Boyhood 
 Stories 
 
 of 
 
 Famous Men 
 
 @ TITIAN ® CHOPIN ® 
 THORWALDSEN ® MURILLO 
 GIOTTO @ MENDELSSOHN 
 GUIDORENI # TINTORETTO 
 CLAUDE LORRAINE 
 ANDREA DEL SARTO 
 ^ MOZART ^ 
 STRADIVARIUS 
 * ® ^ €S 
 
 Katherine Dunlap Gather
 
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 WAV 1 8 1932 
 
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 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 OF FAMOUS MEN
 
 Some day he would
 
 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 OF FAMOUS MEN 
 
 TITIAN ^ CHOPIN ^ ANDRE DEL SARTO 
 THORWALDSEN >? MENDELSSOHN «? MOZART 
 MURILLO «? STRADIVARIUS yf GUIDO RENI 
 CLAUDE LORRAINE yf TINTORETTO 
 & ROSA BONHEUR "TOMBOY OF BORDEAUX" 
 
 BY 
 
 KATHERINE DUNLAP GATHER 
 
 ILLUSTRATEn 
 
 BY M. L. BOWER 
 
 Vc*.*« 
 
 NEW YORK 
 THE CENTURY CO. 
 
 87791
 
 Copyright, 1914, 1915, 1916, by 
 The Century Co 
 
 Published, September, 1916 
 
 Printed in U. S. A.
 
 
 C T 
 
 To 
 MY MOTHER
 
 HOW IT HAPPENED 
 
 Once upon a time there was a little girl 
 who journeyed very often into an enchanted 
 valley. In it were rainbow-colored mead- 
 ows, marvelous fruits and flowers and sing- 
 ing birds, and forests such as never grew in 
 any country out of dreamland. Fairies and 
 gnomes and sprites danced there by night, 
 and along the crystal rivers of that land 
 Merlin wrought his wizardry, bringing King 
 i Arthur and all his noble knights back to life 
 \ again. There Sindbad the Sailor walked 
 side by side with Robin Hood ; there Aladdin 
 carried his wonder lamp past the balcony 
 \ where Juliet waited for Romeo; and there 
 ^ the children of Hamelin town, following the 
 5:0 piper to the mountain gate, smiled at grave- 
 eyed Carl making pictures by the Stove of 
 Nuremberg. Richard Coeur de Lion and 
 the crusaders rode over its shining highways 
 as they moved toward Palestine, and several 
 times Puck broke right through the proces- 
 sion, whereupon the Lion Heart had to re- 
 
 vii 

 
 viii HOW IT HAPPENED 
 
 marshal his forces before they could go on. 
 The whole great company of story folk gath- 
 ered there, and the only way mortals could 
 enter was to become acquainted with some 
 member of the enchanted company who could 
 lead them in. Thus, through the books she 
 read and the tales she heard, the little girl 
 came to know many a hero at whose beckon- 
 ing the gates swung open, and she beheld 
 the glories beyond them. 
 
 But after a while she took no more jour- 
 neys into the valley, for although she met 
 many splendid book people, not one of them 
 had the power to take her back. Instead of 
 walking under spreading trees with the en- 
 chanted company, she had to stay in the 
 world without, and live in the memory of 
 beautiful days spent beyond the magic gates. 
 Always, however, things seem to come out 
 right, after all, for one morning between the 
 covers of a dingy book, she found just what 
 she had been seeking. In 'The Child of 
 Urbino," Ouida's lovely tribute to the great 
 Raphael, was one who could take her into 
 the rainbow country. The gates swung 
 wide, and she went in again with the painter.
 
 HOW IT HAPPENED ix 
 
 Years afterward, when she was grown, 
 she still remembered and loved 'The Child 
 of Urbino," partly because of its beauty, 
 partly because of all it had meant to her. It 
 had shown her the way into a wonderful 
 realm. It had caused her to realize that the 
 stories of great creators are just as fasci- 
 nating as those of Ali Baba, Sigurd the 
 Volsung, the troubadours who sang in Prov- 
 ence, or the crusaders who fought in Pales- 
 tine, and that by knowing them and their 
 works the gates of the enchanted valley 
 would never close to her. It taught her to 
 look for the stories underlying great pictures 
 and melodies; and, having found many, the 
 thought occurred to her that she ought to 
 share her treasures with boys and girls who 
 would enjoy them. 
 
 So one day, under the magnolias of a Cali- 
 fornia garden, she went to work, and out of 
 that morning's record grew the story, 'The 
 Whittler of Cremona." A kindly editor 
 liked it and asked for another, and thus 
 "Boyhood Stories of Famous Men" came to 
 be. 
 
 The facts that make up the tales have been
 
 X HOW IT HAPPENED 
 
 gathered through many years and in many 
 places, some from libraries in great Ameri- 
 can cities and universities, some from dusty 
 manuscripts in museums and private collec- 
 tions across the sea, some from the lips of 
 peasants who repeated legends handed down 
 from the olden time. Most of them have al- 
 ready appeared in the St. Nicholas maga- 
 zine; and now, through the pages of the 
 book they come to you. May they lead you 
 into the fascinating world of melody and 
 color ; may they open the magic gates for you 
 just as that other story once opened them for 
 me, into that rainbow country where delights 
 are never ending. 
 
 Katherine Dunlap Gather.
 
 TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I THE BOY OF CADORE 3 
 
 II WHEN MOZART RACED WITH MARIE ANTOI- 
 NETTE 23 
 
 III THE TOMBOY FROM BORDEAUX 43 
 
 IV JACOPO, THE LITTLE DYER 65 
 
 V BARTOLOME'S VELVET HAT 85 
 
 VI THE WHITTLER OF CREMONA lOI 
 
 VII A BIT O' PINK VERBENA II7 
 
 VIII A SHEPHERD LAD OF TUSCANY 
 
 139 
 
 IX THE BORDER WONDERFUL I5g 
 
 X THE WONDER-CHILD OF WARSAW 175 
 
 XI THE LIGHT OF GUIDO'S LAMP 
 
 197 
 
 XII OLD JAN'S TWILIGHT TALE 223 
 
 XIII WHEN THE PRINCESS PASSED 241 
 
 XIV THE JOYOUS VAGABOND 259
 
 i
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Some day he would bring honor to his name 
 and glory to Poland Frontispiece 
 
 They had spent the afternoon blossom hunting . . 5 
 
 A group of folk moved toward the building where 
 
 the lad waited i6 
 
 Away they went, Marie's yellow curls flying ... 26 
 
 Wolfgang thought only of the music 35 
 
 The grandfather stood by the stone gate calling good- 
 by as they drove away 45 
 
 The room that was her workshop came to be a sort 
 of Noah's Ark 06 
 
 Jacopo began his work with the Master 73 
 
 Whenever he passed a gaudily skirted market-girl, he 
 saluted with the air of a grandee 87 
 
 Memories of the moor 93 
 
 Day after day he toiled in the workshop 107 
 
 Then Giotto went to the city 150 
 
 "Upon the word of an honest Florentine it is the 
 
 work of a lad" 167 
 
 He scarcely breathed, for Catalani was singing ... 189 
 "And you, Bertel Thorwaldsen, what do you want?" . 227 
 Wonderful, roseate days began 273
 
 THE BOY OF CADORE
 
 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 OF FAMOUS MEN 
 
 I 
 
 THE BOY OF CADORE 
 
 THE boy's eyes were dark as the hearts 
 of the daisies he carried, and they 
 gazed wistfully after the horseman who was 
 dashing along the white highway. 
 
 "Think of it, Catarina!" he exclaimed. 
 "He rides to the wonderful city." 
 
 Catarina looked at her brother as if she 
 did not understand. There were many 
 towns along the road that ribboned away to 
 the south, each of which seemed large in- 
 deed to the mountain girl, yet she had never 
 thought of them as wonderful. 
 
 "The wonderful city?" she repeated. 
 "Where is that, Tiziano?" 
 
 "Why, don't you know?" he asked in sur- 
 
 3
 
 4 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 prise. "As if it could be other than Venice, 
 the great city of St. Mark!" 
 
 But the name did not thrill black-eyed 
 Catarina. Older than her brother, and far 
 less of a dreamer, she had heard that dread- 
 ful things happened in the city, and that 
 sometimes people went hungry there. In the 
 mountains there was food enough and to 
 spare, and though no one was rich and lived 
 in palaces with tapestried walls and gorgeous 
 furnishings, neither were there any very 
 poor. So she shrugged her shoulders and 
 replied: ''Oh, Venice! I don't know why 
 you call that wonderful. Graziano, the 
 weaver, has been there many times, and he 
 thinks it not half as nice as our own Cadore. 
 There are no mountains there, nor meadows 
 where wild flowers grow. Are you tired of 
 the Dolomites, Tiziano?" 
 
 "Ah, no!" came the earnest reply. "But 
 the artists live in the city, and if I could go 
 there, I might study with BeUini, and paint 
 some of the things that are in my heart." 
 
 Catarina was just a practical village girl, 
 who thought that if one had enough to eat 
 and wear, he ought to be satisfied. So her
 
 They had spent the afternoon blossom hunting
 
 THE BOY OF CADORE 7 
 
 voice was chiding and a bit impatient as she 
 answered. 
 
 *'You talk so much about painting, and 
 seeing things no one else sees, that the vil- 
 lagers say unless you get over your dream- 
 ing ways, you will grow up to be of no ac- 
 count. That is why Father thinks of ap- 
 prenticing you to Luigi, the cobbler. For he 
 can teach you his trade, which would be far 
 better than always thinking about Venice. 
 For, Tiziano, there are other things in the 
 world beside painting." 
 
 Tiziano shook his head, but did not reply. 
 Nothing else mattered half so much to him, 
 and many a night, when the rest of the fam- 
 ily were sleeping, he lay in his bed wonder- 
 ing how he could persuade his father to let 
 him go away to study. It was well known 
 that he spent many hours drawing on boards, 
 stones, and anything he could find, and that 
 the village priest, the good padrone, had 
 praised his work. But little was thought of 
 that. Other youths of Cadore had sketched 
 as well and amounted to nothing. So why 
 should he be sent to the city just because he 
 could copy a mountain or a bit of woodland ?
 
 8 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 For he could not make them understand that 
 color was what seemed to burn in his soul, 
 because that he could not express with char- 
 coal. 
 
 A whistle came from down the road, and 
 Catarina saw her brother Francesco beckon- 
 ing them to hurry. 
 
 "They must be ready to begin weaving the 
 garlands !" she exclaimed. 
 
 So they broke into a run toward the village 
 inn. 
 
 It was the glowing, fragrant June time of 
 the Italian highlands, when the hillsides and 
 meadows of the fertile Dolomite valleys were 
 masses of many colored bloom, and next day 
 the Festival of Flowers was to take place. 
 They had spent the afternoon blossom hunt- 
 ing, and now, when sunset was crimsoning 
 the peaks, were homeward bound with their 
 spoils, to aid in preparing for the revelry. 
 
 In a few minutes, they joined the other 
 young people at the inn, and began making 
 garlands, and planning games and frolics as 
 they worked. Pieve di Cadore was very far 
 from the world in those days of little travel, 
 and when the time of a festival was at hand,
 
 THE BOY OF CADORE 9 
 
 the villagers were as light-hearted as the gay- 
 Venetians at carnival time. Songs and 
 merry jests went round, and bits of gossip 
 were told to eager listeners. 
 
 "Have you heard that Salvator, the 
 miller's son, is going to Venice to study the 
 art of carving?" asked a girl whose tongue 
 kept pace with her hands. ''Since his fa- 
 ther has become rich, he has given up the 
 idea of having him follow his own trade, and 
 thinks it more elegant to become a sculptor. 
 At first, Salvator did n't fancy it, but w^hen 
 told that an artist may get to be the favorite 
 of a great lord or even of the doge himself, 
 he was much pleased. Won't it be splendid 
 if he becomes a noted man and lives in a fine 
 house? Then we can say, 'Why, he is one 
 of our Cadorini !' " 
 
 Sebastiano, whose uncle was a lawyer's 
 clerk in Bergamo, and who knew more of 
 city ways than the other village youths, re- 
 marked : 'T did n't know he had the love of 
 carving. It takes something beside a rich 
 father to make an artist." 
 
 The talkative girl tossed her head. 
 
 *That may be!" she retorted. ''But no
 
 10 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 money, no masters ; and without them, pray, 
 how can one do anything?" 
 
 "So I tell Tiziano when he talks about 
 going to the city to study painting," Catarina 
 broke in. "Father is not rich, and it would 
 be better for him to think about learning 
 cobbling with Luigi." 
 
 Peals of laughter followed the announce- 
 ment, and some one called out, "Tiziano! 
 Why, he has n't had even a drawing-master. 
 He builds the tower of his castle before he 
 makes the foundation." 
 
 Tiziano's face turned very red. He had 
 no teacher, it was true. But he believed he 
 could prove he was worth one if given a 
 chance. 
 
 "Oh, if I only had some paints!" he 
 thought. "Maybe they would stop calling 
 me a dreamer, for I am sure I could make a 
 picture, and then perhaps I could go." 
 
 But pigments were rare and costly, and 
 though his father was a well-to-do moun- 
 taineer, he had no gold to waste in buying 
 colors for a lad who had never been taught 
 to use them, and of course would spoil them. 
 
 The next morning, the boy noticed stains
 
 THE BOY OF CADORE ii 
 
 on the stone walk made by flowers crushed 
 there the day before. They were bright 
 and fresh as if painted, and it put an idea 
 into his head. He did not speak of it, how- 
 ever, although it was on his mind so much 
 that, when the gaily decked villagers danced 
 on the green, he did not see them, but, as 
 soon as a chance came, he crept from the 
 revelers and went out into the meadows. 
 
 Catarina saw him go, and wondered what 
 took him from the merriment. Her curi- 
 osity was greater than her desire for fun, 
 so she followed, and overtook him just 
 as he reached a hillside aglow with blos- 
 soms. 
 
 "What are you doing, Tiziano?" she 
 called. 
 
 The boy looked up as if doubtful whether 
 to tell or not. But he knew his sister loved 
 him even though she did criticize his dream- 
 ing, and that she would keep his secret. 
 
 *T am going to paint a picture," he an- 
 swered. 
 
 For a minute she stood and stared. Then, 
 thinking he was teasing, she retorted: ''Of 
 course you are, without any paints !"
 
 12 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 But his earnest face told he was not joking. 
 
 "I shall use blossoms," he continued, with 
 a wonderful light in his eyes. *'See, all the 
 colors are here, and I have found that they 
 will stain. I saw where they did it on the 
 stone walk." 
 
 Catarina was not a dreamer like her 
 brother, and never saw pictures where 
 others found only a bit of color, but she be- 
 lieved that what he proposed to do was not 
 impossible, for she too had noticed the stains 
 on the stone. And she began to think that 
 he must be a very bright lad, for no ordinary 
 one would have thought of it, and that per- 
 haps his wanting to go to Venice was not a 
 wild idea after all. If it was a splendid 
 thing for Salvator, the miller's son, to be- 
 come a sculptor, would it not be more splen- 
 did for Tiziano to paint pictures, and might 
 not Cadore be proud of him too? She had 
 heard the padrone say that no undertaking 
 that fills the heart is impossible to one who 
 has patience and courage and persistence, 
 and that help always comes to those who try 
 to help themselves. So she decided to help 
 Tiziano, even though it was only in the keep-
 
 THE BOY OF CADORE 13 
 
 ing of his secret and the gathering of mate- 
 rials for the work. 
 
 So into the fragrant patches they went 
 and began collecting blossoms of every hue 
 — reds, pinks, blues, and purples such as sun- 
 set painted on the mountains, and warm yel- 
 lows and lavenders that the boy saw in the 
 pictures of his fancy. Then they hurried to 
 an old stone house that stood on land owned 
 by their father. It was a vacant house, sel- 
 dom visited by the family, and never by the 
 villagers, and there, where he would be safe 
 from molestation, he was to paint the picture 
 that they hoped would be the means of taking 
 him to Venice. 
 
 Catarina wanted to stay and watch the 
 work, but Tiziano objected. 
 
 "I don't want even you to see it until it is 
 finished, because at first it will not seem like 
 a picture." 
 
 So she went away and left him outlining 
 with a bit of charcoal on the wall. 
 
 For many days afterward, whenever he 
 could steal away without being noticed, he 
 worked with his flower paints. Catarina 
 went over the meadows on feet that seemed
 
 14 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 to be winged, always watching that none of 
 the villagers saw her put the blossoms in at 
 the window near which her brother worked. 
 So, while each petal made only a tiny stain, 
 and the boy painted with the rapidity of one 
 inspired, he not once needed to stop for ma- 
 terials. 
 
 Little by little the picture grew beneath 
 the magic of his touch, and he and Catarina 
 kept the secret well. Only the flocks pas- 
 turing on the fragrant uplands went near 
 the deserted house, so no one knew that a 
 boy was at work there who was destined to 
 win glory for Italy. Little did the villagers 
 dream, as Catarina skipped over the mead- 
 ows, that the blossoms she gathered were 
 being put to an immortal use. 
 
 One evening, when the sun was dipping 
 behind the peaks and the merry voices of 
 shepherds homeward bound with their flocks 
 sounded down from the heights, Tiziano 
 stepped to the door of the house and called 
 to his sister outside. 
 
 "It is finished, Catarina, and is the very 
 best that I can do !" 
 
 She went dancing in, filled with joy that
 
 o 
 bo 
 
 <
 
 THE BOY OF C ADORE 17 
 
 the task was done; but when she stood in 
 front of the picture, the merriment went out 
 of her face, and she spoke in tones of rever- 
 ence : 
 
 "Oh, Tiziano, a madonna !" 
 
 "Yes," he agreed. "A madonna and child, 
 with a boy Hke me offering a gift. It is what 
 was in my heart, Catarina." 
 
 For some minutes she stood there forget- 
 ting everything else in the beauty of the 
 fresco. Then, thinking of what it would 
 mean to her brother when the villagers knew 
 he had done such a wonderful thing, she 
 started out to spread the news. 
 
 "Come and see!" she called to Luigi, the 
 cobbler, as she hurried past the door where 
 he was sorting his leather. "Tiziano has 
 painted a madonna on the walls of the old 
 stone house." 
 
 Word travels fast when it goes by the 
 tongues of villagers, and soon a group of 
 folk moved toward the building where the 
 lad waited. His father, coming down from 
 a day's hunting in the mountains, saw them 
 go, and followed, wondering what was the 
 matter. But by the time he reached the
 
 i8 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 place, such a crowd had gathered that he 
 could not see the fresco. 
 
 Murmurs of "How did he do it !" "Where 
 did he get his paints?" rose on all sides, and 
 every one was so excited that the father 
 could not find out why they were there. 
 Then he heard Tiziano's voice: 'T did it 
 with flowers from the hillsides. Catarina 
 gathered them while I worked." 
 
 Exclamations of amazement followed, and 
 the village priest, the good padrone, spoke 
 reverently: "With the juices of flowers! 
 II Divino Tiziano!" 
 
 Antonio Vecelli looked about him as if 
 dazed, for he could not believe what he 
 heard. 
 
 "Am I mad," he asked a villager who was 
 standing close by, "or did the padrone call 
 my Tiziano 'the divine' ?" 
 
 "No," came the answer. "You are not 
 mad." 
 
 And when they told him the story, and the 
 crowd stepped back that he might see, he, 
 too, thought it a wonderful thing. 
 
 Whether or not Salvator, the miller's son, 
 went to the city to study sculpture, no one
 
 THE BOY OF CADORE 19 
 
 knows. But Tiziano did go, and the boy 
 of Cadore became the marvel of Venice. 
 There, guided by the master hand of BelHni, 
 he began plying the brushes that were busy 
 for almost eighty years, painting pictures 
 whose glorious coloring has never been 
 equaled, and proving to the mountain folk 
 that it is n't bad, after all, to be a dreamer, 
 for dreams combined with works do marvel- 
 ous things. 
 
 That was back in the olden days, before 
 Columbus sailed westward. But if the 
 father, who thought he had gone mad when 
 the village priest spoke his boy's name as 
 reverently as he would a saint's, could come 
 again to the valley of flowers in the Italian 
 highlands, he would hear the selfsame words 
 that were used that twilight time in speaking 
 of his lad. 
 
 ''Ecco !" the villagers say, as they point to 
 a noble statue that looks out toward the 
 meadows in which Catarina gathered blos- 
 soms for her brother, "II Divino Tiziano. — 
 See, the divine Titian !" 
 
 And by that name the world knows him to 
 this very day.
 
 WHEN MOZART RACED WITH 
 MARIE ANTOINETTE
 
 II 
 
 WHEN MOZART RACED WITH MARIE 
 ANTOINETTE 
 
 HE was the child of a poor musician, and 
 she was an Austrian archduchess, 
 yet they played as happily in the stately old 
 garden as if there were no such thing in the 
 world as high or low degree. The fountains 
 around the grotto plashed and murmured, 
 their falling waters meeting below the ter- 
 races in a stream that went singing away 
 into the pines beyond ; while from a pond half 
 hidden in a riot of reeds and rushes, a 
 speckled trout or silver-striped bass leaped 
 up into the sunlight. 
 
 Wolfgang felt as if he had come to para- 
 dise, and it was not strange. The only gar- 
 den in which he had ever played was the one 
 at his home in Salzburg, where there was 
 just a plot of grass and gnarled oak-tree, 
 with a clump of yellow jasmine dipping over 
 
 23
 
 24 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 the old stone wall. A poor little garden, and 
 suffering sometimes for the care his father 
 and mother were both too busy to give it, 
 while the great park at Schonbrunn, with its 
 myriad singing-birds and acres and acres of 
 grove and lawn, was the loveliest spot in all 
 of lovely Austria. 
 
 "See!" he exclaimed, pointing to where a 
 fountain threw out a veil of iridescent spray. 
 "There is a rainbow there, just like the one 
 we see in the sky after a shower." 
 
 Marie Antoinette nodded. To her the 
 gleaming colors in the spray were an every- 
 day sight. 
 
 "Of course," she replied; "there is always 
 a rainbow where a fountain plays. It is 
 great fun to run through the spray. Come, 
 I '11 beat you to the aspen-tree yonder." 
 
 And away they went, Marie's yellow curls 
 flying, and merriment dancing in her wide, 
 blue eyes. For a minute, Wolfgang kept 
 even with her. But he was younger and less 
 accustomed to exercise, for while the royal 
 child spent the entire summer romping in the 
 open, he sat at piano or harp practising for 
 concerts that were a large source of the f am-
 
 Away they went, Alarie's yellow curls tlying
 
 WHEN MOZART RACED 27 
 
 ily income. His father was conductor of 
 the court orchestra at Salzburg, and orches- 
 tra directors were paid Httle in those days, so 
 Wolfgang and his sister Marianne, both of 
 whom played wonderfully well, gave exhibi- 
 tions of their skill, sometimes making as 
 much on one of these occasions as did the 
 elder Mozart in a month. But it meant 
 many hours of practising, and bodies weaker 
 than those of children who were free to romp 
 and run. So Wolfgang began to fall be- 
 hind, and Marie reached the goal several 
 yards ahead of him. 
 
