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Thus Fontainebleau, although it is truly but a pleasure-ground, and although,
in favourable weather, and in the more celebrated quarters, it literally buzzes
with the tourist, yet has some of the immunities and ht some of the repose of
ht forests. And the solitary, 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 ostrich, are content
with a solitude that meets the eye; and others, again, expand in fancy to the
very borders of their desert, and are irritably 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 ht
solitude: an excellent thing in itself, and a good whet for company.
Upon these grounds, there are some among us who claim to have lived longer and
more richly than their neighbours; when they lay asleep they claim they were
still active; and among the treasures of memory that all men review for their
amusement, these count in no second place the harvests of their dreams. There
is one of this kind whom I have in my eye, and whose case is perhaps unusual
enough to be described. He was from a child an ardent and uncomfortable
dreamer. When he had a touch of fever at night, and the room swelled and
shrank, and his clothes, hanging on a nail, now loomed up instant to the
bigness of a church, and now drew away into a horror of infinite distance and
infinite littleness, the poor soul was very well aware of what must follow, and
struggled hard against the approaches of that slumber which was the beginning
of sorrows.
III I was for some time a consistent Barbizonian; ET EGO 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 shutters of his modest house were closed; his
daughters were in mourning. The date of my first visit was thus an epoch in the
history of art: in a lesser way, it was an epoch in the history of the Latin
Quarter. The PETIT CENACLE was dead and buried; Murger and his crew of sponging
vagabonds were all at rest from their expedients; the tradition of their real
life was nearly lost; and the petrified legend of the VIE DE BOHEME had become
a sort of gospel, and still gave the cue to zealous 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 ht credit; they
suffered the seediest painter to depart, to take al
l his belongings, and to leave his bill unpaid; and if they sometimes lost, it
was by English and Americans alone. At the same time, the great influx 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 devoid by nature of the principle that we
call "Fair Play." The Frenchman marvelled at the scruples of his guest, and,
when that defender of innocence retired 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 eccentricity; a shrug expressed his judgment upon both.
