and she said not a word to discourage him,
although he plainly told her, with that truthfulness which was as the
very breath of his nostrils, that his first experiments must be made at
great cost. “There will be the loss of my time from my wonted
occupation; besides that, I must purchase drugs and make me furnaces, and
all, at first, a clear outlay, without fruit. I shall have many
drawbacks, and it may be a weary while before I master this art. I shall
be as a man that gropes his way in the dark, for I have no knowledge of
clays, nor have I ever seen earth baked, nor do I know of what materials
enamels are composed.” His wife urged that he had better rest content
with diligence in his own calling, and on her pale face came a blush of
pleasure and pride as she looked up at him, who was already, in her
esteem, a perfect artist. But he heeded not her words, save that he
tenderly bade her be of good cheer. Poverty and pain would have mattered
little to him personally; and had he been free from household cares, he
would, in all likelihood, have wandered forth among the potters, and
learned all that could be gathered of their work from them. But he was
bound to home and its cares and duties, and so, alone, unaided, and
without sympathy, must he work. Nothing daunted, however, by these
drawbacks, his resolve was taken—to complete his invention, or perish in
the attempt.
[Picture: Palissy devoutly opened the sacred volume]
Before retiring to rest that night, Palissy, as his custom was, devoutly
opened the sacred volume; and turning to the thirty-fifth chapter of
Exodus, he read how God called by name Bezaleel, the son of Uri, and
filled him with the Spirit of God, in wisdom, in understanding, in
knowledge, and in all manner of workmanship, and to devise curious works,
in gold, in silver, in brass, and in cutting of stones, and in carving of
wood, in all manner of cunning work. “Then I reflected,” said he, “that
God had gifted me with some knowledge of drawing, and I took courage in
my heart, and besought him to give me wisdom and skill.”
Palissy lost no time in setting to work. He began by making a furnace
which he thought most likely to suit his purpose, and having bought a
quantity of earthen pots, and broken them into fragments, he covered
these with various chemical compounds which he had pounded and ground,
and which he proposed to melt at furnace heat. His hope was, that of all
these mixtures, some one or other might run over the pottery in such a
way as to afford him at least a hint towards the composition of white
enamel, which he had been told was the basis of all others. Alas! his
first experiment was but the beginning of an endless series of
disappointments and losses, while, for many long months and years he
wrought with fruitless labor. But we must not anticipate. Happily the
ardent spirit of our artist suffered him not easily to succumb under
difficulties; nay, it even seemed to gather new energy from the struggle,
as, with all the fire of love and all the strength of will, he, every
day, renewed his experiments, and blundered on with cheerful hope. It
has well been said, “Ideas become passions in the breasts of poets and
artists.”
Many months have now passed in this way; and the little family gathering
around Palissy’s humble hearth begin to show symptoms that all is not so
flourishing as when we first saw them. Lisette looks thin and worn, and
there is a shadow upon her brow. As she goes down the garden walk to
call her husband to his mid-day meal, you see her garments are poor and
scanty, and she has no longer the trim look of conscious comeliness about
her. By her side, and clinging to her gown, is a delicate creature,
whose pale face tells a sorrowful tale of childish suffering, and the
infant she is carrying looks sallow and feeble. The furnace and shed
where Palissy is at work are built at the end of the garden, as far as
possible from the house. Close by, is the road, and beyond it the fields
and waste lands; there was no sheltering wall or enclosure near, and when
the storm and winds of winter blew, nothing could be more bleak and
comfortless. Palissy has drawn a doleful picture of this scene of his
labors. “I was every night,” he says, “at the mercy of the rains and
winds, without help or companionship, except from the owls that screeched
on one side, and the dogs that howled upon the other; and oftentimes I
had nothing dry upon me, because of the rains that fell.” At the present
time, however, it is looking cozy and picturesque, for the season is
spring, and a bright sun is shining overhead. There is a glad sound,
too, proceeding from the shed, over which its owner has trained a
cluster-rose, whose tendrils have interwoven themselves among the reeds,
and are putting forth their blossoms. It is the voice of Palissy,
chanting in clear sonorous tones, the Psalm which Luther loved so well,
and which we sing in the tuneful strains of our unequalled psalmodist—
“God is the refuge of his saints,
When storms of sharp distress invade.”