 "Oh!" she cried merrily. "I beat you, 
 Wolfgang Mozart ! I beat you, and I am a 
 girl!" 
 
 Wolfgang bit his lip. It was bad enough 
 to be vanquished by a girl without being 
 taunted about it, and he felt like running 
 away and hiding. But it was only for a 
 minute. Then he realized that Marie had 
 not meant to hurt him, for he knew her kind 
 heart, and had not forgotten that, a few 
 nights before, when he slipped and fell on the 
 polished floor of the palace, instead of laugh- 
 ing with the others, she ran to help him up.
 
 28 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 So what did it matter if she did boast about 
 winning? She was big-hearted, and the 
 pleasantest playmate he had ever had. 
 
 "Yes, Your Highness, you beat me at run- 
 ning," he answered, "but there is one kind 
 of race in which you cannot." 
 
 Marie was alert with interest. 
 
 ''What is it?" she asked. 
 
 ''On the harp. You may play and I will 
 play, and we will ask the Countess of Brand- 
 weiss who does best." 
 
 The little duchess clapped her hands. She 
 was a fun-loving child, and always ready for 
 a new form of sport. 
 
 "It will be splendid!" she cried. "And if 
 you win, you may have my silver cross. But 
 we must wait until to-morrow, for Mother 
 will be out from Vienna then, and she will be 
 a better judge than the Brandweiss. Let us 
 go and practise now, so each one can do his 
 best." 
 
 "But, Your Highness," came a voice from 
 among the trees, "do not forget that you 
 are the daughter of an empress." 
 
 It was the Countess of Brandweiss who 
 spoke, and Marie Antoinette shrugged her
 
 WHEN MOZART RACED 29 
 
 shoulders, for she knew very well what her 
 governess meant. 
 
 Wolfgang was a boy of no rank, and but 
 for the fact that Maria Theresa was a tender 
 mother as well as a great empress, would not 
 have been at Schonbrunn. But mothers 
 think of the happiness of their children, and 
 sometimes royal ones allow what queens 
 alone would not. 
 
 So it happened that, when the Mozart chil- 
 dren, who were on a concert tour with their 
 father, played before the court at Vienna, 
 and Marie Antoinette took a great fancy to 
 the delicate-faced boy, the empress asked the 
 musician to let his son spend a few days at 
 Schonbrunn as the playmate of her daughter. 
 It was an unusual honor for a lad of the peo- 
 ple, and the Countess of Brandweiss was not 
 at all sure that it was wise. That is why she 
 objected to the contest. It seemed like put- 
 ting them on an equality. But Marie An- 
 toinette was too impulsive and kind to think 
 much about such things, and reasoned that 
 her mother intended them to play as they 
 wished, or she would not have invited Wolf- 
 gang to Schonbrunn.
 
 30 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 So they went toward the palace in high 
 glee, the lad very sure of winning, and Marie 
 almost as sure, for she had had music lessons 
 ever since her fingers were strong enough to 
 strum the strings, and one of the things she 
 could do exceedingly well was to play on the 
 harp. So both went to their practising, and 
 by the time that was done, Marie had a 
 French lesson with her governess, and Wolf- 
 gang spent the remainder of the afternoon in 
 the park alone. 
 
 The next morning, every one about the 
 palace was excited. The empress was com- 
 ing early from Vienna, and her apartments 
 always had to be decorated with flowers be- 
 fore her arrival. Marie and Wolfgang flew 
 in and out among the workers, being really 
 very much in the way, yet imagining they 
 were helping. The young duchess was radi- 
 antly happy, and danced and sang. Maria 
 Theresa was one of the world's greatest 
 rulers, and affairs of state kept her so busy 
 that she saw very little of her children, 
 especially during the summer, when they 
 were at Schonbrunn, away from the heat and 
 dust of the city. Throughout that time, she
 
 WHEN MOZART RACED 31 
 
 visited them only once a week, and by Marie 
 Antoinette, who thought her mother the 
 lovehest woman in the world, the rare but 
 joyous occasions upon which they were to- 
 gether were delightfully anticipated and joy- 
 ously remembered. So it was not strange 
 that she wanted a hand in beautifying the 
 palace for the reception of its loved mistress. 
 
 A trumpet call from the warder at the 
 outer gate announced the arrival of the em- 
 press, and the Countess of Brandweiss led 
 Marie and her sister, the Archduchess Caro- 
 line, into the great hall to pay tribute to the 
 royal mother. Wolfgang stayed behind 
 with the attendants, for the strict etiquette 
 of the Austrian court did not permit him to 
 be present on such an occasion. He watched 
 Maria Theresa embrace her daughters as 
 lovingly as any mother who had never worn 
 a crown, and thought, with Marie Antoi- 
 nette, that she was the most beautiful woman 
 in the world. She was so big, and fair, and 
 splendidly handsome, and the mother-love 
 gleamed tenderly in her clear, blue eyes. 
 
 After the greetings were over, she moved 
 toward her apartments, and, seeing Wolf-
 
 32 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 gang by the way, stopped and kissed him. 
 Then all followed her to her reception-room, 
 and Marie told of the race. 
 
 "But Wolfgang Mozart says he can beat 
 me on the harp," she continued, "so we are 
 going to find out. Your Majesty and Caro- 
 line and the Brandweiss shall be judges." 
 
 Maria Theresa smiled. 
 
 "It must be soon, then," she said, "for at 
 eleven Baron Kaunitz comes to talk over 
 some important matters." 
 
 "Oh!" exclaimed Marie, petulantly; "it is 
 always Kaunitz who breaks in on our good 
 times ! I wish he would go so far away that 
 it would take him a year to get back." 
 
 For a minute, Maria Theresa looked in 
 amazement at her daughter. Then she 
 spoke reprovingly, but gently : 
 
 "My child, Baron Kaunitz is Austria's 
 great prime minister, and must be spoken of 
 with respect by the daughter of Austria's 
 empress." 
 
 The little duchess hung her head. She 
 was not rude at heart, but just self-willed, 
 and fond of having things go to suit her. 
 
 "I am sorry, Mother!" she cried, as she
 
 WHEN MOZART RACED 33 
 
 flung her arms around the empress's neck. 
 "I know he is good and great, but why does 
 he take you from me so often ?" 
 
 ''Because pubhc affairs demand it," the 
 mother said, as she stroked the sunny curls, 
 ''and not because he is unkind. You must 
 not fret about it, for princesses must con- 
 sider many things besides their own desires. 
 Let us be happy now, and not waste time 
 with regrets. We will go to the hill above 
 here — my favorite spot of all Schonbrunn. 
 Then we shall see who plays best. Brand- 
 weiss, order the harp to be taken out, please." 
 
 The governess left the room to carry out 
 her instructions, and Maria Theresa and the 
 children went into the park. The wealth of 
 flowers threw out mingled perfumes, and as 
 they strolled along the shaded walks, among 
 rare trees and by plashing fountains and stat- 
 ues, every one of which was the triumph of 
 some great artist, Maria Theresa laughed 
 and jested, stopping now to pick a flower or 
 to glance over the housetops of Vienna to the 
 Danube and the hills of the Wienerwald. 
 
 It was good to be free from public aft'airs 
 for an hour — free, just like any ordinary
 
 34 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 mother, to stroll with her children and talk 
 about books, and games, and pets, instead of 
 puzzling over treaties with Frederick the 
 Great, and questions of international friend- 
 ship. And, as Wolfgang watched her stoop 
 to look at a beetle or to crown Marie An- 
 toinette with a daisy chain or laurel garland, 
 he could hardly believe that this laughing 
 woman was the stately ruler who presided 
 over the destinies of the great Austrian land. 
 
 They lingered awhile at the zoological gar- 
 den, and then went on past the labyrinth and 
 the Neptune fountain to the eminence where 
 now stands the Gloriette. A pretty rustic 
 lodge crowned it in those days, and Maria 
 Theresa loved the spot and spent many hours 
 there. 
 
 Johann Michael, one of the house serv- 
 ants, arrived just as they did, and set the 
 harp in its place. Then the Brandweiss 
 came, and the empress gave the word for the 
 contest to begin. 
 
 ''You play, Maria Antoinetta," she said 
 using the affectionate German name by 
 which the little archduchess was called until 
 negotiations were under way for her French
 
 WHEN MOZART RACED 37 
 
 marriage. For no matter how gracious the 
 mother might be to the musician's child, the 
 Empress of Austria must observe the rules 
 of court etiquette, one of which was that 
 princesses must always take precedence over 
 those of lower rank. 
 
 The girl began, and wonderfully well she 
 played. No one knew it better than Wolf- 
 gang, and as her white fingers danced along 
 the strings, he listened in real admiration, 
 while Maria Theresa thought with pride that 
 few of her age could do as well. When she 
 finished, the judges and the boy who was her 
 competitor broke into genuine applause, and 
 the Brandweiss smiled with gratification at 
 her charge, very sure that, although Wolf- 
 gang had often played in public, he could not 
 do as well. The countess had very decided 
 opinions about things, and was particularly 
 strong in her belief that low-born children 
 ought not to be allowed to vie with princesses 
 of the blood royal. 
 
 "Now, Master Mozart," the Archduchess 
 Caroline said, "you take the harp, and see if 
 you can do better.'' 
 
 Wolfgang moved to the instrument and 
 
 8771)1
 
 38 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 swept his fingers across the strings. First 
 came a few broken chords, and then an ex- 
 quisite strain of melody, a folk-song of old 
 Austria still to be heard at eventide in the 
 fields around Salzburg, as the peasants come 
 in from their toiling. Caroline sat with 
 clasped hands and gleaming eyes. She had 
 listened to that ballad many times, but never 
 had it seemed so beautiful. The empress, 
 very still, looked far out across the sweep of 
 hill and plain that skirted the river, her face 
 wonderfully tender as she listened to the 
 gifted child. Even the punctilious countess 
 forgot her prejudices, and looked at the boy 
 with misty eyes, for the melody took her back 
 to the far-off time when as a child on an old 
 estate at Salzburg she had often sat with her 
 mother and listened to peasant songs sweet- 
 ening the twilight. Again she saw the flow- 
 ers and trees of the well-remembered park, 
 the hunting lodge and the copse wood just be- 
 yond, and heard the voice of her father, who 
 had slept for years among Austria's honored 
 dead. 
 
 But Wolfgang thought only of the music, 
 and played as seldom a child has played,
 
 WHEN MOZART RACED 39 
 
 something stronger and finer than his will 
 guiding his sensitive fingers along the 
 strings. 
 
 The melody died away, and he turned to 
 his listeners with a question in his eyes. He 
 was so eager to win, yet he knew the young 
 archduchess had done remarkably well. 
 
 But Marie Antoinette did not wait for the 
 word of the judges. She ran to him in her 
 big-hearted, impulsive way, and pinned the 
 cross on his coat. 
 
 *'You have beaten me," she said, "and the 
 cross is yours ! You have won it, Wolfgang, 
 for I cannot play half as well as that!" 
 
 An attendant appeared just then and 
 saluted the empress. 
 
 "Your Majesty," he announced, "his ex- 
 cellency, the Baron Kaunitz awaits your 
 commands at the palace." 
 
 But Maria Theresa, mighty ruler of the 
 Austrian land, seemed not to hear. She had 
 forgotten all about affairs of state, and sat 
 as one in a dream, charmed by the magical 
 music of Mozart, as men and women are still 
 charmed by it to-day.
 
 THE TOMBOY FROM BORDEAUX
 
 Ill 
 
 THE TOMBOY FROM BORDEAUX 
 
 YOU think you have a daughter, my So- 
 phia, but you are mistaken, for Rosalie 
 is not a girl. She is just a boy in petti- 
 coats !" 
 
 Madame Bonheur looked up from her 
 spinning with a smile that was tinged with 
 sadness, for she knew her father spoke the 
 truth, and it grieved her. But a musical 
 laugh floated into the room just then, and her 
 eyes turned lovingly toward the girl who was 
 romping under the chestnut-trees. 
 
 "It seems that way," she replied, ''and I 
 often wish she were different. But she has 
 a clear mind and a good heart, and I think 
 will come out all right." 
 
 "Aye, aye, I hope so," the old man said, as 
 he walked to the door and looked out at the 
 sky against whose midsummer blue were 
 painted the masts of a hundred ships. The 
 
 43
 
 44 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 Bonheurs lived not far from the Bordeaux 
 docks, and between the trees might always 
 be had a glimpse of the vessels anchored 
 there; so he stood with a pleasant expression 
 on his wrinkled face, listening to the calls of 
 the men who were working among the boats. 
 
 Madame Bonheur went on with her house- 
 hold tasks, now turning from the spinning 
 to tend the stew that simmered over the char- 
 coal fire, or to turn the square of linen bleach- 
 ing just outside the window, and wondering 
 much, as she threw the creamy tow over the 
 spindle, what made her Rosalie so different 
 from other girls, always wanting to romp 
 with boys instead of doing a stint of embroi- 
 dery as a French maiden should. 
 
 But out in the pleasant garden Rosalie was 
 having a beautiful time. No thought of 
 anything but the game of soldier they were 
 playing was in her mind, for she was captain, 
 and the fighters who followed her were her 
 brother Auguste and a group of neighbor- 
 hood children, charging and retreating 
 against a fort — which was n't a fort at all, 
 but just a stone wall over which pale pink 
 roses tumbled in a mass of bloom. They sal-
 
 
 1 
 
 n 
 
 
 W/^f^* 
 
 f 
 
 ■ 
 
 ' ' "^i!^ 
 
 -aa-^f^L 
 
 The grandfather stood by the stone gate calling good-by as they 
 drove away
 
 TOMBOY FROM BORDEAUX 47 
 
 lied and skirmished as if each one were a 
 chevaHer of France, and of course there was 
 victory for the assaulting army. For no 
 death-dealing guns thundered from that 
 rampart, and it was easy to become a general 
 or even a field-marshal through victories 
 gained so quickly and easily. Perhaps many 
 a battle might have been waged in that one 
 short afternoon, but a call from the door sent 
 military tactics out of the young command- 
 er's head. The neighborhood children scur- 
 ried homeward, and with Auguste at her 
 heels she scampered toward the house, leav- 
 ing the wall and its roses to sleep in the sun- 
 shine as before. 
 
 "Your father is here, and he has some- 
 thing to tell you," the mother announced as 
 they ran into the low-ceiled room. "See if 
 you can guess what it is." 
 
 And the two climbed up on his chair, beg- 
 ging to be told all about it. 
 
 "I know!" Auguste exclaimed, as he 
 clapped his small brown hands. "You 're go- 
 ing to take us to the docks to see the boats." 
 
 He was always thinking of the harbor and 
 of the sturdy seamen who sang as they toiled
 
 48 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 there, and could imagine nothing more de- 
 lightful than an hour along the quays. 
 But Rosalie shook her head. 
 She loved animals as few children loved 
 them, and v^^as not, like Auguste, wild about 
 the boats and the sailors. 
 
 *'Of course not!" she said merrily. "I 
 think he means to get us another dog, or 
 maybe a goat." 
 
 At which the father and mother both 
 laughed. 
 
 ''Neither of you has guessed rightly," the 
 man spoke pleasantly. "I am going to Paris, 
 and after a while will send for you, and we 
 shall all be Parisians." 
 
 Auguste gave a scream of delight. 
 
 ''Oh, I am so glad !" he cried. "There are 
 hundreds of soldiers in Paris, and Emile, the 
 tailor's son, told me that sometimes the river 
 there is white with boats. I wish we might 
 go to-day." 
 
 Rosalie did not seem so eager about it. 
 Paris was very large, and many people there 
 had no yards at all. There might not be 
 room for the dogs and cats and pets she liked 
 so much, and it seemed better to stay in Bor-
 
 TOMBOY FROM BORDEAUX 49 
 
 deaux. But if the city was to be their home, 
 it would be well to learn something more 
 about it. So she questioned in an earnest 
 voice, "May I take my rabbits and Smoke 
 and the five little cats?" 
 
 The mother smiled and shook her head. 
 
 ''No, dear. But so many wonderful 
 things are in the city that it will seem very 
 fine to be there even without your pets." 
 
 Rosalie thought her mother very wise, and 
 if she said a thing it must be so. Perhaps it 
 would not be bad in Paris, after all. So she 
 began to be quite excited about it, and 
 watched eagerly while the small green trunk 
 was packed. It seemed almost like a picnic, 
 for she was too young to understand how 
 hard it was for her father to leave Bordeaux, 
 and that he was going away only because his 
 income as a teacher in the southern town 
 would not reach to cover all their needs, 
 while in the city there was a chance of mak- 
 ing more money. 
 
 Next day, they stood under the chestnut- 
 trees and watched him go down the road and 
 out of sight, the mother and Pepe, the grand- 
 father, with tearful eyes, for they realized
 
 50 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 what struggle the coming days might hold 
 for him. But Rosalie and Auguste were 
 smiling. Their thoughts were that, some 
 day, they, too, would drive away in the post- 
 chaise to see the wonders of Paris, and per- 
 haps, if the mother had not put them to other 
 things, would have talked about it the rest of 
 the day. But there were lessons to be pre- 
 pared. So they sat down under the trees 
 with their reading-books. But Rosalie 
 did n't study long. Almost before she real- 
 ized what she was doing, she took out her 
 slate and began to draw. 
 
 Grandfather Bonheur walked through the 
 garden a little later, and by that time old 
 Smoke, the gray house-cat, was copied on the 
 red-framed slate. 
 
 "Ah, lass !" he exclaimed, as he looked at 
 it. "If you put in the time drawing when 
 you should be at your lessons, you will grow 
 up an ignoramus." 
 
 Rosalie caught his hand with an impulsive 
 caress. 
 
 "I forgot, Pepe!" she said. 'T '11 study." 
 
 And she turned again to her book while the 
 old man walked on.
 
 TOMBOY FROM BORDEAUX 51 
 
 "The maid surely has a gift when it comes 
 to using her pencil," he murmured as he 
 went ; "and if she 'd get her lessons as well 
 as she draws, she 'd amount to something 
 some day." 
 
 For little did he dream that her drawing 
 was destined to cast undying honor on the 
 Bonheur name. 
 
 A year passed, and the father sent for 
 them to come to Paris. Then what excite- 
 ment there was in the old house ! Pepe, the 
 grandfather, felt that he was too old to make 
 new friends and learn city ways, so he de- 
 cided to stay behind with some relatives. 
 But he helped with the preparations, and 
 stood by the stone gate calling good-by as 
 they drove away. Madame Bonheur could 
 not keep back the tears at the thought of 
 leaving him, and the chestnut-trees, and the 
 harbor, with its gray-masted boats, and Ros- 
 alie's lip quivered as she gave old Smoke a 
 farewell hug. But Auguste was excited 
 over the thought of the new life that was to 
 begin for them in the city, and called back 
 gaily in answer to the good-bys. 
 
 "It is a shabby house," Raymond Bonheur
 
 52 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 said when he took them to their new home; 
 'Very dingy and dull-looking, and not pretty 
 like the one in Bordeaux. But we must stay 
 here until I get to earning more. Then we 
 can move to better quarters." 
 
 Rosalie agreed with him. It seemed very 
 cold and dreary after the sunshine and clear 
 skies of the southland, and she wanted to be 
 back in the old harbor town, where finches 
 held revel in the chestnut-trees, and roses ran 
 riot over the brown wall. But after a while 
 the strangeness of things interested her, and 
 she forgot her homesickness. 
 
 A few days later, the father announced 
 that he had a chance to send her to a school- 
 master. 
 
 ''His name is Monsieur Antin," he ex- 
 plained, "and he has only boys. But Rosalie 
 gets along so well with them, that he says he 
 will take her, and it will be good for her to be 
 with Auguste." 
 
 Rosalie was delighted. 
 
 'T like that !" she said. "Boys' games just 
 suit me, for I love to play soldier and fight 
 sham battles." 
 
 So to Monsieur Antin's school she went.
 
 TOMBOY FROM BORDEAUX 53 
 
 and joined in the games with such a zest that 
 she came to be known all along the street as 
 *The Tomboy from Bordeaux." If there 
 was a sham battle, she was in the lead, and, 
 as it seemed quite silly for a soldier to be 
 called Rosalie, her name was shortened to 
 Rosa, by which she was known from that 
 time forth. 
 
 Then came the revolution of 1830, with 
 guns thundering almost at the Bonheur door. 
 The Place de la Bastille was not far away, 
 and while it was being stormed, Rosa nar- 
 rowly escaped being the victim of a cannon 
 discharge. Troubled days followed, and the 
 family moved to a smaller and cheaper house, 
 far from the home that had now grown very 
 dear to them. Attendance at Monsieur An- 
 tin's school ended, and Rosa's only playmates 
 were her brothers, Auguste and Isidore, and 
 a little girl named Natalie. But her nick- 
 name followed to the new home, and she was 
 still known as 'The Tomboy from Bor- 
 deaux." 
 
 Several years passed, and she was now a 
 big girl. She did very little studying, but a 
 great deal of drawing and painting, some-
 
 54 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 times earning a few sous coloring prints for 
 a man who lived near by. The mother had 
 died, and Monsieur Bonheur, himself a 
 scholar, could not bear to think of his daugh- 
 ter growing up in ignorance. So once more 
 she was sent to school, this time with about a 
 hundred girls, to Madame Gilbert's Institute, 
 where they were expected to become digni- 
 fied and proper young ladies. But Rosa 
 could n't be dignified, no matter how hard 
 she tried. Always she had been a tomboy, 
 and if the old grandfather in Bordeaux could 
 have seen her now, he would still have said 
 that she was just a boy in petticoats. 
 
 Madame Gilbert was very dignified and 
 very proper. When she stood up, she did it 
 in just the right manner, and when she sat 
 down, it was so correctly that the most care- 
 ful person could not criticize. Her heart 
 was n't quite as big as Rosa's, and every ani- 
 mal about the place would run from the mis- 
 tress at the call of the dark-haired tomboy. 
 But that did n't seem to matter. Her mis- 
 sion was to make polished and proper Pari- 
 sians, and she had little patience with a girl 
 who wanted to be anything else. Even
 
 The room that was her workshop came to be a sort of Noah's Ark
 
 TOMBOY FROM BORDEAUX 57 
 
 Rosa's love of animals and her delight in 
 drawing them displeased the mistress, who 
 scolded her for not making pictures of flow- 
 ers, which was far more ladylike. But Rosa 
 drew the things that were in her heart, and 
 it was good for the world she did. Madame 
 Gilbert, however, could n't understand that, 
 and kept wishing for a chance to send the 
 tomboy home. 
 
 At last it came. 
 
 The girls were all out in the garden, and, 
 as usual, Rosa was brimming over with good 
 nature. 
 
 "Let 's have a sham battle!" she called. 
 
 And immediately they were organized into 
 a company. 
 
 Sticks of wood made splendid sabers, and 
 as the young commander ordered a cavalry 
 charge, they rushed with vim toward the 
 rose garden. 
 
