“Then I went down to the potter’s house, and, behold, he wrought a
work on the wheels. And the vessel that he made of clay was marred
in the hand of the potter.”—JER. xviii. 3, 4.
SHORTLY before the events recorded in the preceding chapter, there had
been no small excitement among Palissy’s poor neighbours and
acquaintance, with reference to his proceedings. Day after day little
knots of gossips might be seen, lounging about the neighbourhood of his
garden and work-shed, expressing in various ways, their surprise and
indignation at his conduct, and exclaiming, in no measured terms, against
his obstinate and mad folly. This indignation reached its height when,
one day, the report spread, far and wide, that the poor man was actually
insane, and had torn up the palings of his garden, and the planks of his
dwelling-house, and that his unhappy wife, half-crazed with his conduct,
had herself rushed out of the house accompanied by her children, and
taken refuge with a neighbour.
In order to account for all this, it is necessary to retrace our steps,
and relate in what manner our artist has been spending the two years that
have intervened since his marsh-surveying.
Undaunted by the failure of his early efforts, and relieved, for a time,
from anxiety on the score of domestic wants, Palissy, giving the money he
had received for the execution of his task into the hands of his wife,
resumed his “affection for pursuing in the track of the enamels.”
Two years of unremitting and zealous labour followed, productive of no
practical results, although there had once been a partial melting of some
of his compounds, which gave him sufficient encouragement to persist.
During those two long years, he tells us, he did nothing but come and go
between his dwelling and the adjacent glass-houses, where the furnaces
being much hotter than those of the potteries, were more likely to be
successful in melting his materials.
Was it any marvel if poverty and sorrow invaded his household; if his
wife grew moody and sad, and if the neighbours, pitying the hapless woman
and innocent children, pronounced hard judgment upon a man who consumed
his time in buying pots and breaking them, in grinding drugs and burning
them, and in going to and fro upon his bootless errand? Death, too, had
once and again entered his doors, bearing away the two sickly infants we
saw clinging to their mother, while in their place, two others had been
born, inheriting, alas! their malady. Of late, Lisette, full of gloomy
thoughts, had taken to complaining, and remonstrating with her husband.
Her temper had been soured by disappointment and trouble; and hope, so
long deferred, ceased to buoy up her spirit. She could not understand
the course Bernard was pursuing. She did not partake in his glowing
visions of future fame and prosperity, and the instinct of power and the
energy of will that nerved and inspired him were all unknown to and
unshared by her. Poor suffering woman! She felt as any other
common-sense wife and mother would have felt in her circumstances; and
bewailing his obstinate persistence in such profitless labour, she
embittered his home by her lamentations and reproaches.
In this strait Palissy began to give way: he faltered, and at length made
a compromise with his anxious helpmate. One more last trial he pleaded
for; and then—if it failed, he would abandon the search for ever! He
must have felt that the happiness as well as the fortune of his life,
depended on the cast. Rather, we learn from his own touching account of
what ensued, that he looked for counsel and help from above. In all his
ways did this good man acknowledge his heavenly Father’s hand, and seek
his blessing. What befell, in this crisis, he thus tells us: “God willed
that, when I had begun to lose my courage, and was gone for the last time
to a glass furnace, having a man with me carrying more than 300 kinds of
trial pieces, there was one among them which was melted within four hours
after it had been placed in the furnace, which turned out white and
polished, in a way that caused me to feel such joy as made me think I was
become a new creature.”
With winged feet he flew home, bearing his treasure, which he pronounced
“exceedingly beautiful,” and, almost beside himself with delight, he
rushed into the chamber, where his poor wife lay in her sick bed, and
holding up the shining white fragment exclaimed, “I have found it!”
Lisette caught the infection of his gladness, and hailed the first ray of
returning prosperity. Poor woman, she little knew how long she must wait
before she could warm herself in its sunshine.
[Picture: . . he exclaimed, “I have found it!”]