And the little Nicole, who is busily occupied in mimic pottery-work at
the door of the shed, chimes in with his small voice, and beats the time
with his wooden spade. Lisette’s face brightened as she listened, and
with cheerful tones, she summoned Bernard indoors, and bade the little
boy lead his sister back.
Notwithstanding Palissy’s psalmody and the cheerful face he wore, matters
were far from satisfactory at this peculiar juncture. In fact, he had
just undergone a heavy disappointment, and was secretly making up his
mind to a step which it cost him a grievous heartache to have recourse
to. Seeing that all his experiments with his own furnace had proved
failures, he determined to adopt a new scheme, and send the compositions
to be tested in the kiln of some potter. For this purpose he bought a
large stock of crockery, which according to custom, he broke into small
fragments; three or four hundreds of which he covered with various
mixtures, and sent to a pottery some league and a half off, requesting
the workmen to bake this strange batch with their own vessels. They
consented readily to let the amateur potter try his experiments; but
alas! when the operation was complete, and the trial pieces were drawn
out, they proved absolutely worthless. Not the smallest appearance of
the longed-for enamel was to be seen on any of them. The cause of the
failure was a secret, at the time, to the grievously disappointed
Bernard, and he returned home heavily discouraged, for he knew that his
wife and children were deprived of many comforts they might have enjoyed,
had he continued steadily at his occupation of glass-working and
surveying. What was to be done? “Begin afresh.” And so, again he fell
to work, compounding and grinding, and sending more batches to the same
potters to be baked as before. This he had continued to do time after
time, “with great cost, loss of time, confusion, and sorrow.”
[Picture: . . the trial pieces were . . absolutely worthless]
At length a more than usually trying failure had occurred, and many
things combined to warn our artist that he must desist for a season and
procure some remunerative work. His home resources were completely
exhausted; while the home wants had greatly multiplied, and he could not
be blind to the sorrowful looks of the woman he loved, nor indifferent to
the necessities of his babes.
Three years had been spent about this work, and, for the present, he was
no wiser than when he began, and he resolved now to try his hand at the
old trades. His poor wife urged that food and medicine must be thought
of, and she lowered her voice as she added that the doctor had yet to be
paid for her confinement, and for physicking their lost darling, whom he
said he would soon cure, notwithstanding, she pined and languished like a
frost-nipped flower, that fades away and dies. Poor mother! the tears
trickled down her cheeks at the thought; and for all there were still
three hungry little mouths to feed, she could not be reconciled to the
loss of one of her treasures. But Palissy would not let her dwell upon
this sorrow; he wiped away the tears, and smilingly said, he had good
news for her. Yesterday, there had arrived in the town the commissioners
deputed by the king to establish the salt-tax in the district of
Saintonge; and it seems they had judged no man in the diocese more
competent than Bernard Palissy for the task of mapping the islands and
the countries surrounding all the salt marshes in that part of the world.
It was a profitable job, and would occupy him many months.
This was, indeed, glad tidings for Lisette; and that night she slept
sweetly, and dreamed of her girlhood; for when the heart is happy it suns
itself in the memories of early days. Her husband’s rest was broken and
perturbed, for it pained him deeply to give up the struggle which had
cost him so much, before he had justified his pertinacious efforts by
success.
Perhaps it was in reality advantageous to him, and tended to his eventual
success, that he was thus perforce constrained to taste an interval of
repose. When a man has been repeatedly foiled it is well to cease from
effort awhile, and to dismiss, if possible, the subject which has
occupied his thoughts too long and too unremittingly.
Revolving in his mind such considerations, Palissy determined wholly to
cease from his labours in pursuit of the discovery on which his heart was
set, and “to comport himself as if he were not desirous to dive any more
into the secrets of enamels.”