 But the battle was never finished. Ma- 
 dame Gilbert's shrill voice rang out just then, 
 and Captain Rosa was ignominiously locked 
 in a closet. Such an indignity was unheard 
 of in a well-regulated school, and the next 
 day her father came and took her home, hav-
 
 58 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 ing given up all hope of polishing her into a 
 proper young lady. 
 
 But he remembered her mother's words, 
 *'She has a clear mind and a good heart, and 
 must come out all right;" and, because he 
 knew she loved drawing, was wise enough to 
 let her work at it all she pleased, and fitted 
 up a room for her studio. Sometimes she 
 went to the Louvre to study the masterpieces 
 there, for every gem in that great treasure- 
 house was a delight to her. But the animal 
 pictures appealed to her most strongly, and 
 these she copied with wonderful skill. 
 Sometimes on Sunday, with her father and 
 his good friend, Justin Alathieu, the famous 
 sculptor, she went far into the country, wan- 
 dering off wherever she saw cattle or horses 
 or sheep. They seemed to sense her love of 
 them and came near, always receiving a 
 warm caress. The sculptor recognized her 
 marvelous skill in portraying them, and 
 urged her father to let her have as many pets 
 as she could keep. So the room that was her 
 workshop came to be a sort of Noah's ark, 
 where rabbits, tame squirrels, ducks, and 
 quail held revel, and canaries and finches flew
 
 TOMBOY FROM BORDEAUX 59 
 
 in and out. Then some one gave her a goat, 
 and, with her dogs and cats, she had a real 
 menagerie. 
 
 But still she was the tomboy. She loved 
 games as well as she loved painting, and per- 
 haps because she played so hard is one reason 
 why she painted so well. 
 
 'T want to study other animals," she said 
 one day to her father; ''cattle, instead of 
 just the horses I see in the street and the lit- 
 tle creatures I have here at home." 
 
 And Raymond Bonheur was perplexed. 
 One does not see cattle in city streets, and 
 they had no pennies to spare to pay board in 
 the country. But Rosa found a way. She 
 went where the animals were taken that were 
 brought to Paris for the markets, and here 
 she made dozens of sketches which were 
 afterwards transferred to canvas. Once a 
 circus came to Paris, and when the owner 
 heard of the girl who painted animals so 
 wonderfully, he gave her permission to work 
 in his menagerie as long as it stayed in the 
 city, and there, day after day, she sketched 
 the lions, tigers, and other creatures of 
 foreign lands.
 
 6o BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 When one Is busy, the time seems to go on 
 wings, and, before she reahzed it, years had 
 passed, and her work was known far and 
 wide, and recognized as something very re- 
 markable. Even Landseer, then the world's 
 master-painter of animals, could not portray 
 them in a more lifelike manner than the 
 young Frenchwoman. They seemed ready 
 to step from her canvases and move about 
 the fields and roadsides, for she put love into 
 her work, and infinite patience too. Years 
 were spent over her marvelous "Horse 
 Fair"; years, too, on its great companion 
 piece, "Coming from the Fair," and every 
 hour of the time was richly worth while, for 
 they will gladden the hearts of beauty lovers 
 for hundreds of years to come. 
 
 The old studio with its rabbits and birds 
 and goat had been abandoned, for by this 
 time Rosa's work was earning so much 
 money that she could afford a great estate in 
 the fresh, green country, and all the animals 
 she wanted. So in the forest of Fontaine- 
 bleau she made a home spot, where she lived 
 and worked. Her fame spread to every
 
 TOMBOY FROM BORDEAUX 6i 
 
 land, and there was none too great to honor 
 the tomboy from Bordeaux. 
 
 For tomboy she was still. She never grew 
 too old to join in a game with children, or too 
 far away from the sham battles and cavalry 
 charges of her youth to refuse to organize a 
 company. The girls from Madame Gilbert's 
 school had become dignified and proper Pa- 
 risian dames, who dressed beautifully and 
 drove in the boulevards as dignified ladies do. 
 But nobody ever heard of them. While, 
 wherever beauty was loved, Rosa, who most 
 of the time wore a denim jumper and short 
 skirt, was known as a wonder-worker. 
 
 One day she was busy over a sketch, when 
 her companion rushed into the studio in 
 great excitement, exclaiming: ''Madame, the 
 Empress is here!" 
 
 Rosa Bonheur had on her usual working 
 attire, rather a queer costume in which to 
 receive the Empress of France. But that 
 mattered little to beautiful Eugenie. She 
 knew of the glory the artist was winning for 
 her land, and had come to give her homage. 
 
 'Tt is the Cross of the Legion of Honor,"
 
 62 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 she said as she held up a glittering emblem. 
 "You have won it, and deserve to wear it." 
 
 Tears came into Rosa's dark eyes. She 
 knew that was the highest honor that could 
 come to a child of France, and that the great- 
 est ambition of the most illustrious men of 
 many generations had been to win that guer- 
 don. 
 
 So she went on, trying to be worthy of it, 
 working hard and being happy because she 
 was leading a good and useful life. 
 
 And, besides putting beauty into the world, 
 her work accomplished other big things. 
 Men grew kinder to animals because of her 
 paintings, and in several cities they led to 
 laws being passed to make easier the lives of 
 dumb creatures. 
 
 So, although it does seem strange for a girl 
 to fight sham battles and lead cavalry 
 charges, there are worse things in the world 
 than being a tomboy, if she has a clear mind 
 and a good heart, like Rosa Bonheur.
 
 JACOPO, THE LITTLE DYER
 
 IV 
 JACOPO, THE LITTLE DYER 
 
 HE was a handsome lad, strong-limbed 
 and sturdy, and although dressed in 
 the dun-colored smock worn only by Vene- 
 tian youths of low degree, was as happy as 
 if his father had been one of the Council of 
 Ten. For it was sunset time ; and from the 
 balcony of the dim apartment that served as 
 the family living-room, he could look out on 
 the canal, flushed then with glorified light. 
 
 A girl with laughing eyes, and hands pur- 
 ple-stained from the dye-pots, came running 
 into the room and called his name. But he 
 did not turn, because he did not hear. He 
 was too busy with his thoughts for familiar 
 sounds to disturb him, for just then every- 
 thing except the beauty of the shimmering 
 lagoon was crowded out of his mind, and he 
 saw only the amethysts and opals that flashed 
 at every ripple. 
 
 65
 
 66 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 The girl was not held spellbound by the 
 wizardry of the sunset. She was just a child 
 of the tintori (the dyers), and she never had 
 fancies beyond those of the money the dyeing 
 would bring, and the trinkets she might buy, 
 and thought it far better to talk of the good 
 fortune come to them that day, than to stand 
 gazing out on the canal. So she went up 
 and shook him violently. 
 
 "Jacopo!" she exclaimed. "J^copo Ro- 
 busti! Wake up, boy! Don't you know 
 that this is a great day for us? Now that 
 the Dogaressa has sent her goods to be col- 
 ored, other great folk are sure to patronize 
 this shop, and before long your father will 
 be the most prosperous dyer in Venice. 
 Surely you know that, Jacopo !" 
 
 The boy turned slowly, as if reluctant to 
 take his eyes from the glowing canal. For 
 now that the heat was over, gondolas were 
 beginning to glide by, and snatches of song 
 came from the lips of the light-hearted 
 rowers. The music, the color, and the swan- 
 like motion of the boats belonged together, 
 and Jacopo loved it all. But no matter how 
 strong its allurement, it could not hold him
 
 JACOPO, THE LITTLE DYER 67 
 
 after his cousin came into the room. For 
 she was a persistent maid, and always kept 
 nagging until she had her way. 
 
 "I know," he replied, "and also that the 
 work must be ready to-morrow night, which 
 means that I '11 have to stay at home and 
 help, instead of going out on the Canalezzo 
 to see the sunset." 
 
 Floria frowned at him. 
 
 "The idea of thinking of anything but 
 your father's good fortune!" she rebuked. 
 "The sun goes down every night, and the 
 canal will always be there. But we 've never 
 had work from the Dogaressa before, and 
 you ought to be glad to stay at home and lend 
 a hand. Come and look at the stuff. It is 
 silk from the Indies, and will be colored 
 crimson." 
 
 The odor of boiling dye came in through 
 the open door, and his father's voice called 
 just then. Jacopo knew there was no more 
 standing on the balcony for him, so he fol- 
 lowed Floria into the shop that, its walls 
 gay with pictures in fresco fashion, adjoined 
 the living-room ; and soon they were at work 
 grinding the colors that were to transform
 
 68 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 the creamy silk of the Indies into a gorgeous 
 crimson fit for the court robe of a Venetian 
 lady. Robusti the elder was rolling up some 
 material colored that day, while the appren- 
 tice tintori, their arms mottled from the dip- 
 ping, were finishing up the last bit of work. 
 Dust from the grinding pigments and steam 
 from the boiling vats filled the place ; and as 
 Jacopo worked, he thought how pleasant it 
 must be on the canal, with odors from many 
 a walled garden wafting across it, and the 
 soft singing of lithe-limbed gondoliers. But 
 he was a true Venetian lad, and, when the 
 father spoke, had no thought save that of 
 obedience. That is why the walls were so 
 brightly tinted. For often when his heart 
 was out on the lagoons and he had to stay at 
 home and help, he filled the intervals between 
 watching the pots and turning the coloring 
 fabrics by making charcoal sketches and tint- 
 ing them with dyes. 
 
 There were dozens of such pictures ; here 
 a bit of sea with a sunset sky like a painted 
 canopy above the white-sailed galleys, and 
 there a lord of Venice, gaily robed as Ve- 
 netian nobles were in those golden days.
 
 JACOPO, THE LITTLE DYER 69 
 
 Scattered among them were groups of tin- 
 tori, like his father and his father's men, 
 with dye-bespattered arms, and smocks as 
 many colored as Joseph's coat, and some- 
 times there were snatches of fairy landscape 
 across which fantastic figures flitted, just as 
 in the pictures of his fancy. For when the 
 soul is as full of beautiful things as an over- 
 flowing river, some of them are sure to get 
 out where people will see. 
 
 The next morning every member of the 
 Robusti household was up before the ringing 
 of the matin-bells. The apprentice tintori 
 came early too, and soon the pots were steam- 
 ing and a hum of work was about the shop. 
 For the silk had been promised for that even- 
 ing, and to disappoint the Dogaressa would 
 be ruinous indeed. It would mean that 
 never again would great folk patronize the 
 place, and that would be a calamity, for great 
 folk paid well. So all hands worked with a 
 vim, the men turning and stirring while the 
 dyer directed, Jacopo and Floria both lend- 
 ing a hand. There was water to be brought, 
 and refuse liquor to be carried away, which 
 they could do as well as any one.
 
 70 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 Evening came and all was finished, and al- 
 though Jacopo had not had a chance to go 
 out on the canal, he was so interested that he 
 forgot to be disappointed. The costume- 
 maker who was coming to pass upon the 
 work might arrive any minute, and Jacopo 
 wanted to hear what he had to say. Of 
 course it was perfectly done, but so much 
 depended upon the success of that dyeing 
 that all looked forward eagerly to hearing 
 the words of approval. 
 
 "How splendid it will be when he says it 
 is all right !" Floria exclaimed, as she danced 
 around the table where the sheeny stuff was 
 piled in crimson billows. "Word will go 
 out all over Venice, and nobles will give us 
 their patronage." 
 
 And Robusti the elder smiled at her, for 
 he knew that she spoke the truth. But 
 Jacopo said nothing. He was busy drawing 
 on the wall. 
 
 Sweetly across the lagoons the Angelus 
 sounded, and for a minute all was quiet in 
 the shop. Jacopo paused from his drawing, 
 and laughing-eyed Floria did not finish her 
 dance, for always those of the Robusti house-
 
 JACOPO, THE LITTLE DYER 71 
 
 hold were faithful in their devotions, and be- 
 cause of gratitude over their good fortune 
 they were more fervid than usual. 
 
 Then the inspector came, with pompous 
 bearing and speech abounding in high- 
 sounding words, pronouncing the work per- 
 fect, and the Robusti family knew it was the 
 beginning of wonderful things for them. 
 But one blessing it brought of which they 
 had not dreamed, beside which the glory of 
 dyeing the Dogaressa's robe was poor in- 
 deed. That faded and wore out, but the 
 other glory, that had its beginning that day, 
 has lasted through five hundred years. For 
 as the inspector turned to go, he saw the fig- 
 ures on the wall. 
 
 "Oh, ho!" he exclaimed. "A gay shop 
 you have here. And who is the merry 
 painter, pray?" 
 
 Robusti the elder answered in words of 
 apology. 
 
 'T do not wonder that you think such walls 
 unfit for a dignified business, and assure you 
 that it is none of my doing. My boy Jacopo 
 defaced them when he had better have been 
 thinking of his trade."
 
 72 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 Jacopo turned his wide dark eyes on the 
 man, wondering if he too would reprove him 
 because of his picture-making. He had been 
 scolded so often for wasting his time, and 
 supposed of course the costume-maker would 
 share the family opinion. But he met with a 
 surprise. 
 
 'That sturdy chap yonder?" the man 
 asked. *'I 've a knowledge of pictures, and 
 this work seems from the hand of one well- 
 nigh grown." 
 
 "I did it," Jacopo answered, **but not be- 
 cause I wanted to spoil the shop. I had no 
 other place." 
 
 The inspector shook his head. 
 
 "I would not have believed it!" he said. 
 "Surely he has the gift." 
 
 Then to the father : 
 
 "Mayhap your lad will become a good 
 dyer, but he will make a far better artist; 
 and if you are wise, you will set about ap- 
 prenticing him to a painter. There is Titian 
 of Cadore, the flower of Venetian colorists. 
 Before another day passes, I would see him 
 and beg that he try the boy." 
 
 Robusti the dyer was a sensible man, Al-
 
 JACOPO, THE LITTLE DYER 75 
 
 though there were no horses in Venice, he 
 had lived in Ravenna once, and knew if a 
 steed is built for speed and much travel, it is 
 a mistake to set him to drawing loads. And 
 he was wise enough to realize that, if one 
 has a gift for painting, it is sad indeed to 
 keep him in a dye-shop. The inspector's 
 word meant much, and, as he thought the 
 boy should become an artist, it must be true. 
 So it was decided to place him with a mas- 
 ter. 
 
 "He shall have a chance to do his best," 
 the father said, as they talked it over that 
 night, "for it shall not be charged to me that 
 I spoiled a good painter to make a second- 
 rate dyer." 
 
 The next morning Jacopo and his father 
 set out for the workshop of Titian of Cadore. 
 The pearl-gray of dawn was still over the 
 city, but, through the open spaces between 
 the buildings, reflected rays from the out- 
 peeping sun reached arms of light along the 
 canals. Across the Piazza of San Marco 
 they went, under the clock-tower whose two 
 bronze giants glowed and shimmered, and 
 into the Merceria, where there was a Babel
 
 ^(i BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 of sound as the merchant folk opened their 
 shops. But they did not stop to look at the 
 pretty things nor to gossip with the loiterers 
 gathered there, although the boy would have 
 liked to pause a bit before the pictures the 
 men on the benches were painting. But 
 there was no time to lose, as the dyer must 
 soon return to his shop. So straight on they 
 went, across the curving Rialto and down 
 the narrow street beyond, where, taking a 
 boat, they came to the studio of the mas- 
 ter. 
 
 "Will you try the boy?" the dyer asked, as 
 he explained that the worthy costume-maker 
 himself had recommended a painter's career 
 for him. And in answer the great man told 
 him to come next day and begin work. 
 
 Jacopo's heart sang all the way home, and 
 he worked in the shop that afternoon as he 
 had never worked before. For even though 
 he did not like the half-sickening odors and 
 the perpetual steaming of the boiling liquid, 
 he knew he would enter a wonder-world on 
 the morrow, and until that time things dis- 
 agreeable mattered little. Floria had never 
 seen him so gay, and remarked to her uncle
 
 JACOPO, THE LITTLE DYER TJ 
 
 that he was surely the happiest boy In Venice. 
 
 "It shows he can be contented at dyeing," 
 she said. 
 
 For still she believed that to be of the tin- 
 tori was better than to be a painter. 
 
 But the man shook his head. 
 
 "No," he replied, "it is the thought of 
 what is to come that makes him glad." 
 
 Jacopo began his work with the master, 
 and Heaven seemed to have opened its gates 
 to him. Titian then Lad many canvases in 
 his workshop, and the beauty-loving lad 
 drank in the magic of their coloring as 
 thirsty travelers drink from cooling springs, 
 his eyes reveling in the gold and purples and 
 crimsons that surpassed everything he had 
 ever seen except the sunset tints on the 
 lagoons. The working days in the studio 
 were long, yet he was never glad when they 
 came to an end, and always looked eagerly 
 to the beginning of another. It was an en- 
 chanted land in which he dwelt, and he was a 
 fairy prince. 
 
 But his joy was to be short-lived, for very 
 soon afterward the master sent him away. 
 Why, no one knows, although many guesses
 
 yS BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 have been made as to the reason, and some 
 have gone so far as to say that Titian was 
 jealous of the gifted youth and feared he 
 might eclipse him. But it does not seem pos- 
 sible that the master-painter of Italy could 
 have feared a mere boy, for he was great 
 enough to know that there is room in the 
 world for more than one genius. But at 
 any rate he sent him away, and dark days 
 began for Jacopo. 
 
 Many a lad would have given up and gone 
 back to the dye-shop, but not Robusti's son. 
 He was made of the stuff that wins, and 
 every obstacle in his way goaded him on 
 to greater effort. The greatest master of 
 Venice had refused to teach him. But he 
 determined to teach himself, and the strug- 
 gle he had in doing it has never been equaled 
 by an artist before or since. 
 
 Along the Merceria were elevated benches 
 where the poorer painters sat and did their 
 work before the eyes of the passing throng, 
 selling it sometimes while the canvases were 
 still wet. There Jacopo went day after day, 
 to watch them mix and apply the colors. 
 Once he worked with journeymen printers at
 
 JACOPO, THE LITTLE DYER 79 
 
 San Marco, and once with stone-masons at 
 Cittadella that he might learn the principles 
 of joining. To know the laws of proportion, 
 he watched the people in the streets and mod- 
 eled them in wax, moving these figures back 
 and forth between lamps to watch the effect 
 of the shadows. 
 
 For ten years he struggled on, always 
 studying, always watching and working. It 
 would have been easier to have taken up his 
 father's trade, for in the dye-shop, when the 
 day's toil is over, there follows a night of 
 rest. But Jacopo thought only of being a 
 painter, and was bound to succeed. So he 
 kept on. All the work that paid well was 
 given to Titian, and that Jacopo might get 
 his pictures where people could see them, he 
 had to paint for nothing. But that did not 
 matter. He was learning and growing, and 
 at last he had his day. 
 
 Titian died, and all Venice wondered who 
 would take his place. 
 
 'There is no one else," the critics said 
 sadly. "His like will not come again." 
 
 But one of the nobles who was wise enough 
 to know that when a work is to be done there
 
 8o BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 is always a man to do it, thought of Jacopo 
 Robusti. 
 
 "Why not Tintoretto?" asked this one, 
 whose word was law. And by Tintoretto he 
 meant Jacopo, who because of his father's 
 trade was called 'The Little Dyer." 
 
 ''We will go and see," they said. "And it 
 will be a glad day if he can take the master's 
 place." 
 
 So the great of Venice gathered about the 
 paintings of one who had given his work to 
 every church and building that would re- 
 ceive it. In Santa Maria della Orto they 
 found it, in shops along the Merceria, and 
 out Treviso way in village churches where 
 peasants met to worship. 
 
 "It is wonderful!" they exclaimed. 
 "What magnificent coloring! What per- 
 fection of line ! Surely this is the work of 
 the master." 
 
 For they did not know that, during the 
 years they had scorned him, his one thought 
 and one aim had been to make his pictures as 
 fine as Titian's, and he had succeeded so well 
 that they mistook them for the master's. 
 
 Then it was agreed that he should paint in
 
 JACOPO, THE LITTLE DYER 8i 
 
 the Doge's Palace, the greatest honor that 
 could come to a Venetian artist. And there 
 he left much work that still draws to the city 
 of St. Mark art lovers from every quarter of 
 the globe. There is his exquisite "Adora- 
 tion of the Savior," and there too is the won- 
 derful "Paradise," the largest oil-painting in 
 the world. 
 
 But Venice is not the only city that is rich 
 in his handiwork. Many galleries in many 
 lands have given princely sums to obtain it, 
 and his canvases have been carried to 
 France and Germany, and even to the banks 
 of the Thames, where, in the stately halls 
 they adorn, they give joy to thousands, al- 
 though the hand that fashioned them has 
 been still for five hundred years. Yet very 
 few know the name of Jacopo Robusti, be- 
 cause to this day, as in the old Venetian time, 
 he is still called in the musical tongue of the 
 lagoons, "Tintoretto, — The Little Dyer."
 
 BARTOLOME'S VELVET HAT
 
 V 
 
 BARTOLOME'S VELVET HAT 
 
 BLACK-EYED Bartolome Murillo was 
 the happiest child in Seville. No 
 more insults and times of disgrace for him, 
 he thought; no more taunts from his 
 playmates about being a baby because he 
 wore the cap that was the headgear of very 
 small Spanish children. He had a hat now, 
 with a peaked crown and rolling brim, and 
 because it was made of the finest velvet and 
 trimmed with a silver band to match his suit, 
 old Carmalita, who lived next door, said he 
 looked like a young cavalier. It is a dread- 
 ful thing to be called a baby when one feels 
 quite a big boy, and as the cap was responsi- 
 ble for the title it was little wonder he was 
 glad to put it aside. 
 
 **You are big enough to stop wearing the 
 nino ^ cap," his mother said when she gave 
 
 1 Nino — baby. 
 
 85
 
 86 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 it to him as his birthday gift that morning. 
 "You shall have a hat like a man." 
 
 And Bartolome was more glad than he 
 had ever been, for as long as one wears nino 
 clothes he is sure to be called a nino, and he 
 was tired of it. 
 
 He went out into the street to look if any 
 of his playmates were about, but not one was 
 in sight, for it was August, when the sun 
 shines with burning heat in southern Spain, 
 and boys are fond of seeking the cool of the ' 
 river. He wanted them to know that his 
 cap belonged to the past, and that he could 
 be called a baby no longer because of his 
 clothes, so he started out to look for them. 
 
 The heat had driven most of the people 
 into the houses, which made Bartolome 
 sorry, for he was so proud of the new hat 
 that he would have liked all the world to see. 
 He was sure they would think it as lovely as 
 he did, although that was a very great mis- 
 take, for at that time such headgear was 
 quite in fashion in Spain, and created no 
 more of a sensation than Panamas do to-day. 
 But he was too young to realize it, and when- 
 ever he passed a lady in her carriage, or a
 
 Whenever he passed a gaudily skirted market-girl, he saluted 
 with the air of a grandee
 
 BARTOLOME'S VELVET HAT 89 
 
 gaudily skirted market-girl with a red rose 
 glowing in her shining black hair, he saluted 
 with the air of a grandee. He did not see 
 his friends, although he went far down the 
 street, past gardens sweet with the breath 
 of oleanders, and beyond the cathedral and 
 the Giralda that rises like a fairy tower be- 
 side it, to the bridge that spans the Guadal- 
 quiver; for while he was rejoicing over his 
 present, they had scattered about the city. 
 So he turned back, reaching home just as his 
 mother was ready to start to church. 
 