But Palissy was convinced that he had now discovered the full perfection
of the white enamel; and his delight was in proportion to all the toil
and struggle the discovery had cost him. No more any idea, now, of
giving over, and returning to his old calling. Illustrious results must
soon follow, he was sure, and from henceforth it was necessary he should
work privately, and construct for his own use a furnace like that of the
glass-workers. Already in imagination stretching out his hand to grasp
the prize, he eagerly betook himself to moulding vessels of clay, shaped
after his own designs, which, covered with the exquisite white enamel he
had discovered, he purposed to adorn with lovely paintings. He saw them
doubtless, in his mind’s eye, beautiful, as those he actually produced in
after years—those perfect master-pieces of porcelain in relief, and
dishes ornamented with figures, beasts, reptiles, insects, beetles, and
flowers: treasures of art, full of grace, beauty, and simplicity, which
were eagerly purchased by the rich seigneurs of that day, to adorn their
cabinets and beautify their châteaux, and which now sell for their weight
in gold.
But though his fancy saw them, as his taste, so exquisite and refined,
had already designed them, still it was with the rough clay his hands
were actually at work, and he had, unfortunately for his present need,
“never understood earths.”
Some seven or eight months more were expended in making these vessels,
and then he began to erect the furnace. With incredible difficulty and
labour—for he had none to assist him in the work, not even so much as to
draw water, and fetch bricks from the kiln—the indefatigable man wrought
till he had completed the furnace, and the preliminary baking of his
vessels. And then, instead of reposing after all this toil, by the space
of more than a month, he worked, night and day, grinding and compounding
the materials of which he had made the white enamel. At length his task
was completed, and the vessels, coated with the mixture, were arranged
within the furnace.
Look at him now!—he has kindled his furnace fire, and is feeding it
through its two mouths. He does not spare the fuel; he diligently throws
it in, all day; he suffers it not to slacken all night. Yet the enamel
does not melt. The sun rises, bright and glowing, and Nicole, now a
sturdy boy of eleven or twelve years old, brings his father a basin of
pottage for breakfast; a poor and scanty meal, ill-fitted to recruit his
over-taxed powers, but eagerly devoured by the hungry artisan, who pauses
for a few moments in order to swallow it. How pale and thin and haggard
he looks! What a strained expression does his countenance wear; but all
indomitable and calmly hopeful ’mid his toil!
“God bless thee, my child,” he says, as he returns the empty basin to the
boy; “learn well thy lesson to-day, and to-morrow, I hope, we may make
holiday, and ramble together through the fields as we once used to do.”
“Nay, father, and who will mind the furnace?” “I trust it will have done
its work. The enamel will surely melt soon.”
But the hours of that day passed on; and the dark night succeeded, and
still, amid the blaze and crackle of the furnace, Palissy worked on.
Another day dawns; and still he feeds his fire. Worn and weary, he
occasionally drops asleep for some minutes, but his ever wakeful spirit
rouses him almost instantly, and he throws in more wood, again. In vain.
Six days and six nights has he spent about the glowing furnace, each day
more anxious and laborious than the preceding—but the enamel has not
melted. At length, convinced that something is amiss, he ceases from his
task. He sits, with drooping head and lack-lustre eye, gazing on the
smouldering fires, which begin slowly to slacken ready to die away. What
will he do next? In few and heart-stirring words he tells us what:
“Seeing it was not possible to make the said enamel melt, I was like a
man in desperation; and although quite stupefied with labour, I
counselled to myself that in my mixture there might be some fault.
Therefore I began once more to pound and grind more materials, all the
time without letting my furnace cool; in this way I had double labour, to
pound, grind, and maintain the fire. I was also forced to go again, and
purchase pots, in order to prove the said compound, seeing that I had
lost all the vessels which I had made myself. And having covered the new
pieces with the said enamel, I put them into the furnace, keeping the
fire still at its height. But now occurred a new misfortune, which
caused me great mortification—namely, that the wood having failed me, I
was forced to burn the palings which maintained the boundaries of my
garden, which being burnt also, I was forced to burn the tables and the
flooring of my house, to cause the melting of the second composition. I
suffered an anguish that I cannot speak, for I was quite exhausted and
dried up by the heat of the furnace; it was more than a month since my
shirt had been dry upon me. Further to console me, I was the object of
mockery; even those from whom solace was due ran crying through the town
that I was burning my floors. In this way my credit was taken from me,
and I was regarded as a madman.”
