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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.
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