 *'You stay here until I get back," she said 
 as she adjusted her lace mantilla on her head 
 and fastened it at the shoulders with golden 
 clasps. *'Your Aunt Eulalia may come at 
 any time, and she must not be greeted by 
 closed doors." 
 
 Bartolome had meant to get something to 
 eat and go out into the street again, yet he 
 did not mind much when told to stay at home. 
 To have a wish come true as he had had that 
 morning is enough to make the day bright, 
 even if everything else does not come one's 
 way. So putting the beloved hat on the 
 table where he could see it, he began won-
 
 90 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 dering what to do until his mother returned. 
 
 Just above him on the wall was a picture 
 of a child and a lamb, which, ever since he 
 could remember, had been in that place. It 
 was faded and stained by time, for it had 
 hung in his mother's girlhood home before 
 being brought into his own, and was one of 
 the treasured possessions of the house of 
 Murillo. As he looked at the bare-headed 
 lad and then at his birthday present, he 
 thought he would like it better if the boy had 
 a hat like his own. 
 
 "And I 'd rather play with a dog than a 
 lamb," he thought. "I guess whoever 
 painted that picture did n't know much about 
 boys. I 'm going to fix it." 
 
 So taking a piece of charcoal, he climbed 
 up on the table where he could reach the pic- 
 ture, and began marking around the child's 
 sunny curls. Then he went to work on the 
 lamb, and in a little while the meek-looking 
 animal was changed into a curly tailed dog. 
 
 The cathedral bells pealed out the hour of 
 noon, and mingling with them like golden- 
 throated bird calls came the chimes from the 
 Alcazar. But Bartolome did not hear. He
 
 BARTOLOME'S VELVET HAT 91 
 
 was lost in his drawing, and when his mother 
 opened the door he was still busily at work. 
 
 Maria Perez looked at him with horrified 
 eyes, and then at the picture that had altered 
 so in her absence. Instead of the boy and 
 the lamb she had known from childhood, a 
 lad in a cavalier's hat caressed a saucy- faced 
 dog. 
 
 "Oh, Bartolome!" she exclaimed; "yo^ 
 have ruined it!" 
 
 But Bartolome turned in surprise. He 
 was conscious of having done no harm. 
 
 "I am sure the boy will be happier now," 
 he said, ''because he has a hat and a dog." 
 
 But Maria Perez shook her head and 
 seemed very unhappy, and when his father 
 came home and found what he had done, he 
 was locked up in the cellar. So instead of 
 going out where the boys could see his new 
 hat, and greeting his Aunt Eulalia when she 
 arrived, he had to stay in darkness and dis- 
 grace. 
 
 Evening brought the Padre Pedro, the 
 wisest man in all Seville, and the good friend 
 and adviser of the family. He was sur- 
 prised at not seeing Bartolome, for the boy
 
 92 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 loved him and often ran to meet him, and 
 when told that he had been so bad they had 
 to lock him up, he could hardly believe it. 
 Black-eyed Bartolome, who was usually so 
 good! It did not seem possible that he 
 should need punishing so severely, and the 
 old man wanted to know about it. 
 
 "Oh, good padre !" Maria Perez said with 
 tears in her eyes ; *'he has ruined my *Boy and 
 the Lamb,' marked it all over with charcoal." 
 
 Padre Pedro lifted his brows in surprise. 
 That was indeed a very serious offense. 
 
 "Marked it over with charcoal," he re- 
 peated. "I did not think Bartolome would 
 do anything like that !" 
 
 They took him in to see, but when he stood 
 in front of the picture a look came into his 
 face that was very tender. 
 
 "The blessed boy!" he exclaimed. "He 
 was so happy over his own hat that he 
 wanted the child to have one like it. I 
 thought he had scratched and defaced it. 
 But he meant no harm, I am sure. Call him 
 and let us see." 
 
 So Bartolome was brought from his place 
 of prison to tell his story to the padre, and as
 
 BARTOLOME'S VELVET HAT 95 
 
 he came he wondered if he too would say he 
 had been very wicked. 
 
 *'Why did you do it?" the old man asked. 
 
 'T wanted the boy to have a hat like mine," 
 came the earnest reply. "And I was sure 
 he 'd like a dog better than a sheep, so I 
 changed that too. I did n't mean to be bad, 
 Padre Pedro. Truly I did n't." 
 
 *T know it," said the padre kindly. ''And 
 your father and mother know too." 
 
 Bartolome was not locked up again that 
 evening, but stayed in the room where they 
 planned about finding him a drawing master. 
 
 *'A boy who can draw like that must have 
 a teacher." 
 
 And because it was Padre Pedro who said 
 it, and he was so very wise, his father and 
 mother and aunt thought so too. 
 
 "We can place him with my uncle, Juan 
 de Castillo," said Maria Perez, "for no one 
 in Seville can teach better than he." 
 
 So Bartolome Murillo began to study art, 
 and while he was still a boy painted two pic- 
 tures that people said proved he would be 
 great. His parents no longer grieved be- 
 cause he had tampered with the family pic-
 
 96 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 ture, for Padre Pedro declared he would be 
 glad to have it in his study. So there it hung 
 for many years, even after the old priest was 
 gone, and the figures were no longer clear, 
 so that it looked just like a spotted piece of 
 paper. And Murillo's paintings still hang 
 in the world's great galleries, and the years 
 have not faded them any more than they 
 have dimmed the glory of his name. To this 
 day it is the pride of Spain, and the people of 
 Seville love to talk of his childhood there, 
 and of the time when he was a pupil of Cas- 
 tillo, who, although he was considered a very 
 wonderful painter in those days, is remem- 
 bered now chiefly because he was the teacher 
 of Murillo. 
 
 If you are ever in Spain, go to the old town 
 in the South that is still rich in memories 
 of the ]\Ioor. And perhaps, some evening 
 when the brilliant southern sunset touches 
 the stucco houses with rainbow tints, and 
 great folk in the balconies sit listening to 
 guitars in the street below tinkling a sweet 
 accompaniment to feet flying in a fandango, 
 if you love the place well enough to try to 
 make friends with its sunny-hearted people,
 
 BARTOLOME'S VELVET HAT 97 
 
 some stately old cavalier or soft-voiced dame 
 may tell you, as only they of Seville can tell 
 it, the story of Bartolome's Velvet Hat.
 
 THE WHITTLER OF CREMONA
 
 yi 
 
 THE WHITTLER OF CREMONA 
 
 IT was sundown and Maytime, and Cre- 
 mona was gay in the wealth of green and 
 gold weather. Revelers in fantastic attire 
 went laughing along the promenades, for it 
 was the last day of carnival week, and grave 
 men and women had been transformed into 
 merry-eyed maskers. Instead of a solemn 
 clerk in office or shop there was a jolly shep- 
 herd, or perhaps a dryad, while money-lend- 
 ers who on other days looked stern and for- 
 bidding frisked about as goats or clowns or 
 apes. Yes, it was gay in Cremona, for it 
 was May and carnival time, and they come 
 but once a year. 
 
 Down in a narrow, alley-like street that 
 crept, zigzag fashion, toward the Duomo, 
 three boys were standing in the shadows. 
 They wore no masks, not even a scarlet 
 brow-shield to show that they had any part 
 
 lOI
 
 102 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 in the merriment that was general on the 
 boulevards, and the shabbiness of their cloth- 
 ing told that they were of Cremona's poor. 
 Perhaps they had crept from the bright- 
 robed throng because of their somber attire; 
 perhaps just to talk over a question that 
 seemed important, for two of them were in 
 earnest conversation, while the third stood 
 quietly by, whittling at a pine stick. He 
 was younger than the others, with a sensitive 
 face and big, expressive eyes that were 
 brown and velvety, and his companions 
 called him Tonio. 
 
 "But I tell you, Salvator, every minute 
 lost now is like throwing gold away. People 
 are generous at carnival time, and we can get 
 twenty lira to-night as easily as one when 
 the fun is over, for a merry heart makes an 
 open hand." 
 
 'Terhaps you are right, Gulio, and I will 
 go. Shall we start now?" 
 
 His brother nodded and replied, "Yes, to 
 the piazza, in front of the Duomo, where a 
 crowd is always passing. You sing, and I 
 will play. Do you want to go too, Tonio?" 
 
 Antonio looked up from the stick that was
 
 THE WHITTLER OF CREMONA 103 
 
 beginning to take the semblance of a dagger 
 under his knife, and turned his velvet eyes 
 full on Gulio. 
 
 "Yes. I 'd like to be with you, even if I 
 cannot sing." 
 
 The brothers laughed. 
 
 "You certainly cannot sing," Gulio re- 
 marked. "You can do nothing but whittle, 
 which is a pity, for that never turns a penny 
 your way. But hurry. People are in their 
 merriest mood now." 
 
 And laughing voices sounding from the 
 streets told that he was right. 
 
 Gulio picked up his violin, and, followed 
 by Salvator and Antonio, led the way 
 through the alley to a street that skirted the 
 Po. Other Cremonese, both old and young, 
 moved in the same direction, for all wanted 
 to be where the fun was at its height, and 
 that was in the great square in front of the 
 Duomo. The brothers chatted as they went 
 along, for the thought of the money the rev- 
 elers would give had made them light of 
 heart. But Antonio said little. Gulio's re- 
 mark that he could do nothing but whittle 
 was still in his mind, and while he knew it to
 
 104 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 be true, it made him sad. He loved music, 
 yet could have no part in making it, for he 
 did not own a violin, and when he tried to 
 sing his voice squeaked so that the boys 
 laughed. It was hard to be just a whittler 
 when his companions could play and sing 
 well. 
 
 Soon they were in front of the great cathe- 
 dral, where a throng continually moved by, 
 the brilliancy of the masks and dominos 
 seeming to vie with the hues nature had 
 spread across the sky. For the sun had 
 dropped like a ball of flame on the broad 
 Lombardian plains beyond the city, and 
 masses of purple and maroon clouds were 
 piled along the horizon. Now and then a 
 sail fluttered like a white-winged bird as a 
 pleasure bark moved up or down the river, 
 and gold-emblazoned standards and rich ca- 
 parisons on the horses and carriages of great 
 lords added color to the scene. There is a 
 saying that all nature is glad when Cremona 
 makes merry, and the glowing beauty of the 
 evening seemed to prove it true. 
 
 Without losing a minute Gulio took his 
 violin from its case, and tuning it with skil-
 
 THE WHITTLER OF CREMONA 105 
 
 ful fingers, began the prelude of a Lombar- 
 dian folk song. Salvator's voice was sweet 
 and lute-like, and as he sang to his brother's 
 accompaniment, several stopped to listen, and 
 dropped coins into the singer's outstretched 
 hand when he finished. 
 
 Antonio kept on with his whittling until it 
 was so dark he could not see to work. Then 
 he sat on the cathedral steps and waited for 
 the boys. 
 
 A man walked by. He wore neither mask 
 nor domino, and seemed to care little about 
 the gaiety. But seeing the youthful musi- 
 cians, he came close to where they stood. 
 
 'That is a pretty song, lad," he said as 
 Salvator finished another ballad. "Would 
 you sing it again to please a lonely man's 
 fancy?" 
 
 He seemed to hear nothing but the music 
 as the boy did as he asked, and stood with 
 half-closed eyes listening to the fresh young 
 voice that blended sweetly with the soft vio- 
 lin accompaniment. Then, handing Salva- 
 tor a coin, he went on down the street, with- 
 out noticing Antonio, who still sat on the 
 steps.
 
 io6 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 The boy held the coin up in the waning 
 light and gave a cry. 
 
 "Sacre giorno!" ^ A gold piece ! A gold 
 piece for one song!" 
 
 Gulio looked at him dubiously. But 
 when he examined the coin, he too exclaimed, 
 'Truly a gold piece ! But he can well afford 
 it. That is the great Amati." 
 
 Antonio came and looked at the money. 
 He had seen very few gold pieces, and 
 thought it wonderful that a man should give 
 so much. Then, turning to Gulio, he asked, 
 "Who is Amati, and why do you call him 
 great?" 
 
 Salvator stared in amazement. 
 
 "You have not heard of Amati ?" he asked. 
 
 But before he could answer Gulio inter- 
 rupted, "Of course not. Antonio is just a 
 whittler. He knows about knives and 
 woods, but little about music. Amati is a 
 violin maker, the greatest in Italy, and very, 
 very rich. Yet men say he cares for nothing 
 in the world but his work." 
 
 The brothers were so happy over their 
 good fortune that they were not willing to 
 
 ^ Sacre giorno — holy day.
 
 Day after day he toiled in the workshop
 
 THE WHITTLER OF CREMONA 109 
 
 stay in the street any longer. They wanted 
 to get home with the money, and Antonio 
 had no desire to be there alone. It is jolly 
 to watch a throng of merry-makers when 
 one has companions, but not pleasant to be in 
 the midst of gaiety in which you have no 
 part. So he walked with them as far as the 
 bridge across the Po, then went on to his own 
 home and crept to bed. But he did not sleep, 
 for his brain was afire with a thought that 
 had just come into it. He could not sing. 
 He could do nothing but whittle, and here in 
 his own Cremona was a man who with knives 
 and wood made wonderful violins. 
 
 Before dawn next day he was up, and eat- 
 ing a piece of bread, took some things he had 
 made with his knife, and crept out of the 
 house while his parents were still sleeping. 
 Somewhere in the city the master violin- 
 maker dwelt, and he meant to find his home. 
 It was not hard, for all Cremona knew of the 
 great Amati, and while the matin bells were 
 still ringing Antonio stood at his door. 
 
 The servant growled because he disturbed 
 the house so early and scolded him away, so 
 he waited in the street until he was sure
 
 no BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 it was time for work to begin, when again he 
 rattled the heavy brass knocker. Again the 
 man was about to drive him away, when the 
 master, hearing the hirehng's angry tones 
 and the boy's pleading ones, came to the 
 door. 
 
 "1 have brought these things for you to 
 see," Antonio answered when questioned. 
 *1 cut them out with my knife, and want to 
 know if you think I can learn to make 
 violins." 
 
 The great man smiled. 
 
 "What is your name, lad?" 
 
 "Antonio Stradivarius," came the eager 
 reply. 
 
 "And why do you want to make violins?" 
 
 The boy's face was very earnest as he 
 looked into the master's, and the velvet eyes 
 seemed to grow darker as he spoke. 
 
 "Because I love music, and cannot make 
 any. Salvator and Gulio can both sing and 
 play. You heard them last night in the 
 piazza in front of the Duomo and gave them 
 the gold piece. I love music as much as 
 they, but my voice is squeaky. I can do 
 nothing but whittle."
 
 THE WHITTLER OF CREMONA in 
 
 The master laid his hand on Antonio's 
 shoulder. 
 
 ''Come into the house and you shall try. 
 The song in the heart is all that matters, 
 for there are many ways of making music. 
 Some play violins, some sing, some paint pic- 
 tures and make statues, while others till the 
 soil and make flowers bloom. Each sings a 
 song, and helps to make music for the world. 
 If you put your best into it, the song you sing 
 with knives and wood will be just as noble 
 as the one Salvator and Gulio sing with voice 
 or violin." 
 
 So Antonio Stradivarius, a boy who could 
 not sing, became a pupil of the great Amati. 
 Day after day he toiled in the workshop. 
 Day after day he hewed persistently and pa- 
 tiently, until at last he had a violin. It was 
 not done in a week, nor in a month, for the 
 master taught him many lessons beside those 
 in cutting and shaping and string placing, 
 one of which was that a tiny bit well done 
 each day is what means great achievement by 
 and by. Sometimes he wanted to hurry and 
 work less carefully than his teacher advised, 
 but gradually he learned that patience is
 
 112 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 worth more than all things else to him who 
 would excel, and when the instrument was 
 finished he felt repaid for the long days of 
 toil, for the master praised it, and that was 
 a wonderful reward. 
 
 Years passed, and he worked on and on. 
 His squeaky voice no longer troubled him, 
 for although it had not improved, and Gulio 
 and Salvator were both singers much loved 
 in Cremona, he had learned that Amati's 
 words were true, and that if there is a song 
 in the heart there is always a way of singmg 
 it. So he put his best into his work, and his 
 violins became known all over Italy. Musi- 
 cians said their tone was marvelously sweet 
 and mellow, and wondered how it could be. 
 But to Antonio it seemed very simple, and he 
 said it was just because he put so much love 
 into the making. 
 
 At last Amati died and his pupil took his 
 place as the master violin-maker of Italy. 
 Salvator and Gulio's voices had become 
 squeaky, and people no longer cared to hear 
 them, but still Antonio kept steadily on at his 
 much-loved work, trying to make each violin
 
 THE WHITTLER OF CREMONA 113 
 
 better and more beautiful than the one be- 
 fore it. 
 
 That was over two hundred years ago, and 
 now, at the mention of Cremona, men think 
 not of the fair city beside the Po whose 
 stately Duomo still looks out over the fer- 
 tile plains of Lombardy, but of the world's 
 greatest violin-maker, Antonio Stradivarius. 
 There is no civilized land into which his in- 
 struments have not been taken, for musicians 
 prize them more highly than any others, and 
 refuse for them sums greater than any of 
 which the boy Antonio had ever heard. To 
 own a *'Strad" is to be rich indeed, and one 
 of the things of which Italy is proudest is 
 that it was the land of Antonio Stradivarius. 
 All of which goes to show that although one 
 can do nothing but whittle, he may help to 
 make music for the world if there is a song 
 in the heart, and a noble purpose and pa- 
 tience and persistence keep the hands at 
 work.
 
 A BIT O' PINK VERBENA
 
 VII 
 A BIT O' PINK VERBENA 
 
 ONCE upon a time a many-gabled house 
 stood in a quaint quarter of old Ham- 
 burg. It was a stately structure, and the 
 people living there were rich and cultured. 
 They had flocks and herds and merchant ves- 
 sels and gold and silver plate, and their name 
 was known to every one in the harbor town. 
 But for all their possessions they were not 
 honored as the wealthy usually are, for they 
 were of the race of Israel, which in that day 
 was scorned and shunned. But that mat- 
 tered little to them. They were happy in 
 their home beside the Elbe, and there, in the 
 year of our Lord 1809, a child was born. 
 The moon gleamed gloriously over the fresh- 
 fallen snow on that eventful night, and a 
 star, like an angel's eye, peeped through the 
 half-open blind into the room where the baby 
 lay. The old nurse said it was a good omen, 
 
 117
 
 ii8 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 and meant that he would be great and happy, 
 so when the christening time came they 
 named him FeUx. 
 
 Twelve years passed, and the babe born 
 in Hamburg had become a boy in Berlin. 
 His home was a splendid house in the Neue 
 Promenade, set in the heart of a lovely gar- 
 den, and there was only one thing he liked 
 better than to race through the grounds with 
 his sister or to have tugs of war with his 
 brothers. That was to work at his music — 
 but that comes later in the story. He was 
 slender and delicate looking for his years, 
 but could run and leap and climb like an 
 Indian. 
 
 One autumn morning when the martens 
 were moving in long black lines away from 
 Berlin, and now and then a weird cry above 
 the tree tops told that a flock of storks was 
 making its flight toward Egypt, there was a 
 romp in the Mendelssohn garden. Felix was 
 chief of a brigand band, and Fanny a cap- 
 tive girl the brothers were carrying away 
 into the mountains. It was a favorite game 
 with all of them, and they played it with a 
 vim, until, just as the weeping victim was
 
 A BIT O' PINK VERBENA 119 
 
 being thrust into a cave to be held for ran- 
 som, a maid called from the doorway. 
 
 ''Come in, children," she said. "Your 
 mother has a surprise for you." 
 
 Instantly the play stopped and there was a 
 rush for the house. In the living-room they 
 found a man talking with the mother, and at 
 sight of him came exclamations and merry 
 greetings. It was Herr Zelter, Felix's 
 teacher and their good comrade, who always 
 had a tale or a riddle, and was never too tired 
 to entertain them. Fanny hurried to ask if 
 he would n't tell her the answer to the last 
 conundrum he gave, because, try as she 
 would, she could not guess it. 
 
 Everybody laughed as he told it, and 
 Fanny felt quite stupid for not having 
 thought of it herself, and was sure the boys 
 would tease her. But they did n't, because, 
 before they had a chance, there came a won- 
 derful message. 
 
 ''Felix and I are going to take a vaca- 
 tion trip," Herr Zelter announced. "What 
 think you of a journey through the Harz 
 Mountains and into the provinces beyond?" 
 
 A shout went up from the brothers and sis-
 
 120 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 ters, but Felix stood silent for a moment and 
 looked in big-eyed wonder. 
 
 ''The Harz Mountains," he said as if 
 awakened from a dream. 
 
 **Yes," the mother spoke gently. "Do you 
 want to go?" 
 
 "Do I want to go?" he repeated. "Oh, 
 mother, it will be splendid." 
 
 Frau Mendelssohn smiled. She was a 
 beautiful woman, with velvet, lustrous eyes, 
 and her face, like her voice, was sweet. 
 
 "I knew you would like it," she said as she 
 stroked his soft, dark hair. "You have 
 worked hard at your music and studies, and 
 deserve a vacation." 
 
 And the brothers and sisters nodded as if 
 they thought so too. 
 
 "Yes," Herr Zelter added, "and there may 
 be some surprises along the way." 
 
 Felix was so excited over the prospect that 
 he could n't eat his lunch, and Fanny de- 
 clared he 'd get as thin as a fish worm. But 
 the picture she painted of him did n't seem to 
 make any difference, for although he usually 
 had a healthy boy's appetite, he had none at 
 all now, and could n't think of anything but
 
 A BIT O' PINK VERBENA 121 
 
 wild mountain passes, and caves, and haunted 
 glens. He had always wanted to go into the 
 Harz country, for he had heard many fan- 
 tastic tales of the elves and gnomes peasants 
 say abound in that region and play pranks on 
 all who come their way, but had no idea he 
 would get there so soon. Sometimes, how- 
 ever, wishes come true. That very after- 
 noon he and his teacher left Berlin, and then 
 wonderful things came to pass. 
 