How grievous those plaintive words—scarcely condemnatory—yet keenly
sensitive to desertion on the part of those who should have comforted him
in the time of his calamity! It was a scandal under which he pined away,
and with bowed head, slipped through the streets like a man put to shame.
No one gave him consolation in this extremity; on the contrary, men
jested at him, saying it was right and just that he who had left off
following his trade should die of hunger. Will he succumb to this new
trial? Hear the brave heart’s resolve—“All these things assailed my ears
when I passed through the street; but for all that there remained still
some hope which encouraged and sustained me. So, when I had dwelt with
my regrets a little, because there was no one who had pity upon me, I
said to my soul; ‘Wherefore art thou saddened, since thou hast found the
object of thy search? Labour now, and the defamers will live to be
ashamed.’”
For a few sad days only, Palissy “dwelt with his regrets.” But “a little
while” did he indulge his sorrow. Scarcely had his physical powers,
exhausted by long tension, regained their spring, than he was again in
pursuit of his darling object. Could he but find some friendly hand to
aid him a little, all would go well; but where was the good Samaritan to
be sought? Alas! he knew of none. Pondering sorrowfully over this
matter, he one evening chanced to pass by a small inn on the outskirts of
the town, and saw sitting on the bench, beside the door, two or three
labouring men who had just come from the fields. One of these was a
potter, whom Palissy knew to be a good workman. The thought immediately
came into his mind, could he but engage the services of this man for a
few months, it would be the very thing he wanted. At that instant the
host stepped out into the porch, and, seeing Bernard, addressed a few
friendly words to him. They sounded sweet to the thirsty soul that
craved for sympathy, and he gladly accepted the landlord’s offer of a
refreshing draught, and presently entered into chat with him. As they
conversed, it chanced that mention was made of the religious troubles
then so thickly gathering around their father-land. A chord of sympathy
was thus struck, to which their hearts responded with deep feeling. It
soon appeared that Hamelin was not unknown to the worthy innkeeper; he
had, indeed, found shelter of old, beneath his roof, when closely pressed
by the spies of Collardeau. In short, Palissy had found one like-minded
with himself; and mutual good will toward the new religion formed a bond
between himself and Victor. This man was the same whom we have already
seen in company with Bernard, on the eve of St. John, when they beheld
that cruel sight which made their hearts burn with righteous zeal.
Victor, the little deformed innkeeper, was a man of sterling worth and
rare courage, and he proved a steady friend and ally to Palissy.
Learning from him his present difficulties, he at once offered to give
the potter all his meals, and to lodge him for six months, putting the
cost down to the account of Bernard.
And thus was he started afresh, with new hope. He had made drawings of
the vessels he wanted to produce, and these he gave to the potter, as
models to work by, while he occupied himself about some medallions, which
he was commissioned to execute, and in this manner he gained a little
ready money on which to support himself and his family. As for the debts
he owed, the payment of them must be postponed till the completion of his
new batch, from which he confidently reckoned to reap nearly four hundred
livres.
The six months passed slowly by, and were followed by some two or three
more; during which Palissy wrought alone, at building an improved
furnace, and preparing fresh chemicals for the enamel. Of this latter
business, he says, “It was a labour so great as threatened to baffle all
my wits, had not the desire I felt to succeed in my enterprise made me do
things which I should have esteemed impossible.” Some idea of the
difficulties he encountered may be obtained when we learn that, after
having wearied himself several days in pounding and calcining his drugs,
he had to grind them in a hand-mill, which it usually required two strong
men to turn, and all this while his hand was bruised and cut in many
places with the labour of the furnace.
Those were eventful months during which Palissy thus toiled in the depths
of poverty and neglect. The fiery blaze that consumed the good brother
of Gimosac had awakened alarm in the hearts of not a few who inhabited
the ancient town of Saintes, and other and more fearful sights and sounds
were swift to follow. But these must be reserved for another chapter.