 Once in the highlands there was always 
 something interesting and exciting. One 
 day, as they followed the forest path up Mt. 
 Kyffhauser, a woodman pointed to a grotto 
 where the country folk declare Frederick 
 Barbarossa sleeps beside a banquet table. 
 Felix listened, fascinated, to the mountain 
 legend of how the emperor's beard had 
 grown until it trails on the ground, and will 
 continue to grow for ages and ages, until it 
 has wound seven times around the legs of the 
 table. Then the monarch will awaken, be- 
 stride a charger, and scatter his foes, after 
 which time there will be peace as long as the 
 world lasts. He was wild to get inside the 
 cavern, but the peasant shook his head and
 
 122 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 said it was impossible. Only once a twelve- 
 month, when the cock crows with the dawn- 
 ing of the new year, can the enchanted grotto 
 open, and woe to him who tries to force an 
 entrance at any other time ! So he knew it 
 was useless to coax, but made up his mind to 
 came back some New Year's Eve. Then 
 they went to a miners' carnival and joined in 
 the yearly festivities of the salt seekers, after 
 which there was a visit to a clock making 
 village. One delight followed another as 
 they journeyed, until at last they came to 
 Weimar. 
 
 Felix was up at dawn the next morning, 
 for they had been stopping only one day in 
 each place, and he wanted to see as much as 
 possible of this one. He went with Gret- 
 chen, the inn maid, when she drove the 
 geese to pasture, and she told him many 
 things about her native town. 
 
 "There is the castle where the Grand Duke 
 lives," she said, pointing to a great structure 
 whose towers rose above the frost-painted 
 maples; "and beyond is the cathedral with 
 the chimes." 
 
 Felix nodded.
 
 A BIT O' PINK VERBENA 123 
 
 *'Yes," he answered, "Herr Zelter told me 
 about them. I think Weimar is a wonderful 
 place, because Goethe lives here." 
 
 "Ah, yes," the girl said softly, "the mas- 
 ter ! Are n't you glad you are going to see 
 him?" 
 
 Felix whirled and looked at her. 
 
 "Going to see him!" he exclaimed; "what 
 makes you say that?" 
 
 Gretchen twisted her yellow braids into a 
 rope and smiled as she answered, "Because I 
 heard Herr Zelter tell Frau Lippe last even- 
 ing that you came to Weimar to visit 
 Goethe." 
 
 Felix didn't want to hear another word. 
 He turned and ran from the grazing place 
 along the path that led back to the inn, and 
 people who saw him wondered why he hur- 
 ried so. Over rock heaps and brambles he 
 bounded with long, agile leaps, and did not 
 stop until he came to the stone stairway 
 leading up to the entrance of Elephant Inn. 
 
 Herr Zelter stood on the topmost step 
 watching him, and at sight of him the boy 
 gave a joyous exclamation. 
 
 "Is it true?" he cried as he dashed up the
 
 124 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 steps. ''Gretchen says we are going to visit 
 Herr Goethe." 
 
 His teacher smiled and answered, "Yes, 
 that is why I brought you to Weimar. 
 Did n't I tell you in Berlin that there might 
 be a surprise?" 
 
 "In Berlin," Felix repeated. "Did you 
 know it there?" 
 
 "To be sure I did. The master wrote me, 
 asking that I bring you because he wants to 
 hear you play. That is why we started on 
 the trip, and because you are so fond of sur- 
 prises, your mother and I decided to keep it 
 a secret, so you would enjoy it even more." 
 
 Felix could hardly believe what he heard. 
 It seemed impossible the great Goethe could 
 have sent for him, not because he was accus- 
 tomed to being shunned because he was a 
 Hebrew boy, for he never had been made un- 
 happy by that. There was more refinement 
 and better understanding in the Prussian 
 capital than in the harbor town, and the cul- 
 ture and sterling qualities of the Mendels- 
 sohns won them the friendship of Jew and 
 Gentile alike. But Goethe was the master 
 poet of Germany, to whom even princes gave
 
 A BIT O' PINK VERBENA 125 
 
 homage, and why should he care about the 
 playing of a little Berlin boy? All of which 
 goes to show what an unspoiled, lovable lad 
 Felix was. 
 
 He stood wondering about it until Herr 
 Zelter said, '*Go and make yourself presenta- 
 ble, for we start in half an hour." 
 
 It was not necessary to tell him a second 
 time. He ran upstairs and changed his 
 clothes so rapidly that long before the half 
 hour was over he was waiting for Herr Zel- 
 ter in the hall. 
 
 Just as they started, Gretchen, the inn 
 maid, came running after them, waving a 
 cluster of pink blossoms. 
 
 ''Here," she called as Felix turned toward 
 her. ''Give these to the master. Frau 
 Lippe let me take them from the house box, 
 and there are no lovelier ones in Weimar." 
 
 And she handed him a cluster of verbena, 
 each petal of which was perfectly unfolded 
 and pink as the heart of a conch shell. 
 
 Felix never forgot that walk as he and 
 Zelter went along the maple-skirted promen- 
 ade toward the home of Goethe, never for- 
 got the splendid houses of the great, the ducal
 
 126 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 palace, the cathedral, the peasant cottages, 
 and the wind-whipped fields they passed on 
 the way, and years afterward described them 
 as vividly as if they had been beheld only a 
 half hour before, for every sight in Weimar 
 seemed to be painted on his brain in unfading 
 colors. He walked eagerly, expectantly be- 
 side his teacher, and finally they came to a 
 great house, rambling like a Saxon citadel, 
 and heavily windowed on every side. As 
 they went in at the gate a voice from among 
 the trees called, "Zelter ! Have you brought 
 the Mendelssohn boy from Berlin?" 
 
 A heavy, rather short man, with blue, 
 piercing eyes and hair softly flecked with 
 gray, came down the path to meet them. 
 Then Felix heard his teacher saying, "This 
 is Herr Goethe," and he knew he was face to 
 face with the poet all Germany declared was 
 greater than a king. 
 
 Impulsively he took the wrinkled hand out- 
 stretched to meet his own, and presented the 
 verbena Gretchen gave him. His blue eyes 
 were luminous as the master smiled down on 
 the blossoms, saying, 'Thank you, boy, and
 
 A BIT O' PINK VERBENA 127 
 
 thank the Httle inn maid too. I shall keep 
 them and remember you both." 
 
 Suddenly, from the cathedral tower, came 
 the notes of an old German choral, and a 
 Kyrie Eleison, sweet as an angel's song, 
 sounded across the garden. Felix stood like 
 one entranced, drinking in the beauty of the 
 music and forgetting everything but the 
 glory of the chimes. Perhaps he would have 
 stayed there for a long time in a sort of 
 revery, but the master, who had been watch- 
 ing him curiously, laid his hand on his shoul- 
 der and said, "Let us go into the house now, 
 for I want to hear music sweeter than that of 
 the chimes." 
 
 Then Felix remembered what Herr Zelter 
 had told him, and wondered if the men could 
 hear his heart beating. It seemed they must, 
 for joy had set it thumping like a hammer, 
 because he knew the master meant to ask him 
 to play. 
 
 Half an hour later the drawing-room of 
 the Goethe house was flooded with light. 
 The master and Frau Goethe, Fraulein 
 Ulrike, her sister, Herr Zelter, the Schopen-
 
 128 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 hauers, and several other friends sat side by 
 side. But no one spoke. No one thought of 
 anything or heard anything but exquisite 
 music exquisitely rendered. Was it an an- 
 gel orchestra dispensing such sweet sounds? 
 No, it came from the piano at the touch of 
 a brown-haired boy. Little wonder they 
 seemed bound by enchantment as they lis- 
 tened. Little wonder smiles and tears 
 played hide-and-seek in the poet's eyes, for 
 Felix Mendelssohn Bartholody, then just 
 turned thirteen, was playing a fugue from 
 Bach. 
 
 He finished, and Goethe went over and laid 
 his hand on the dark head. 
 
 "You have given me an hour of pleasure," 
 he said tenderly. *'What can I do to reward 
 you?" 
 
 Felix looked at him, as if wondering what 
 to request. Then a smile flashed across his 
 face and he spoke in a low voice, "Sire, I 
 should be glad if you would give me a kiss." 
 
 And the gray-haired immortal bent and 
 kissed the brow of him who was destined to 
 become an immortal, while Zelter and the 
 others applauded, and bonny Adele Schopen-
 
 A BIT O' PINK VERBENA 129 
 
 hauer set a wreath of leaves on the brown 
 head. 
 
 *To crown you, Hke a victor!" she ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 And the next day Felix wrote home to his 
 mother in Berlin, "After that we all had sup- 
 per together, and I sat on the master's right. 
 Now, every morning, I have a kiss from the 
 author of 'Faust' and 'Werther,' and two 
 kisses from friend and father Goethe. 
 Think of that!" 
 
 Just at dawn several mornings later Zelter 
 shook Felix out of a sleep. 
 
 " Get up quickly!" he exclaimed. "Don't 
 you remember that to-day the Grand Duke 
 and Duchess and the hereditary Grand Duke 
 are coming to visit? Bestir yourself, and 
 don't lie there as if nothing extraordinary is 
 about to happen." 
 
 The lad looked up, blinking, for he was 
 just like other boys, and not eager to get out 
 of bed in the morning. 
 
 "Y-yes," he muttered, "but that is n't as 
 wonderful as being here alone with Goethe. 
 Mother says no one, not even a king, is as 
 great as he,"
 
 130 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 And Zelter nodded agreement, for he, too, 
 believed that. But he hurried the boy out of 
 bed and into his clothes, and soon afterward 
 the royal visitors arrived. 
 
 Of course they wanted to hear Felix play, 
 for they had been told of the concert that 
 ended with a fugue from Bach, but even if 
 they had known nothing about it they would 
 have been eager to listen to his music, for 
 Felix Mendelssohn Bartholody, even at that 
 time, was known throughout Germany as a 
 wonder child. Great folk in Berlin, as well 
 as strangers who visited the Prussian capital, 
 delighted in going to his home in the Neue 
 Promenade, for Abraham and Leah Men- 
 delssohn, his father and mother, were among 
 the brilliant scholars of their day. The 
 charm of their conversation was a magnet 
 to draw the gifted, and their reception hall 
 became one of the noted German salons. 
 Painters, musicians, scholars, learned men, 
 and beautiful women gathered there, and 
 whenever guests came Felix played, some- 
 times alone, sometimes in duet with his sister 
 Fanny, and always his hearers wondered if it 
 was really a child who made such lovely
 
 A BIT O' PINK VERBENA 131 
 
 music. They took word of his attainments 
 to their homes and their friends, and al- 
 though he never had appeared in pubHc, the 
 story of the Hebrew prodigy spread. Thus 
 Goethe heard of his genius, and became so 
 interested in the lad that he asked Zelter to 
 bring him to Weimar. So of course the 
 Grand Duke and Duchess would have wanted 
 to hear him, even if they had known nothing 
 of that memorable Sunday night. 
 
 Well, Felix played. He began at eleven 
 in the morning, and finished at ten that night, 
 stopping to rest only two hours during that 
 long period. The royal visitors were de- 
 lighted, and said such charming things about 
 his genius that he 'd have had his head 
 turned if he had not been a very sensible boy. 
 But he had a wonderful mother, and praise 
 from the royal family did not mean half as 
 much to him as praise from the poet meant. 
 He was glad he had pleased them, for they 
 were pleasant and kind, but most of all he 
 was glad he had pleased Goethe. 
 
 The days passed joyously, with games and 
 sports in the garden and quiet hours at the 
 piano, with the poet sitting close by listening
 
 132 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 while he played. These were times of rare 
 delight to Felix. 
 
 "Every afternoon," he wrote home to his 
 mother, *'he opens the piano and says, 'Now 
 make a little noise for me.' And that voice 
 of his! Mother, the sound of it is won- 
 derful. He can shout like ten thousand 
 warriors, yet when he speaks tc me it seems 
 very soft and low." 
 
 Gladly he would have stayed on in Weimar 
 for weeks and months, but that could not be. 
 A fortnight after his arrival he went home 
 with Zelter, bearing with him recollections 
 of a never-to-be-forgotten visit, and leaving 
 behind with the poet memories that were 
 sweet. 
 
 Then swiftly sped the days, and wonderful 
 triumphs they brought to Felix Mendelssohn 
 Bartholody. He began playing in public, at 
 concerts and musicfests of the Prussian cap- 
 ital, and people went by thousands to see 
 the boy and listen to his music, to have a good 
 look at the lad who was the pet and favorite 
 of Goethe. And how he played at those 
 memorable concerts, sometimes difficult num- 
 bers from the masters, sometimes melodies of
 
 A BIT O' PINK VERBENA 133 
 
 his own composing, always with feeling, al- 
 ways with exquisite finish, and always with 
 light divine in his gleaming eyes. 
 
 Then, between public appearances, there 
 were joyful days at home with his sister 
 Fanny in the Garden House, a place as beau- 
 tiful and sweet as could be imagined. A 
 fountain plashed by the window, and all sum- 
 mer long birds held concert in the linden 
 boughs. Here together brother and sister 
 read Shakespeare's "Midsummer Night's 
 Dream," and here, when seventeen, Felix 
 composed the music suggested by that fairy 
 play, which, had he never created another 
 melody, would have made his name immortal. 
 
 After that, other works followed in rapid 
 succession. He loved his music and kept at 
 it constantly, resting occasionally by taking 
 a trip into some quaint nook of Germany, 
 traveling on foot in the vagabond way. 
 Then he would return to work, composing 
 every day, with Fanny, his gifted sister, and 
 his mother, who were his first and best 
 teachers, auditors and critics. If they pro- 
 nounced a work good he was satisfied, and 
 no taunts from envious but less gifted musi-
 
 134 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 cians could shake his faith in the worth of a 
 composition when it had been secured by the 
 approval of those at home. 
 
 Thus Felix Mendelssohn Bartholody, at an 
 age when most boys are thinking of begin- 
 ning their life-work, was secure and famous 
 in his. England called him, and France and 
 Austria, and honors innumerable were 
 heaped upon him. But they did not shrivel 
 and warp his soul. He was the child of 
 Leah Mendelssohn, that rare, gentle woman 
 whose fragrant nature and brilliant intellect 
 would have made her home the retreat of the 
 great of Berlin even if it had not housed a 
 wonder child, and he never forgot the lessons 
 learned during those early days. His nature 
 was as lovable as his genius was great, and 
 the beggar in the streets, the child in the 
 market place, rich, poor, and mighty alike, 
 received a pleasant word and kindly smile 
 from him. The brown hair Goethe loved 
 had turned black now, but his eyes were as 
 blue and tender, his soul was as sweet and 
 serene as in those distant Weimar days. 
 
 Like Mozart and Chopin, this great master 
 died early, before he was forty-five, yet in his
 
 A BIT O' PINK VERBENA 135 
 
 short career enriching the world as much as 
 if he had lived through many lifetimes, for 
 his soul was pure, his heart was kind, and his 
 genius was supreme. Goethe loved him in 
 childhood, Germany adored him in manhood, 
 and the world reveres his memory now 
 that his work is done. It is sweet to think 
 that the great are always simple, unassuming 
 as little children, tender of memories, loyal to 
 friends, gentle and compassionate toward the 
 unfortunate. This was Felix Mendelssohn 
 Bartholody, the child of Leah. He never 
 forgot those Weimar days, never ceased to 
 think of the great poet as "friend and father 
 Goethe." How do we know? Because 
 after he went to his rest, they found among 
 his treasured things a bunch of dead stuff 
 that once had been a nosegay, blackened and 
 withered to the color of earth, and seeming 
 as if it never could have been a cluster of 
 blossoms. It was the verbena cut from the 
 window box by the golden-haired inn maid 
 and given by Felix to the author of 'Taust." 
 Upon the death of the poet it was returned 
 to the musician, who treasured it with memo- 
 ries of those fragrant days, and for years it
 
 136 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 remained among the Mendelssohn relics, a 
 memorial of the day when two of the world's 
 immortals, one gray and crowned with the 
 laurels of achievement, the other with his 
 childhood still about him, stood in a garden 
 at Weimar, while November winds whistled 
 through the trees, and cathedral bells chimed 
 out a Kyrie Eleison. 
 
 And what of the Hamburgers who had 
 scorned his people because they were of the 
 race of Israel? They seemed to have for- 
 gotten that, or to have grown ashamed of it, 
 and were proud indeed of the fact that Felix 
 was born among them. They spoke fondly 
 of "unser Mendelssohn," and never in the 
 history of the harbor town was there such a 
 storm of indignation as when some of the 
 people of Prussia tried to make it appear 
 that he was a native of Berlin. 
 
 "No, he is ours," declared their northern 
 neighbors, *'for he was born among us." 
 
 And so these great capitals disputed and 
 contended for the honor of having cradled a 
 Hebrew baby, just as, long, long ago, seven 
 Grecian cities each claimed to have been the 
 birthplace of a blind old man.
 
 A SHEPHERD LAD OF TUSCANY
 
 VIII 
 A SHEPHERD LAD OF TUSCANY 
 
 APRIL had come, bringing flower and 
 bird weather to the sweet ItaHan land 
 of Tuscany, and even along the Apennine 
 slopes, where the blossom carpet was not so 
 heavy as in the sunny lowlands, buttercups 
 and wild daffodils made golden rugs beneath 
 the ilex-trees. They stretched away in shin- 
 ing patches to the vine-draped Fiesole hills, 
 from which other rugs of gayer bloom and 
 richer verdure sloped down to the silver 
 Arno. Blue skies above, bird song and blos- 
 som breath sweetening the air, it was surely 
 a time for merrymaking and joyous words. 
 Yet two boys in charge of a flock on the hills 
 above Vespignano looked at each other with 
 excited faces, and the older one spoke so 
 angrily to his companion that the lad winced 
 as if struck. 
 
 "You have so little courage that even if 
 you go, you won't amount to anything. So 
 
 139
 
 140 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 stay here, because you 're not brave enough 
 to try the world !" 
 
 The dark eyes of the younger were wide 
 with hurt surprise. 
 
 "Do you mean that you think me a coward, 
 PasquaH ?" he asked, his sensitive lips quiver- 
 ing as if it required an effort to keep back the 
 tears. 
 
 Pasquali shrugged his shoulders. He was 
 fond of Giotto, and had not meant to grieve 
 him, yet he felt provoked because he did not 
 agree to his plan. 
 
 "Not exactly that," he replied more gently. 
 "But can't you s^e that, as long as we stay 
 here in Vespignano, we must go on herding 
 sheep, while yonder in the city there is a 
 chance of becoming rich?" 
 
 And as he spoke he pointed down to where 
 Florence lay in her valley beside the Arno, 
 all white and gold against the blue of the 
 Lucca mountains, like a bit of fairy-land. 
 
 "It is beautiful there, Giotto," he urged, 
 "with marble palaces instead of peasant huts, 
 and the people wear fine clothes, and are 
 happy. Come along, and be something big- 
 ger than a shepherd."
 
 SHEPHERD LAD OF TUSCANY 141 
 
 For a minute, Giotto's face was afire with 
 anticipation. He knew that Cimabue, the 
 greatest of ItaHan painters, would come soon 
 to decorate the castello, and that the count 
 was sending men to the city next day to be 
 his escort. For weeks, Pasquali had been 
 urging him to run away and join the caval- 
 cade beyond Fiesole, from which point they 
 could travel along together, and, as members 
 of the noble's train, gain admission to Flor- 
 ence, which would not be possible for two 
 boys alone. Pasquali had a golden flow of 
 words, and so dazzling was his picture of the 
 luxurious life they might lead there, that 
 Giotto w^as almost persuaded. But it was 
 only for a minute. Then he shook his head, 
 and answered: "No, Father needs me here. 
 Besides, I have no money, and even if it 
 does seem cowardly, I am afraid to go to the 
 city without even a lira." 
 
 Pasquali laughed, not pleasantly but with 
 a sneer, as if to mock the fears of his com- 
 panion. He was two years older, and so 
 large and strong that he looked like a man. 
 Little he hesitated about leaving Vespignano, 
 and was so confident of his ability to make
 
 142 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 his way anywhere that he pressed his timid 
 friend with promises to look out for him. 
 
 "You can send money home to your father, 
 and even if it is a Httle hard at first, anything 
 will be better than this lonely life of herd- 
 ing." 
 
 But as Giotto looked at the white-fleeced 
 sheep around him, and then at the village be- 
 low, he thought differently. He saw his 
 grandfather, too old to follow a herd now, 
 laughing with some of the children, as if all 
 the world were glad, and his sister Teresa, 
 dark-eyed and graceful, go singing into the 
 hut where his grandmother sat spinning. 
 Just beyond, white-haired Armando, bent 
 and feeble too, hobbled along on his stick, 
 beckoning and smiling to those who hailed 
 him as he passed, while gay young Serafino, 
 who had broken a leg a fortnight before 
 while rescuing a lamb from a precipice, was 
 taking the sun and trying to gain strength 
 to go back to his flock. Shepherd folk all 
 were they, and there were no merrier hearts 
 in Tuscany. So if those could be happy who 
 had never seen the city except as they looked 
 down on its gleaming towers from the hills
 
 SHEPHERD LAD OF TUSCANY 143 
 
 where they pastured their flocks, it did n't 
 seem a bad life after all. The ilex-tufted 
 slopes that Pasquali was so eager to leave 
 were home to Giotto. He was born in a hut 
 below, and, as far back as his memory went, 
 could look out of its northern window on the 
 Apennines. And there had always been the 
 music of the Mugone stream, now yellow and 
 muddy, now shimmering like a silver ribbon 
 flung down from the peaks, as it hurried 
 away to join the Arno. Pasquali was an 
 orphan, and had lived in many places, one of 
 which was as dear as another. But to the 
 boy who had never been beyond the grazing 
 lands, there was only one home spot, and 
 that was in Vespignano. Why, then, should 
 he leave it for a place where he would be 
 friendless and might perhaps have to go 
 hungry? And that question he put to Pas- 
 quali. 
 
 "Besides," he continued, "herding does n't 
 seem so dreadful. I love my sheep, and 
 often when the hours seem long I make pic- 
 tures in the sand. Then I forget that I am 
 lonely." 
 
 Pasquali sneered. "Stay on and be a
 
 144 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 shepherd if you think the Hfe so fine. But 
 look out that the count never catches you 
 drawing when you are out with the sheep, 
 for he will tell your father, and then there 
 will be trouble. But I mean to be a great 
 man, and do something finer than follow a 
 flock." 
 
 And he strode away before Giotto could 
 tell him that once, when he was drawing, the 
 count had come by, and, instead of making 
 trouble, had seemed much interested. 
 
 Pasquali kept his word and went away 
 that night, and, in the days that followed, 
 Giotto wondered much about him, hoping he 
 would be successful in the city. Of course 
 no word came back, for at that time letters 
 had to go by courier, which cost so much that 
 only the rich sent messages, while the poor 
 had to be satisfied with wondering and hop- 
 ing. He did not doubt that the lad would be 
 able to make his way, for he was so big and 
 strong that of course people would give him 
 work, and Giotto even planned for the time 
 when he might appeal to him. 
 
 *'When I am older and can earn more," he 
 mused, "I will go and ask Pasquali to help
 
 SHEPHERD LAD OF TUSCANY 145 
 
 me find work; for, if I send a few lire 
 home each week, it will not be hard for 
 Father." 
 
 For little did he dream that a time would 
 come when he would not need Pasquali's aid, 
 and that Florence would be as proud of him 
 as of her most illustrious prince. 
 
 Several days later, as he ate his lunch on 
 the hillside, he heard the blare of trumpets 
 announcing the arrival of Cimabue the 
 painter, and saw the train go up to the castle 
 gate. The splendidly groomed horses held 
 their plumed heads high, while gold and sil- 
 ver mountings on saddle and bridle made 
 them seem like fairy steeds. Banners and 
 pennants floated, and brighter even than the 
 scarlet coats of the attendants was the art- 
 ist's crimson mantle; and, as the solitary lad 
 watched the gorgeous cavalcade go into the 
 courtyard and out of sight, he thought that 
 to be a painter must be better than to be a 
 prince. Then, taking up a piece of slate he 
 had found that morning, he began making 
 pictures of his sheep. 
 
 Everything else went out of his mind. He 
 forgot that he was a peasant and lived in a
 
 146 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 poor hut, forgot everything in his love of 
 sketching, and, as soon as one picture was 
 finished, he rubbed it out and made another. 
 Sometimes a lamb came up, caressing him 
 with its velvet nose, or a soft-eyed ewe lay 
 down at his feet. But he did not know it, 
 nor did he hear hoofs advancing from be- 
 hind, or see two riders alight from their 
 mounts. He was still lost in his drawing 
 when a voice said, "This is the shepherd lad 
 of whom I told you, the one who makes pic- 
 tures in the sand." 
 
 Giotto jumped in alarm. He knew it was 
 the count who spoke, and feared that he 
 would be angry because he had not greeted 
 him as the low-born should those of rank. 
 But the nobleman was not displeased, for he 
 thought of something finer than social dis- 
 tinction, and, taking the slate from the 
 weather-browned hand, he gave it to his com-> 
 panion. 
 
 *'See, Cimabue!" he said. "This is how 
 he passes his lonely hours." 
 
 Giotto caught the name and it thrilled him. 
 Cimabue! The king of Italian painters! 
 He would laugh at such poor sketching.
 
 SHEPHERD LAD OF TUSCANY 147 
 
 "Oh, sire, it is not worth looking at!" he 
 exclaimed. *1 did it just to keep from being 
 lonely." 
 
 But Giovanni Cimabue did look at the 
 slate, and, as he examined it, spoke some 
 words to the count that the boy did not un- 
 derstand. Then he asked, ''Would you like 
 to be a painter ?" 
 
 "A painter!" Giotto repeated. "Oh, yes, 
 sire. But that is impossible, for Father is 
 poor, and I must tend sheep." 
 
 "Opportunities come to those who deserve 
 them," the great man replied, "and there is 
 something for you beside a shepherd's life." 
 
 Then the two rode away, and, as they 
 went, Giotto wondered what Cimabue meant. 
 But he had not very long to wonder, for that 
 same night they came to the peasant hut to 
 ask that he might study painting. The dec- 
 orations at the castle would require some 
 weeks, and when the artist returned to Flor- 
 ence he would take the lad into his workshop. 
 At first it seemed impossible that such a 
 lovely thing could come to a herd boy, but 
 when his father gave his word, and thanked 
 both count and painter, he wondered what
 
 148 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 Pasquali would think, Pasquall, who had 
 taunted him with being too much of a coward 
 to try his fortune in the city. 
 
 Giotto did not lead his sheep to the slopes 
 next day, nor any day thereafter. But all 
 through the golden summer, when around 
 Fiesole were billows of many-colored bloom, 
 and his own hills of Vespignano were painted 
 with orange and russet, he worked with 
 Cimabue at the castle. Every morning, 
 when the sunrise tints still hung like flaming 
 poppies along the peaks, he went from the 
 hut in the village, and he came back again at 
 night to dream of his brushes and colors. 
 The count let one of his own shepherds tend 
 the Bondone flock, so his studies brought no 
 hardship to his people, and, as all the villa- 
 gers loved him, so all were glad that he was 
 to be a painter. 
 
 Meanwhile, in fair Florence, Pasquali was 
 learning that the city is a monster waiting 
 to devour those who approach her friend- 
 less and empty-handed. Day after day he 
 tramped the streets from one shop to another, 
 and up to doors of great houses where many 
 servants were employed, looking for work.
 
 Tlifii (jiotto went tu the citv
 
 SHEPHERD LAD OF TUSCANY 151 
 
 and always he was met with the question, 
 "What can you do?" 
 
 *ln Vespignano I was a shepherd," he 
 would reply; ''but the life was dull, so I 
 came away." 
 
 "Better go back," those disposed to be kind 
 would say. "The city is no place for country 
 lads." While others drove him away with 
 angry words. 
 
 For weeks he slept under the sky and ate 
 the bread of charity. Then, sick and dis- 
 couraged, he started back to Vespignano. 
 
 Giotto, on his way home from the castle 
 one evening, saw the weary, foot-sore lad go 
 toward the hut that had once been his home, 
 and wondered if it could be Pasquali, who 
 had been so eager to get away. Hunger had 
 made hollows in his cheeks, and only the soft, 
 dark eyes, and the hair curling about the 
 brow in the old way made him sure it was 
 his friend. 
 
 "Pasquali mio," he called, falling into the 
 tender speech of the old shepherd days; 
 "why are you back? Didn't you like the 
 city?" 
 
 "The city!" the boy repeated in horror.
 
 152 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 *'It is a black hole of misery to those without 
 money. It were better had I stayed here 
 with the sheep, because now perhaps I can- 
 not get any sheep to tend." 
 
 Giotto forgot that the boy had scorned him 
 for not being brave enough to try the world. 
 He thought only that his friend was troubled, 
 and that he wanted to help him. 
 
 "1 am sure you can," he comforted. 
 "Come home with me to-night, and to-mor- 
 row I will ask the count to give you work." 
 
 So the two went together to the hut, where 
 the shepherd fare seemed good indeed to the 
 discouraged lad ; and the next day, although 
 he had all the help he really needed, the count 
 pitied the runaway and took him back. 
 
 The frosts came, and the chestnut-trees on 
 the slopes wore coats of bronze. The walls 
 of the castello had been beautified until noth- 
 ing was left to be done, and the painter pre- 
 pared to leave Vespignano. Then Giotto 
 went to the city, the same Florence in which 
 Pasquali had urged him to seek his fortune 
 in the spring. But he did not steal away like 
 a thief in the night. He went instead as one 
 who departs with honor. All the shepherds
 
 SHEPHERD LAD OF TUSCANY 153 
 
 of the valley met to say good-by, and the 
 count himself, and Cimabue, the painter, 
 rode beside him. No knight faring forth to 
 conquest ever rode with higher hopes in his 
 breast, and few have gone to greater hon- 
 ors. Hard work awaited him in the studio 
 of the master, for Cimabue was an exacting 
 teacher, and knew that, no matter how gifted, 
 one does not excel except by painstaking, 
 persistent effort of both hand and brain. 
 But he was an appreciative teacher as well, 
 and nothing pleased him as much as some 
 new evidence of genius in the boy in whom 
 he had such great faith. 
 
 Once he went away from the workshop, 
 leaving Giotto busy there. The boy kept to 
 his painting for a while, then, stopping to 
 look at the half-finished work of his master, 
 a mischievous idea possessed him. Seizing 
 a brush, he painted a fly on the nose of the 
 figure on the canvas, and so lifelike was his 
 portrayal, that, when Cimabue returned, he 
 tried to brush it away with his hand, before 
 he discovered the trick his pupil had played 
 on him. Yet he was not angry, for it was 
 but another proof that the boy kept his eyes
 
 154 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 open and studied everything around him, 
 without doing which no one can hope to be a 
 painter. 
 
 Years passed, and Florence became a 
 fairer and more glorious city because a peas- 
 ant lad from the northern hills had taken up 
 his abode there. He became an architect as 
 well as a painter, and, whenever a new palace 
 was to be builded or an old one needed beau- 
 tifying, it was Giotto who was chosen for the 
 work, because no one in Italy wrought such 
 wonders as he. The lords of the land called 
 him from one city to another. Naples, Pisa, 
 Ravenna, Assisi, and even imperial Rome, 
 clamored for a show of his genius; and, 
 whenever he gave his time to a piece of work, 
 it was as if a fairy hand had touched it. 
 
 But in Florence his heart seemed to rest, 
 and there he put forth his noblest effort. 
 Those who followed strove to make their 
 work as fine as his, so the city of the Arno 
 came to be a place of wonderful achievement. 
 
 The story of its loveliness has spread to 
 every land, and to-day it is the treasure-house 
 of Italy, possessing an untold wealth of art
 
 SHEPHERD LAD OF TUSCANY 155 
 
 and some of the noblest buildings in the 
 world, the most wonderful among them hav- 
 ing been glorified by the hand of Giotto. 
 
 ''Giotto's Campanile," men still call the 
 matchless bell-tower that rises beside the 
 Duomo. But of the thousands who go there 
 to see it, only a few know that he who 
 planned and partly built it was once a shep- 
 herd whom Cimabue found drawing on a 
 piece of slate as he tended his flocks on the 
 hills of Tuscany.
 
 THE BORDER WONDERFUL
 
 IX 
 
 THE BORDER WONDERFUL 
 
 IN the workshop of Josefo the goldsmith, 
 black-eyed Andrea was assorting the 
 tools. There was no one to talk to, and he 
 did n't like the task a bit. He wanted to be 
 out in the sunshine among the pomegran- 
 ates and purple-starred myrtles, where 
 he knew Beatrice was waiting for the 
 procession, for he was only seven years 
 old, and this would be the gayest carni- 
 val time of all the year. But boys in 
 his day began their life-work very early, and 
 it was already several months since he had 
 been apprenticed to a goldsmith, who be- 
 lieved not at all that one should romp when 
 a trade was to be learned. So there was 
 nothing for him to do but group hammers 
 and knives and chisels, and try to be content 
 with seeing the parade go by. 
 
 Would Beatrice forget to signal him, he 
 159
 
 i6o BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 wondered, with an anxious glance toward 
 the window. Surely not, for she had prom- 
 ised to sing as soon as she saw the outriders. 
 And just then a clear, sweet voice rose in a 
 Florentine greeting song. Yes, it was com- 
 ing now, the great cavalcade of which people 
 had talked for many days, and he turned 
 from the bench and hurried out into the 
 loggia. 
 
 Leaning far out over the railing, he saw 
 her standing under the pomegranates. 
 
 "Are they coming. Bice?" he asked, as her 
 merry eyes turned toward him. 
 
 "Si, si, Andrea mio" she called back in 
 her musical Tuscan. "Yonder is the ad- 
 vance-guard, and just behind are the gleam- 
 ing Medici banners. That means the ducal 
 carriage will soon be here. Ah, it is splen- 
 did, splendid !" 
 
 And she whirled in a dancing step and 
 broke into song again. 
 
 Andrea ran down the stairway, forgetting 
 all about his task in the workshop. Yes, 
 there it came, a gorgeous procession, across 
 the Arno by the Ponte Vecchio and along 
 the Via Guicciardini, horsemen and footmen
 
 THE BORDER WONDERFUL i6i 
 
 in fine array, bearing Florence's duke to 
 Florence's great cathedral. His birthday it 
 was, and the people would celebrate it mag- 
 nificently, Andrea knew, for his father, the 
 jolly tailor, had told him all about it as 
 he bent over his sewing the night before. 
 There would be pomp at the palace and mirth 
 in the streets, and he wished he might roam 
 at will and feast upon it. But suddenly a 
 harsh voice struck his ear, for the goldsmith 
 had come into the shop and found him away. 
 
 "Get to your bench, young dullard, and 
 quickly too!" he called. "A nice lot of 
 trouble you make for me with your heedless 
 ways, and I 've a mind to send you back to 
 your father." 
 
 And looking up at the face framed in the 
 window, the boy saw that the eyes were as 
 angry as the voice. 
 
 He was very much frightened. Twice 
 that morning he had been scolded for draw- 
 ing pictures when he should have been turn- 
 ing the tool grinder, and he wondered what 
 dreadful thing would happen now. So he 
 hurried in through the loggia to his bench; 
 but his lip quivered as Beatrice went on with
 
 i62 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 the crowd, and he thought how hard it would 
 be to stay in the workshop when all the mirth 
 and life of Florence was pulsing in the 
 streets, and tears came so thick and fast that 
 he could hardly tell one tool from another. 
 Then the master went out, and Leonardo, the 
 journeyman, returned from an errand. He 
 was older than Andrea, but they were very 
 good friends, and the doleful face brightened 
 as he came near. 
 
 "What's the matter?" he asked, at the 
 sight of the misty eyes. "Would n't he let 
 you see the procession?" 
 
 The lad shook his head. 
 
 "No; he says I am here to work." 
 
 "Too bad, too bad," the older boy mur- 
 mured. "But there will be other festivals, 
 and he is n't often cross like this. He 's 
 worried now because he can't get a design 
 for the border on the cardinal's bowl, for, 
 unless it is finished this week there will be no 
 more work from this great man. So it is 
 not strange that he 's out of sorts." 
 
 Andrea had no idea what a design was, 
 and was too unhappy to care. His mind 
 was on the merriment, and nothing seemed
 
 THE BORDER WONDERFUL 163 \ 
 
 half as bad as having to miss it. But he had 
 to work. So he tried to make the best of it, 
 and his hands moved so rapidly about the 
 bench that soon his task was finished, and he 
 had nothing to do until the master came in 
 and assigned him to another. Leonardo, 
 polishing a plate at his own place, was too 
 busy to talk. So he took a piece of parch- 
 ment and a bit of charcoal from the table and 
 began to draw. 
 
 That made him forget his disappointment. 
 He scratched and scratched on the smooth 
 white surface, and by the time the journey- 
 man had finished his polishing, the sheet was 
 almost covered, and he held it up for him to 
 see. 
 
 Leonardo looked, then gave an exclama- 
 tion. 
 
 "Oh, oh! It is a pretty thing you have 
 made, but you Ve used some of the master's 
 parchment, and he will be angry indeed." 
 
 For parchment was costly in those far-off 
 days, and men were very careful of it. 
 
 Andrea was terrified, and, at the sight of 
 Josefo coming in at the door, he began to 
 cry.
 
 i64 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 ''What have you been doing now?" the 
 man asked angrily. 
 
 "This," he sobbed, laying his hand on the 
 parchment. 
 
 Leonardo held his breath, for he was sure 
 that Andrea, who so often irritated the mas- 
 ter by his thoughtless ways, would fare badly 
 at his hands. But as the goldsmith looked at 
 the drawing the sternness left his face, and 
 a sort of wonder came into it. 
 
 "You don't mean you did this?" he said. 
 
 "Yes," Andrea faltered, "but I 'm sorry I 
 spoiled the parchment." 
 
 Then, as Josefo laid his big hand on the 
 dark head, Leonardo wondered why he had 
 ever thought him stern. 
 
 "Never fear about that," he replied, in a 
 voice they seldom heard in the workshop. 
 "You have done a wonderful thing, and it 
 means much to me. I shall use this border 
 for the cardinal's bowl, and to-morrow, when 
 Gian Barile comes, I '11 show it to him. This 
 afternoon you may have a holiday, for you 
 deserve to see the fun for helping me out of 
 my trouble." 
 
 And Andrea wondered how it happened
 
 THE BORDER WONDERFUL 165 
 
 that the very thing that had brought him 
 scoldings twice that morning should give him 
 a merry time a few hours later. But he was 
 only seven years old, and too young to real- 
 ize what a wonderful thing he had done. 
 But this he did know : he was going to have a 
 great deal of pleasure. And beside the car- 
 nival fun there w^as the joy of looking for- 
 ward to the morrow, when Gian Barile 
 would see his drawing, for he was said by 
 Florentines to be a most excellent painter. 
 
 Morning in the bottega of the goldsmith 
 was a very busy time. Tools must be 
 ground, and knives sharpened, and metal 
 prepared for the melting-pot. Then, too, 
 chiseling and shaping and carving began on 
 new articles, and there was always finishing 
 on those left over from the day before. So 
 Andrea and Leonardo worked busily, while 
 the master carved away at the bowl. They 
 talked and laughed as they bent to their 
 tasks, for now that he had a design that 
 suited him, Josefo was in a jolly mood, and 
 when Beatrice, the gay street-singer, put her 
 head in at the window, he did not scold, but 
 called to her in a merry jest. Together they
 
 1 66 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 chatted about yesterday's carnival, and after 
 a while came Gian Barile, to lounge and gos- 
 sip for an hour. 
 
 Andrea saw him saunter up the via, and 
 as he came in through the loggia whispered 
 to Leonardo, ''Do you think he will really 
 show him my drawing?" 
 
 And even as they held their heads to- 
 gether, Josefo unrolled the parchment. 
 
 "What think you of this for the work of 
 a lad?" he asked, as Barile appeared at the 
 door. 
 
 The painter shook his head. 
 
 *'No lad did that. Or, if it be really true, 
 let me see him, and I will show you another 
 Giotto or Tiziano or perhaps a Leonardo." 
 
 And Leonardo the journeyman jumped so 
 that he dropped one of the costliest tools, 
 which would have brought a stern rebuke 
 at any other time. But the master did not 
 notice it. His mind was upon other things. 
 
 "Aye, aye," he insisted, "upon the word of 
 an honest Florentine it is the work of a lad, 
 and he but a seven-year-old ; young Andrea, 
 the tailor's son."
 
 'Upon the word of an hone.-;t Florentine it is the work of a lad"
 
 THE BORDER WONDERFUL 169 
 
 For a minute Barile did not speak. Per- 
 haps he was silent over the marvel of what 
 the boy had done. Perhaps he thought of 
 how he might aid him. He just stood and 
 looked into the dark eyes, then said slowly, 
 "If you will study faithfully, there will come 
 a day when you will paint more gloriously 
 than I can ever hope to." 
 
 And Andrea believed he must have heard 
 wrong, for Barile was one of the celebrated 
 artists of his time. 
 
 Then a thought troubled him. 
 
 Perhaps his father would not let him do it. 
 He had been eager to have him become a 
 goldsmith, and might think he could not be 
 an artist. So Barile went home with him 
 that night, and as they talked it over, the 
 tailor said his advice seemed good, and he 
 would let his boy follow it. 
 
 Which delighted Andrea so much that he 
 ran as fast as he could to the pomegranate- 
 shaded house where Beatrice lived, to tell 
 her he was going to be a painter. 
 
 "That will be splendid !" she cried, as she 
 clapped her sun-browned hands; "and when
 
 170 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 you are great, I will come and sing for you." 
 And they laughed together, thinking how 
 fine it would be. 
 
 So, soon after he began his apprenticeship 
 to the goldsmith, Andrea left it to work with 
 brushes and pigments. He was a studious 
 and faithful pupil, and progressed so rapidly 
 that Barile soon realized he needed a better 
 master, and spoke concerning him to Piero 
 di Cosimo, the most renowned teacher of 
 Florence, who agreed to take him under his 
 care. Then came years of work, hard, un- 
 ceasing, but happy work, for Andrea loved 
 his brushes and canvases, and Cosimo loved 
 his pupil, until he became so skilful with pig- 
 ments that people said it seemed as if he had 
 used them for half a century. Nothing de- 
 lighted him as much as to blend his precious 
 colors, and, while other lads loitered in the 
 streets or roamed along the Arno, he painted 
 in the shop of Cosimo, improving hour by 
 hour and day by day, until all of Barile's 
 prophecies concerning him were fulfilled, and 
 Florence gloried in the thought of having 
 produced another immortal. 
 
 So it was n't bad, after all, that he had to
 
 THE BORDER WONDERFUL 171 
 
 stay in the workshop that carnival morn, for, 
 although it seemed a hardship then, it 
 brought him to the notice of Gian Barile, and 
 the world came to have one more master 
 painter. Almost four centuries have gone 
 since he lived and worked, but artists still 
 marvel at the beauty of his pictures, and 
 strive, but always unsuccessfully, to copy 
 their exquisite design and hue. Beatrice, 
 singing away the hours under the pomegran- 
 ates or along the sun-kissed vias, thought 
 him a foolish boy for working so hard, for 
 she could not understand that it was a divine 
 thing that kept him at his pigments and 
 would make him live forever. 
 
 And what became of the border he drew 
 on parchment in the old hottegaf Na 
 one knows. Perhaps Josefo treasured it 
 throughout his lifetime. Perhaps he sold it 
 or gave it away. But that cannot be proven, 
 because nothing is known of Josefo. His 
 very name would have been forgotten long 
 ago, had it not happened that once, for a very 
 short time, he had an apprentice boy who 
 gave him a deal of trouble drawing pictures 
 when he should have been assorting tools.
 
 172 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 But what then seemed wasted hours have 
 proven to be hours well spent, for the lad 
 grew to be an honor to his city and a glory 
 to his land. And to this day, because he was 
 the child of a maker of garments, he, like 
 Tintoretto, the Venetian dyer's son, is still 
 designated by his father's craft, and is 
 known to the world as Andrea del Sarto.
 
 THE WONDER-CHILD OF 
 WARSAW
 
 X 
 
 THE WONDER-CHILD OF WARSAW 
 
 THEY said he was nine years old, but 
 he was so Httle and deUcate looking 
 that he seemed not a day over seven; and 
 when the great Niemcewicz, a famous Polish 
 writer, saw him standing in the doorway, 
 watching the snow float down like fairy rose 
 leaves, he was sure he had made a mistake 
 and looked again at the address on the paper. 
 But there it was, plain as ever an address was 
 written; and since this was the street and 
 number, of course this must be the boy. Yet 
 how could it be— the sensitive-faced, fragile 
 child, with his shock of curly hair and wide 
 dark eyes that gleamed like living jewels — 
 how could he be the lad of whom such won- 
 derful tales were told in Warsaw? 
 
 And for a minute he just stood and won- 
 dered. And while he wondered, Frederic 
 wondered too, but about something very dif- 
 
 175
 
 176 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 ferent from what was in the mind of the 
 poet. Who was this velvet-coated stranger 
 who rode in a carriage with a coat of arms 
 and wore a crimson-plumed bonnet fine 
 enough for a king ? Great folk did not often 
 come to his home, and something very impor- 
 tant must have brought this man there. 
 
 Then a fear went through his mind. 
 Could it be the prefect of police come to ar- 
 rest him? And he wished he had not run 
 away that morning to watch the skaters on 
 the ice-bound Vistula. 
 
 The man had stepped out of the carriage 
 and was coming up the steps now, looking 
 straight at Frederic with his dark, piercing 
 eyes. Yes, surely it must be the police offi- 
 cial, and the boy wanted to run away and 
 hide. But before he had a chance even to 
 turn, the stranger called to him. 
 
 "Are you Frederic Chopin?" he asked. 
 
 And Frederic was so badly frightened he 
 could hardly answer. 
 
 "Yes ; but please, please don't take me this 
 time !" he begged, as his eyes filled with tears. 
 "I'll never run away again." 
 
 At his words and actions the man looked
 
 WONDER-CHILD OF WARSAW 177 
 
 much surprised, and spoke as if to explain 
 something: 
 
 "Why, I did n't—" 
 
 But before he had time to finish the sen- 
 tence Madame Chopin opened the door. 
 Seeing her little lad in tears, she did not 
 know what it meant. 
 
 But Niemcewicz told her what Frederic 
 had said. Then she knew all about it — knew 
 how badly frightened he was at the thought 
 of going to prison, and she laid her hand lov- 
 ingly on his dark curls. 
 
 Niemcewicz stood looking at her gentle 
 eyes — they were dark, and big and brilliant 
 like Frederic's — and he thought what a fair 
 woman she was. 
 
 *Toor little Frederic!" she said in a voice 
 that was like low music. **He ran away this 
 morning to watch the skaters on the river, 
 which is a very dangerous pastime for little 
 boys, because horses might tread them under- 
 foot or the city streets swallow them up and 
 lose them; and his father declared that if it 
 ever happened again he would surely put it 
 into the hands of the police. But I think it 
 never will."
 
 178 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 And Frederic's big eyes looked bigger and 
 darker than ever. 
 
 "No, it never will/* he promised; *'so 
 please let me go this time. I did n't mean to 
 be bad, truly I did n't. I could n't help go- 
 ing, because I knew they would sing as they 
 skated, and I love to hear their songs." 
 
 And Madame Chopin nodded her head, be- 
 cause she knew it was true. Niemcewicz 
 nodded too, for he, like all Warsaw, had 
 heard that Frederic loved music as butterflies 
 love sunshine, and his voice was almost as 
 gentle as the mother's when he spoke. 
 
 "Don't be afraid," he comforted. "I 
 did n't come to take you to prison, because I 
 am not the prefect of police. And even if I 
 were, I know you '11 never run away again. 
 But I did come to see just you, Master 
 Frederic Chopin." 
 
 Which caused Madame Chopin to wonder 
 a very great deal. But she was a gently born 
 woman, and her courtesy was greater than 
 her curiosity. So she invited him to come 
 inside and led the way to the living-room, 
 where the boy's sisters, Emily and Louisa
 
 WONDER-CHILD OF WARSAW 179 
 
 and Justinia, were bending over their em- 
 broidery. 
 
 It was a small room and plainly furnished, 
 not at all like the ones to which the poet was 
 accustomed; but brightness and cheer were 
 there, and he knew it was not just an abiding 
 place but a home. The cat nodded beside 
 the piano-stool that was Frederic's wonted 
 place, and over the instrument hung a fine 
 old painting, brought by Nicholas Chopin 
 from France when he came to Warsaw some 
 fifteen years before. For he was a son of 
 the Southland, of the sweet, green country 
 of Lorraine, who had married a Polish 
 woman. So in Frederic's veins were 
 mingled the warm, red blood of the Latin and 
 the warm, red blood of the Slav, both of 
 whom see visions and dream dreams. 
 
 The fire on the open hearth sent long 
 bright tongues up toward the chimney, and 
 as they walked near it, Niemcewicz spoke 
 some words to Madame Chopin that the chil- 
 dren did not understand. But certainly they 
 were pleasant words ; for when they were fin- 
 ished, the mother threw her arms about the
 
 i8o BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 boy and exclaimed, ''Frederic, this is Pan 
 [Mr.] Niemcewicz, come to ask you to play 
 at a concert." 
 
 And he was as much surprised as he had 
 been frightened a few moments before. No 
 prison cell for him, but a lovely invitation ! 
 
 ''Yes," the man spoke ; "and if you do, you 
 will be helping the poor of Warsaw, because 
 all the ticket money is to be given to them." 
 
 And the big dark eyes brightened as he 
 said : "Oh, I should like that ! Please let me 
 do it, Mother. Please!" 
 
 And the smile on Madame Chopin's face 
 said, as plainly as words could say, "Yes." 
 
 So it was decided, and a little later the poet 
 Niemcewicz went out of the house and drove 
 away through the whirling snow, leaving be- 
 hind him Emily and Louisa and Justinia 
 much excited. It would be very splendid to 
 have their brother play before the great of 
 Warsaw, and they wanted to go out and 
 spread the news throughout the neighbor- 
 hood. 
 
 But Frederic was n't excited at all. Of 
 course it was delightful to think of helping 
 the poor, but he had played before people so
 
 WONDER-CHILD OF WARSAW i8i 
 
 often that it seemed just a usual event. And 
 not until the next day, when his father 
 brought home a new suit for him to wear, did 
 it seem like a great occasion. But at sight of 
 the velvet coat and broad white collar with 
 its frill of lace he wanted the concert to begin 
 immediately so he could wear them, and 
 thought Pan Niemcewicz must be a sort of 
 fairy godfather, for, if he had n't come to ask 
 him to play, the splendid clothes would not 
 have been bought. It was still fifteen days 
 until the appointed night, and it seemed as if 
 they would never pass. He began to think 
 that men who say February is the shortest 
 month in the year are mistaken, and that 
 surely it is the longest, for although the day 
 would wane and the night would come, there 
 was always another day and then another 
 night, and still no concert time. But at last 
 the much desired occasion came, and arrayed 
 in his velvet suit with its splendid collar he 
 walked across the stage of the concert-hall, 
 as proud as a young prince. 
 
 The great lords and ladies in the audience 
 looked surprised. He was small for his age, 
 and so slender and delicate that he looked
 
 i82 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 younger than he was, and one powerful noble 
 said in a loud whisper, "Why does Niemce- 
 wicz bring us to hear a baby when he might 
 have had a man who could play well ?" 
 
 And he expected to be very much annoyed. 
 
 Little Frederic sat down and began to play, 
 first somewhat hesitatingly, for the piano 
 was not the accustomed one of his home, and 
 the action was a trifle strange. But in a mo- 
 ment the keys and his fingers seemed to un- 
 derstand each other, and he played as never a 
 child of Warsaw had played before. The 
 lords and ladies in the audience sat very 
 straight and very still, and, when he finished, 
 applauded with hand and voice. Even the 
 Grand Duke Constantine, who seldom gave 
 praise to any one, called ''Bravo! bravo!" 
 while the noble who had blamed Niemcewicz 
 for bringing the boy there, sought the poet's 
 side and exclaimed, "Surely he is Poland's 
 wonder-child, even as little Mozart was Aus- 
 tria's! Have him come out again!" 
 
 So the child played again to the silently 
 listening throng, after which the applause 
 thundered once more and some of the ladies 
 had tears in their eyes.
 
 WONDER-CHILD OF WARSAW 183 
 
 And what thought little Frederic ? Oh, he 
 was very much pleased. He was too young 
 to understand how marvelous was the music 
 that he had made, and thought they ap- 
 plauded because they liked his clothes. So a 
 little later, when he went home and his 
 mother asked him which number the people 
 liked best, he said, "Oh, Mama, everybody 
 was looking at my collar." 
 
 But he was much mistaken, for most of 
 them had n't noticed his collar. They saw 
 only a wonder-child with a mop of curly hair 
 and eyes like living jewels. 
 
 A year passed, and many times since that 
 concert had carriages of noblemen come to 
 the humble Chopin house. The high-born 
 folk of Warsaw petted the little musician and 
 made his life very bright, and he had so many 
 invitations that his mother said he no longer 
 belonged to her, but to all of Poland ; which 
 was true, for a genius belongs not only to 
 his family, but to his country and the world. 
 His father was only a teacher and not rich, 
 but very often the boy went as a guest to 
 some splendid castle of his land, where he 
 lived the life of a young noble, and Polish
 
 i84 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 nobles of those days lived luxuriously in- 
 deed. They loved his sunny youth and joy- 
 ous ways ; loved the melody he drew from the 
 piano ; and always, when they heard him, said 
 that some day he would bring honor to his 
 name and glory to Poland. 
 
 Then something happened that brought 
 him both joy and sorrow. 
 
 It was January, and Catalani, a great 
 Italian singer, with a voice of gold and a face 
 of ivory and rose, came into snow-wrapped 
 Warsaw. Great was the excitement there, 
 for Poland was a music-loving land, and she 
 was the empress of song of her day. Up 
 from Italy she came to sing the melodies 
 of the South in the frozen North; and people 
 talked of it in the streets and at the public 
 meeting-places. 
 
 "We will fill the concert-hall," said one, 
 "and prove to her that we Poles love the 
 best." 
 
 "Yes," his neighbor answered, "and we 
 will take our children to hear her too, so that 
 long after childhood is past they will remem- 
 ber Catalini, the great singer."
 
 WONDER-CHILD OF WARSAW 185 
 
 One of the first to hear the news was 
 Nicholas Chopin. 
 
 ''It is rare good fortune for us of War- 
 saw," he announced as they sat at supper 
 that night. "She will give four concerts 
 here in the town hall." 
 
 At the words Frederic gave a shout. 
 
 "Catalani to sing!" he exclaimed. "Oh, 
 Father, I want to hear her !" 
 
 And the big man nodded in reply. 
 
 "That you shall, my Frederic, because I 
 know it will make you very happy." 
 
 And Frederic's heart beat faster at the 
 thought that he was to hear the greatest 
 singer of her time, and one of the greatest 
 of all time. Nothing so wonderful had hap- 
 pened in his short life, not even when he 
 played at the charity concert and wore his 
 velvet suit and lace-trimmed collar. And as 
 he sat beside his mother, among the great 
 lords and ladies assembled in the music-hall 
 on the eventful night, he scarcely breathed, 
 for Catalani was singing, and all the jewels, 
 all the flowers, and all the gorgeous colors 
 ever dreamed of seemed mingled in her tones,
 
 i86 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 and, as they floated out, wonderful pictures 
 passed before his eyes. Sometimes it seemed 
 as if a thousand streams purled over a rain- 
 bow meadow, sometimes as if elves and 
 sprites were floating through the air. He 
 shut his eyes, but still he saw the pictures, 
 which seemed very strange. For he did not 
 know that the rainbow colors were not in the 
 concert-hall, but in his own soul, and were 
 painted there by the music because he was a 
 wonder-child. 
 
 Thrice after that night he heard Catalani 
 sing, and every time he dreamed dreams and 
 went off into that realm whose gates open 
 only to those who have rainbows in their 
 souls. Then, like the most beautiful dream 
 of all, she asked him to play for her. Niem- 
 cewicz the poet brought the news, and al- 
 though he seemed a sort of fairy godfather 
 who could make anything come to pass, 
 Frederic could hardly believe it was true. 
 For how could the golden-voiced singer know 
 of a lad like him? But she did know, be- 
 cause the Grand Duke Constantine and other 
 great folk of Warsaw had told her all about 
 him, and she wanted to hear the music of the
 
 WONDER-CHILD OF WARSAW 187 
 
 boy who was called a wonder-child. So he 
 was dressed in his best, just as he was dressed 
 the night of the charity concert, and drove 
 away to the castle in whose music-room he 
 was to play. 
 
 A throng of noble folk welcomed him, and 
 the great piano there responded like a living 
 thing to the magic of his fingers. Catalani 
 heard, and, hearing, thought with the others 
 that he was, indeed, a wonder-child; and 
 when he finished, she applauded and said as 
 lovely things as song-loving Warsaw said 
 about her singing, which made him very 
 happy. Then regal Princess Lowica, the 
 Grand Duke Constantine, Count and Coun- 
 tess Skarbeck, and golden-haired Countess 
 Potocka came close to the piano, saying 
 gracious things and petting him so that he 
 seemed like a little king receiving homage, 
 and all in all it was the most splendid holiday 
 he had ever known. 
 
 But suddenly the blue went out of his skies 
 and the music out of his world, for Catalani 
 asked him to tell her his birthday. That 
 seemed a terrible thing, for although he 
 could do wonders at the piano, he couldn't
 
 i88 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 remember his birthday, no matter how hard 
 he tried. His mother had told him over and 
 over again, but he always got it mixed, and 
 did n't know if it was the twelfth of February 
 or the twenty-second, or the twenty-second 
 of March. 
 
 So he hung his head and said, "I don't 
 know, but one is coming soon." 
 
 At which all the lords and ladies laughed, 
 and the singer remarked, "I must surely find 
 out when it is !" 
 
 He was so full of shame about it that he 
 had to bite his lips to keep back the tears, 
 and, as he drove home with Niemcewicz, 
 though the sun was shining and the skies 
 clear, everything looked black and cloudy 
 to him. Catalani, golden-voiced Catalani, 
 would think him a stupid, and he had been so 
 eager to have her like him. But there were 
 some things little Frederic did n't know. 
 
 Madame Catalani had said she would find 
 out when his birthday came, and find out she 
 did, for early in the morning of that day a 
 messenger came to the house where more 
 than a year before Niemcewicz the poet had
 
 WONDER-CHILD OF WARSAW 191 
 
 come to ask a big-eyed boy to play at a char- 
 ity concert. He struck the iron knocker on 
 the door, spoke a few words to Emily, and 
 went away ; and a minute later Madame Cho- 
 pin called, "A package for you, Frederic." 
 
 Frederic came on the run, as any boy 
 would do when it is his birthday and pack- 
 ages come. Then he pulled off the wrapper 
 and saw something that made his eyes dance. 
 
 "A watch. Mother, a watch !" he shouted. 
 
 And upon the shining gold case was en- 
 graved the date and the words, ''Given by 
 Madame Catalani to Frederic Chopin, aged 
 ten years." 
 
 Which made him so glad that he broke 
 into a dance that his sister Louisa said 
 was neither polonaise nor mazurka, but the 
 mother knew it was a dance of joy. "Oh !" 
 he exclaimed, *'oh, oh, oh! She likes me 
 even if I did n't know." 
 
 And he stood by the window looking out 
 across the snow, seeing in memory the singer 
 of the Southland with her face of ivory and 
 rose. 
 
 Well, from that day forth Frederic re- 
 membered his birthday. Who wouldn't
 
 192 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 with a watch Hke that? For whenever he 
 forgot, one look set him right, and he went 
 on thinking Catalani was one of the sweetest 
 women in the world as well as the most glori- 
 ous singer. And he worked at his music, 
 too, playing more wonderfully than any child 
 had played since the boy Mozart, until, when 
 he grew older and went to seek his fortune 
 in Paris, the great of the French capital 
 honored the man as the great of Warsaw 
 had honored the boy ; and there was no home 
 so splendid or so exclusive that it shut its 
 doors to him. 
 
 But he was always the slender, delicate 
 man, just as he was the slender, delicate child 
 whose frail appearance almost made the poet 
 Niemcewiez think he was not the lad he 
 sought ; and he died at the early age of forty. 
 But sometimes, when the heart is great and 
 full, short lives are as rich in achievement as 
 those that stretch out to four score years and 
 ten. And so it was with Chopin. He gave 
 more to the world than many have given who 
 have lived to be twice his age, because noth- 
 ing but his best seemed fine enough to give, 
 and of that he wanted to give abundantly.
 
 WONDER-CHILD OF WARSAW 193 
 
 So with infinite care and patience he labored 
 to make each composition nobler and more 
 beautiful than the preceding one, more 
 nearly what seemed to be the perfect fruit of 
 his soul and brain. 
 
 And he never ceased to love his Slavic 
 land. Memories of his childhood home in 
 Warsaw, of the quaint old houses and wind- 
 ing streets, of the nobles in whose castles he 
 had spent so many golden hours, of the shim- 
 mering, restless Vistula, where peasants 
 sang as they rocked in their boats through 
 summer twilights, sang too as they whirled 
 on the glistening ice in the long white win- 
 ters, were ever with the exile there in Paris, 
 and were ever dear — so dear that he made 
 his best music when his heart was in Poland. 
 
 More than sixty years have passed since 
 his melody-making ended and he went to his 
 rest beside Bellini and Cherubini in quiet 
 Pere Lachaise. But his music still lives on, 
 still is loved, is exquisitely beautiful. For 
 beauty, like truth and goodness, is immortal ; 
 and as long as the world loves melody, it 
 will revere the name of that wonder-child of 
 Warsaw, Frederic Chopin.
 
 THE LIGHT OF GUIDO'S LAMP
 
 XI 
 
 THE LIGHT OF GUIDO'S LAMP 
 
 THE street was as silent as a deserted 
 place, for it was midnight, and the 
 only human sound that broke the velvet still- 
 ness was the slow, measured tread of Cam- 
 bisti the town crier, as he tramped up and 
 down on his beat. Now he cast eye along 
 the via at the homes of the populace, now 
 across toward the Gothic towers of the 
 Bolognini Palace, that rose ghostly gray 
 among the chestnut trees, crying "All 's well ! 
 All 's well !" And all was well, for the ducal 
 guards were alert in every danger place, and 
 the people of Bologna slept. 
 
 Suddenly he stopped and stared with won- 
 dering eyes. Out from a window above him 
 shone a streak of light, not strong and bril- 
 liant, like the gleam of the many tapers 
 Bologna folk used to brighten their festive 
 197
 
 198 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 halls, but a weak, pale ray, as if from a single 
 fat lamp. It came from the home of Reni 
 the musician, and the crier thought it 
 strange, for he knew Master Daniele had 
 gone early to his house that evening, saying 
 he was tired and wanted to get to rest. 
 
 "Mayhap some one is ill and needs minis- 
 tering unto," he thought. And that he 
 might not disturb a suffering one, he went 
 quietly down the street without calling out 
 in his accustomed way. 
 
 The next morning he met Master Reni in 
 the Piazza del Nettuno, and asked him the 
 meaning of the lamp in the night. The mu- 
 sician seemed much surprised. 
 
 "What do you mean?" he questioned. 
 "No one was ill in my house and no lamp 
 burned there." 
 
 But when Cambisti insisted he had seen a 
 gleam from the window, Daniele looked 
 frightened. 
 
 "Can it be that thieves were in," he ex- 
 claimed, and asked the crier to go with him 
 and find out. 
 
 But there was no trace of pilfering in the 
 house. Nothing was missing nor had been
 
 THE LIGHT OF GUIDO'S LAMP 199 
 
 disturbed, and then the musician laughed 
 heartily at the watchman. 
 
 "A fine employee of the duke you are," he 
 teased. "You sleep on your beat and see 
 things in dreams. It must be so, for now I 
 am convinced that no light burned in my 
 house last night." 
 
 Although Cambisti did not understand it, 
 he did not press the subject. He had no lik- 
 ing for being the butt of any man's jokes, and 
 he knew the ray from Master Reni's window 
 was no dream light. He made up his mind 
 to watch again, for the musician's conduct 
 had aroused his suspicions, and he wondered 
 if his fear of thieves had been feigned. It 
 might be that some dark plot was being con- 
 cocted there, for certain men of the populace 
 had lately berated the ruling of the Duke of 
 Bologna, and although Master Daniele was 
 not suspected of being of the number, he 
 would watch and find out, as befitted a town 
 crier. So as soon as darkness fell, he betook 
 him to the street by the musician's house. 
 
 Three times, five, seven, he walked to the 
 spot and peered up at the window from which 
 the light had shone the night before, but not
 
 200 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 the faintest ray pierced the darkness. He 
 decided that pilferers had gone there, and 
 finding nothing to their liking, departed with- 
 out leaving any trace — or, as Master Reni 
 had said, maybe he had slept on his beat and 
 dreamed of the light. And thus musing, he 
 started down the street. 
 
 Just then the hour bell in the castle tower 
 rang, and turning in the direction of the 
 sound he happened to look toward the Reni 
 windows. His eyes opened wide, and he 
 stood and stared, for shining out, just as it 
 had shone the night before, was a pale, faint 
 light. ''So," he murmured. "Cambisti does 
 not dream on his beat, after all, as Master 
 Reni shall learn." 
 
 And hurrying up to the door, he rattled the 
 knocker. 
 
 The musician was sleeping soundly when 
 the thumping on the sash awakened him, and 
 as he detested being roused from sleep, he 
 went scowling and grumbling to the door. 
 
 ''What idiot comes at this hour to disturb 
 an honest man's rest?" he muttered as he 
 thrust back the bolt.
 
 THE LIGHT OF GUIDO'S LAMP 201 
 
 ''Master Daniele," Cambist! said in a 
 whisper, "just step outside and find out 
 whether I dream of Hghts or see them." 
 
 Reni was thoroughly awake now, and a Ht- 
 tle alarmed. Still, he half believed the man 
 had turned demented. 
 
 'Tt would be small wonder if he had," he 
 thought as he followed him down the steps, 
 "with twenty years of town crying." 
 
 But suddenly that idea went out of his 
 head. No, the night watch was in full pos- 
 session of his senses. A light shone from 
 the window just as he had said. Thieves 
 must be abroad, and he shivered, for the ray 
 came from his little son's room. 
 
 "And he but a baby, too," he thought. 
 
 They held a whispered consultation about 
 what to do, decided to summon help, and go 
 to the place where the light burned. So Reni 
 ran to the house of a neighbor and Cambisti 
 to call some soldiers of the guard. It would 
 be folly for an unarmed citizen and a town 
 crier who was no longer young to go into the 
 house alone, for well they knew the terrible 
 nature of the dreaded Bologna banditti, who
 
 202 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 were skilled in the use of sword and halberd 
 and whose blows were swift and sure. Such 
 men did not venture into possible danger 
 without being prepared for it, and they who 
 surprised them in their evil doing must be 
 strong and ready, for it meant a battle. 
 
 Five minutes later six soldiers, the night 
 watch, and the two citizens crept up the nar- 
 row stairway that led from the street. They 
 were not cowards, these men of Bologna, yet 
 they trembled a bit at the thought of the 
 possible fate that awaited them In the 
 lighted room. Cautiously, silently moving, 
 they reached the door, and each poised his 
 weapon ready to strike as Cambist! thrust it 
 open. 
 
 Then, what a sight met their eyes! In 
 the middle of the floor, smiling as if the joy 
 of the world were in his heart, a curly-haired 
 child bent over a paper, drawing by the light 
 of a fat lamp. It was Reni's nine-year-old 
 son, and he was so absorbed in what he was 
 doing that he did not see the group standing 
 behind him, or turn from his work until his 
 father exclaimed, "Guido!" 
 
 Then he glanced up, and noticing the
 
 THE LIGHT OF GUIDO'S LAMP 203 
 
 armed men, looked in a startled way from 
 one to the other. But before he could ask 
 what it meant, Daniele Reni questioned 
 sharply, "What are you doing there?" 
 
 A look of terror flashed across his face, 
 for his father's angry voice and the presence 
 of the soldiers were something he could not 
 understand. He caught up the paper over 
 which he had been bending as if it were a 
 precious thing, and his lip quivered as he 
 answered, ''Making pictures." 
 
 Daniele Reni was more severe than ever. 
 
 "Where did you get that lamp?" he de- 
 manded. 
 
 Guido did not drop his eyes as if he felt 
 guilty and had something to conceal, but 
 looked steadily into his father's face, reply- 
 ing, 'T bought it with my birthday money. 
 Uncle Vittorio told me to spend it for the 
 thing I liked best." 
 
 The musician walked close, looking sternly 
 at his son. 
 
 "A fine way for you to make a laughing 
 stock of me !" he thundered. "Now get you 
 back to bed." 
 
 And blowing out the light, he took the
 
 204 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 lamp with him, and he and his companions 
 went down-stairs, while the child behind in 
 the dark wondered what it all meant. 
 
 As soon as they were beyond Guido's hear- 
 ing Cambisti and the soldiers laughed up- 
 roarously, but Reni did not share their mer- 
 riment. He scowled and frowned as they 
 talked, picturing to himself how the towns- 
 folk would jeer him when the word was 
 noised abroad. 
 
 *'It's no mirthful thing to me!" he ex- 
 claimed. 'That lad cares for nothing but 
 drawing. I wish him to be a musician, 
 which is the calling of the men of my house, 
 but he seems worthless and will not stay at 
 the harpsichord. Thinking to break him of 
 his everlasting picture-making I took paper 
 away from him, but he marked on the walls 
 at night. Then his mother hid the lamp and 
 made him go to bed in the dark, but he has 
 contrived to get another and some more 
 drawing stufif, and what I am to do with him 
 baffles me." 
 
 The soldiers nodded sympathetically, and 
 Cambisti and the neighbor went away, thank- 
 ful that God had sent them daughters instead
 
 THE LIGHT OF GUIDO'S LAMP 205 
 
 of boys who might worry them as young 
 Guido worried Daniele. 
 
 At that time Bologna was the seat of one 
 of the most elegant and cultured courts of 
 Italy. Nowhere were there finer concerts 
 than in the great hall of the Bolognini Palace, 
 nowhere were there nobler paintings, more 
 exquisite statues, or more splendid tapestries 
 than those possessed by the ducal family. 
 The lord of the province was a lover of art, 
 and creators in every line were invited to 
 his capitol. Thus it happened that Daniele 
 Reni, whose musical ability was recognized 
 throughout Bologna, was summoned to the 
 royal seat one day to assist with his bagpipes 
 at a concert. It was less than a week after 
 they found Guido drawing in the night, and 
 his wife suggested that he take the lad with 
 him. 
 
 "Perhaps the fine music he hears will lead 
 him to care for the harpsichord," she re- 
 marked as she made the proposition. 
 
 Daniele nodded agreement, thinking it a 
 good idea, and a few hours later when he 
 went to the royal residence young Guido 
 trotted along beside him.
 
 2o6 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 The boy was very happy in the thought of 
 going to the palace, and his father was 
 pleased, for he believed the idea of hearing 
 the splendid music delighted him. But al- 
 though Master Reni was a good piper he 
 was a poor guesser, and did not know what 
 was in his son's mind. If he had, he would 
 have left him at home. 
 
 To the lad the trip meant a sight of glori- 
 ous pictures, a glimpse of the works of the 
 master painters of Italy. He knew the Duke 
 of Bologna loved music, but he knew he loved 
 color too, and that was why his eyes gleamed 
 so pleasurably as he and his father hurried 
 along the via. 
 
 They did not stop to look at any of the 
 sights along the way, although it was May- 
 time and the gardens were gay in their blos- 
 som dresses. Rapidly they walked along the 
 broad Via Castiglione, past the rich gateways 
 and imposing colonnades of the Pepoli Pal- 
 ace, until the spacious piazza of Santo Ste- 
 fano spread out before them. Beyond, 
 majestic in its Gothic splendor, was the 
 Bolognini Palace, set in the midst of a park 
 whose beauty was celebrated from the Alps
 
 THE LIGHT OF GUIDO'S LAMP 207 
 
 to the Bay of Naples. Daniele Reni told his 
 son he might play under the trees until a 
 page summoned him into the concert hall, 
 for a rehearsal was to precede the perform- 
 ance, and he wanted the boy to hear the 
 music in its perfection rather than in the 
 crudity of the making. 
 
 Young Guido liked the idea much, for 
 there was many a fountain and grotto and 
 bit of copsewood there that he wanted to ex- 
 amine. In his delight at finding so many 
 interesting things he forgot that he had 
 been told to stay close to the Santo Stefano 
 entrance, and began to ramble about as if 
 he had the entire day to spend in the gar- 
 den. Now it was a sculptured fountain 
 that claimed his attention, now a trellised 
 path along which ladies of the castle went 
 on their way to the bath, now an aviary 
 where tropical birds flashed their gorgeous 
 plumage, vying in color and splendor 
 with the roses and pomegranate flowers be- 
 yond. 
 
 Now it happened that the Lord of Bologna 
 not only patronized artists by inviting them 
 to give concerts at the palace and embellish-
 
 2o8 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 ing his halls with their work, but sometimes 
 he gave them apartments and board and keep, 
 that they might be free to create unworried 
 by the thought of rent and food bills. Not 
 long before Dionisio Calvart, a famous 
 Flemish painter, had established a workshop 
 and school under the protection of the 
 beauty-loving noble, and young Guido, in 
 the course of his ramble, came upon his 
 studio. 
 
 The lad felt that he had entered a wonder- 
 land. His eyes flashed as he saw the mar- 
 vels of brush and color there, his face bright- 
 ened as if electrified, and one of Dionisio's 
 pupils, seeing the delight which his every 
 look and gesture expressed, called the 
 teacher. 
 
 Calvart turned from his canvas and looked 
 at the boy, who was standing before a 
 madonna, making strokes with his hands 
 as if they held an imaginary brush, study- 
 ing every line and hue of the pictured 
 face. 
 
 ''What are you doing?" the painter asked 
 kindly, wondering at such interest being 
 shown by one so young.
 
 THE LIGHT OF GUIDO'S LAMP 209 
 
 Guido turned toward him with wonder- 
 wide eyes. 
 
 "Oh, the picture !" he exclaimed. "li only 
 I could paint like that! If only father 
 would let me try !" 
 
 Master Calvart left his work and went 
 over to where the lad stood. 
 
 "Do you want to be a painter?" he asked. 
 
 Guido nodded. 
 
 "Indeed I do. But father is a musician, 
 and says I must be one too. He took my 
 things away so I could n't draw any pictures 
 but those I made in the dust. Then Uncle 
 Vittorio gave me some birthday money, and 
 I bought a lamp and paper and worked at 
 night. But he took that, too, before I had a 
 chance to finish my drawings." 
 
 And he pulled from his blouse a roll of 
 papers and held them up for the artist to see. 
 
 Calvart examined them curiously, and 
 asked how old he was. 
 
 "Nine last week," Guido replied. "My 
 birthday is just past." 
 
 Again the man looked at the drawings, 
 murmuring, "Only nine! The wonder of 
 it!"
 
 210 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 His approval was so evident to the pupils 
 that they turned from their work and gazed 
 from boy to master, eager to know what he 
 would say next. 
 
 There was a sound of footsteps in the cor- 
 ridor outside, and a moment later the duke 
 came into the studio. All rose to greet 
 him, and Calvart put the drawings into his 
 hand. 
 
 ''See what this boy has done," he said. 
 "He tells me he is just nine." 
 
 Little Guido was much surprised. Were 
 they very good or very bad, he won- 
 dered, that the painter showed them to the 
 duke. 
 
 The Lord of Bologna understood art as 
 well as he loved it. For a moment he stud- 
 ied the drawings, then spoke in a kindly 
 voice. 
 
 "You did them without help?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, sire," Guido replied. 
 
 Then, as other questions were put, he told 
 the story of his struggle to draw. 
 
 "So you are the son of Daniele Reni?" the 
 noble remarked. "Well, we will see about 
 it."
 
 THE LIGHT OF GUIDO'S LAMP 21 1 
 
 Suddenly Guido happened to remember he 
 was to have waited in the park near the 
 Santo Stefano gate. 
 
 "Oh!" he exclaimed in dismay. ''Father 
 will be angry with me. Maybe he has sent 
 for me already." 
 
 The Duke of Bologna laid his hand on the 
 boy's shoulder. 
 
 "Have no fear," he spoke. "I '11 take you 
 to your father, and I promise you he will not 
 be angry with you." 
 
 So together they went, and imagine the 
 surprise of Daniele Reni, just as the pipers 
 were beginning the opening number, to see 
 his boy Guido enter the music hall with the 
 Lord of Bologna. And both man and child 
 smiled happily, so it could not be that he had 
 gotten into mischief about the castle. What 
 did it mean? 
 
 He did not have to wonder long, for the 
 duke stopped the concert to ask him a ques- 
 tion. 
 
 "Is this your son, Reni?" he inquired. 
 
 "Yes," the amazed man answered. 
 
 The noble turned to the boy. 
 
 "Now tell him, and tell him the truth," he
 
 212 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 said. ''Do you want to be an artist or a 
 musician?" 
 
 Young Guido's eyes darkened with ear- 
 nestness as he spoke. 
 
 "Sire, I want to be a painter," came the 
 reply. 
 
 Then, turning to the father, the duke 
 asked, "What think you of it, Daniele?" 
 
 The man at the bagpipe shook his head. 
 
 *Tt is my wish that he be a musician and 
 follow the calling of the men of my house, 
 which to my notion is a most noble one." 
 
 The great noble mused for a moment, 
 while the people wondered what would hap- 
 pen next. He was a kindly man, and wanted 
 to persuade, even though he had the author- 
 ity to command. So he said gently, "To be 
 sure, yours is a noble calling, but that of the 
 painter is noble also, and since your boy 
 shows such aptitude for being a son of brush 
 and canvas, why not let him follow his desire 
 and become one?" 
 
 It was a difficult moment for the father, 
 for ever since Guido was born he had 
 dreamed he would be a musician, a better and 
 more successful one than he had been, and
 
 THE LIGHT OF GUIDO'S LAMP 213 
 
 hopes of years are not put aside easily. But 
 he was a sensible man, and a kindly one, and 
 although his eyes were sad his face held a 
 smile as he answered, "So be it, for I have 
 no wish to warp my boy's career. A painter 
 he shall become, if only he will be a good 
 one." 
 
 'That only the years can prove," the duke 
 replied, "but it is my belief that they will tell 
 a wonderful story." 
 
 Thus, young Guido Reni came to be ap- 
 prenticed to the artist Calvart. Thus, as an 
 old-time biographer says, "He passed from 
 the concert of voice to the concert of colors." 
 
 Rich, eventful days followed that morn- 
 ing when he roamed from the Bolognini 
 garden into the studio of the palace, for 
 his passion for work and the rapidity of 
 his progress was amazing to teacher and fel- 
 low pupils. Soon he began to draw from re- 
 liefs and from life, and four years later, 
 when only thirteen, had advanced so far that 
 Calvart appointed him to teach, and it seemed 
 that the prophecy of the Lord of Bologna 
 would be fulfilled. 
 
 By the time he was eighteen he painted
 
 214 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 backgrounds for all the pictures in the studio, 
 and often his work, after being slightly re- 
 touched, was sold as the master's own. His 
 fellow pupils thought he had learned all it 
 was possible for an art student to learn, but 
 Guido had no such idea. He knew there are 
 no play places on the road to success, and 
 constantly he toiled and studied. He visited 
 other studios, especially that of the Caracci 
 Brothers, then among the most illustrious 
 painters of Italy, observing all that was best 
 in their work and striving to put it into his 
 own. After a time Calvart became jealous 
 of the pupil who already excelled him, criti- 
 cized his pictures unkindly, and one day 
 rubbed out his most careful work. Guido 
 knew it was far better than much that had 
 won the master's praise, and could not bear 
 such injustice. So he fled from the studio 
 and became a pupil of the Caracci. 
 
 From that time forth his progress was al- 
 most phenomenal. He began filling orders, 
 and his work was so pleasing to his patrons 
 that they wanted him to paint other pictures 
 and still others, until it seemed he would 
 eclipse the Caracci even as he had eclipsed
 
 THE LIGHT OF GUIDO'S LAMP 215 
 
 Calvart. In fact, one day when Ludovicio 
 was instructing him how to paint the flesh of 
 httle children, Annibale, one of the brothers, 
 cried, ''Do not teach that fellow so much, or 
 some day he will know more than the whole 
 of us! He is never contented, but contin- 
 ually searches into new matters. Remem- 
 ber, Ludovicio, some day this fellow will 
 make you sigh." 
 
 And the prophecy came true. In a very 
 short time young Guido Reni was the glory 
 of Bologna, and then he went to Rome, 
 where he worked as steadily and painstak- 
 ingly as he had worked in the studio of Cal- 
 vart. One idea he kept ever before him — 
 the perfect picture — and no matter how 
 splendid a work seemed, or how much praise 
 it received from patrons and critics, he would 
 not let it leave his hand as long as he saw the 
 tiniest detail that could be improved. 
 
 Believing his chosen calling to be the 
 noblest in the world, he tried to make every 
 effort worthy of it. He was proud of being 
 of the brotherhood of painters, and had no 
 patience with those of his colleagues who 
 fawned at the feet of royalty, grateful for
 
 2i6 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 any favor the high born chose to bestow. 
 One day he was walking with the sculptor 
 Cordiere, who suddenly stepped into the 
 street and ambled along beside the coach of 
 Cardinal Borghese, to tell him of some work 
 he was doing. Guido refused to join him, 
 and when his friend returned to his side, be- 
 rated him soundly for having acted like a 
 menial. 
 
 "How can you expect to win the esteem 
 of the Pope and the highest in the land,'' 
 he said, "since you trot so contentedly 
 after a cardinal's carriage? Such con- 
 duct is not seemly for men of our profes- 
 sion." 
 
 Hundreds of commissions came to him in 
 Rome, among them being one to fresco the 
 casino of the Rospigliosi Palace. Guido 
 went to work with all his wonted zeal, deter- 
 mined to create something finer than he had 
 done before, and he succeeded so trium- 
 phantly that when the task was finished all 
 of Rome marveled at his achievement, just 
 as the world has marveled at it ever since. 
 For he had painted "The Aurora," that glori- 
 ous masterpiece in which the god of day,
 
 THE LIGHT OF GUIDO'S LAMP 217 
 
 attended by a group of dancing Hours, 
 dashes along in his chariot beside a turquoise 
 sea to usher in the morning. Yes, the years 
 were telHng their story, just as the Lord of 
 Bologna believed they would. 
 
 This great fresco established Guido as 
 the idol of Italy and the master painter of 
 his day. Commissions came to him in such 
 numbers that he could not execute half of 
 them, while many other artists were idle. 
 And so it was throughout his long, eventful 
 career. One brilliant success followed an- 
 other. One noble creation paved the way 
 for something nobler, and like one inspired 
 he toiled and achieved. Often he had to 
 contend with the jealousies of less gifted 
 painters, but usually the kindliness of his na- 
 ture overcame them. He was courted like 
 a lord of the land — in fact, the mightiest of 
 Italy paid him homage, and once, as he re- 
 turned to Rome from a visit to Bologna, the 
 carriages of princes and cardinals met him at 
 the Ponte Molle, on the Flaminian Way, each 
 vying with the other for the honor of bearing 
 him into the capital. The high born of the 
 Imperial City pointed with pride to his house,
 
 2i8 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 saying, ''Yonder lives Master Reni, the 
 painter." 
 
 When he died his body was borne to its 
 resting place amid pomp and ceremony sel- 
 dom seen even in Rome, the pompous city. 
 Knights and prelates in splendid attire, la- 
 borers and artisans, men, v^omen, and chil- 
 dren of all ranks and ages, thronged the 
 street through which the procession moved 
 on its way to the church of San Domenico — 
 *'So many," one of the old chroniclers states, 
 "that the like of it- was never seen before, not 
 even when Rome celebrated its deliverance 
 from the plague." Every one mourned the 
 passing of the artist and man, for he had 
 been kindly, charitable, and magnanimous, 
 and numbered friends among all classes. 
 Thousands that day thought of the kind 
 deeds done and favors granted by him, who, 
 though lionized by all of Italy, never lost his 
 graciousness and human sympathy. And 
 men think of them still as they marvel at the 
 beauty of his works. 
 
 Thus, the years told a wonderful story. 
 Thus, through the glory of his pictures, the 
 light of Guido's lamp shines down the ages,
 
 THE LIGHT OF GUIDO'S LAMP 219 
 
 and helps to brighten the world to-day, just 
 as three centuries ago the ray beheld by the 
 night watchman gleamed through the dark- 
 ness of old Bologna town.
 
 OLD JAN'S TWILIGHT TALE
 
 XII 
 OLD JAN'S TWILIGHT TALE 
 
 HIS face was wrinkled and his back was 
 bent and his step was faltering and 
 slow, but he was the best story-teller in all 
 Copenhagen, and wherever he went a group 
 of children followed until he seemed like an- 
 other Pied Piper. In all his seventy years 
 he had not grown too old to have an interest 
 in their sports and games, nor was he ever 
 too busy to refuse a bit of advice when they 
 asked it. That is why he put aside the book 
 he was reading and went out on the stoop, for 
 just then merry voices sounded in from the 
 street and he knew the neighborhood boys 
 and girls were having a frolic there. 
 
 They saw him as he came out of the door- 
 way, and one of the number called blithely, 
 "Ah, there 's Jan now ! I wonder if he has 
 a story for us?" 
 
 And with a rush and bound they sur- 
 223
 
 224 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 rounded him and began a chorus of pleas. 
 
 *'A sea story," called gray-eyed Charlotte 
 Ruleson, whose father was a boatman, and 
 who had heard many of the weird yarns 
 floating about among sailor folk; *'one with 
 pirates and lots of shooting." While an- 
 other begged for a ghost tale with a big 
 spook, and still another wanted a fairy story 
 with witches and goblins and all those crea- 
 tures who play pranks in Elfland. Each had 
 his request for the kind of tale he liked best, 
 but one slender boy, with a shock of yellow 
 hair and a face like a youthful viking, said 
 nothing. He just stood and watched the old 
 man, with a look of pleading in his lobelia- 
 blue eyes. 
 
 Jan saw it, and knew that he, too, had his 
 desire, but for some reason had not voiced it. 
 So he turned to him and asked, "And you, 
 Bertel Thorwaldsen, what do you want?" 
 
 As he spoke, a smile of rare sweetness 
 came over the lad's strong face, and he 
 answered in a voice that was low and vibrant, 
 "A hunting story, if you please; one of the 
 days when you were in India." 
 
 A chorus of laughter sounded from the
 
 OLD JAN'S TWILIGHT TALE 225 
 
 group, and smiles and grimaces were on al- 
 most every face. 
 
 "You might know he 'd ask for something 
 about animals," exclaimed Christine Jacob- 
 sen. ''Most of the time he is n't sketching 
 he puts in watching them, and the other day 
 the school-master said if he knew half as 
 much about his lessons as he knows about 
 horses and cattle, he would n't get the ferule 
 so often. You 'd think he 'd get over dream- 
 ing about them when they get him into 
 trouble." 
 
 "Yes, especially after what they did for 
 him to-day," remarked Hals Sorensen. "He 
 forgot to take his father's dinner because he 
 was at the Amalienborg making a picture of 
 the king's riding horse, and poor Gottshalk 
 Thorwaldsen had to go without eating after 
 working all morning over his figure-heads. 
 So now there 's talk of taking Master Bertel 
 out of school and sending him to Jutland to 
 work in the fields." 
 
 "We all know that, Hals Sorensen," Chris- 
 tine broke in, "so I don't see why you need 
 tell it again. My mother says it's a pity, 
 too, because Bertel has a real talent for draw-
 
 226 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 ing, and if his father 'd only let him help with 
 his figure-heads his own work would be bet- 
 ter and people would stop saying he has a no- 
 account son." 
 
 Christine's mother was the daughter of an 
 artist, so the girl knew that when a love of 
 drawing is born with one he can no more put 
 it aside than he can do without air and water. 
 Her sympathy and understanding had often 
 smoothed the boy's path when his comrades 
 ridiculed him, and he looked at her now with 
 kindly eyes. 
 
 Jan, too, smiled at her, because loyalty is 
 always admirable, and he liked her defense of 
 the boy. He knew all about the forgotten 
 dinner and the gossip among the men in the 
 shipyard, that Bertel ought to be taken from 
 school and put to farming, for he worked 
 there himself and had urged the father not 
 to be too hard on the lad while all the others 
 recommended punishment. With all his 
 wrinkles and white hair he still had enough 
 youth in his heart to know that the best- 
 meaning boys sometimes forget, and had suf- 
 ficient faith to believe that Bertel's knowing 
 his father had gone hungry was a punish-
 
 'And yuu, Bertcl Thorwaldsen. what do you want?'
 
 OLD JAN'S TWILIGHT TALE 229 
 
 ment that would keep him from forgetting 
 in the future. Always before he had come 
 in good time with the pail, and often, while 
 the elder Thorwaldsen ate, would correct the 
 drawings from which were carved figure- 
 heads for merchant vessels, and many a piece 
 of work was better because of the boy's 
 touch. A lad like that, he reasoned, was not 
 bad at heart, and it was well to be lenient 
 with him for once. So he spoke very kindly. 
 
 'T know all about it, Hals," he said, "but 
 I believe Bertel has had his lesson, and it 
 won't happen again. I am sure his father 
 thinks so too, because just before I came 
 home to-night he told me that after this he 
 intends to take him to the shipyard every day 
 to help with the cuts, which will be far better 
 than working in the Jutland fields. So let us 
 talk of something that will make no one un- 
 happy." 
 
 And quieting their remarks, they sat down 
 beside him to listen to a story. 
 
 Away to the north the sky glowed with a 
 soft pink light, as if a sheet of rose leaves 
 had been spread across it, and downward, 
 from the mass of color, streamers like varie-
 
 230 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 gated ribbons floated toward the horizon, 
 faint at first, but fast deepening to the gray 
 that comes with the approach of night, and 
 Jan watched the changing tints with dreamy 
 eyes. Bertel's request for a hunting story 
 had brought memories of twilight tints in 
 other skies, and of the far-off time when 
 every day was filled with thrilling adventure. 
 For he had not always been a cargo loader in 
 the Copenhagen shipyard, but once had trav- 
 eled in distant lands and hunted game with 
 the best sports of Europe. But he was old 
 now, and the most exciting things life held 
 were the evening visits of the children, to 
 whom the tales of the one-time wanderer 
 were like the pages of some splendid ro- 
 mance. So he began a story of his Indian 
 days, one which he said was the most vividly 
 remembered of all his hunting experiences. 
 
 Blue-eyed Bertel moved closer, and sat 
 with glowing eyes as the old man described, 
 in a picturesque way, the jungle where he had 
 hunted in his youth. The boy could almost 
 see the trees with their trailing moss, the 
 lush, tropical vines that swung ropes of 
 bloom from the branches, and the banyan
 
 OLD JAN'S TWILIGHT TALE 231 
 
 thicket, made hideous at night by the cries of 
 savage beasts. He had often heard of how 
 the natives hunted with javeHns, and how, 
 when the first European sportsmen came, 
 they acted as guides to the strangers, but it 
 was all new and thrilling when recounted by 
 the one-time huntsman. 
 
 Jan then told of a guide sighting a lion, a 
 magnificent creature that well might have 
 been the king of all that jungle. 
 
 'The fellow sent his javelin at him, and 
 struck the beast full in the breast. And, ever 
 since that day, I think of a lion, not as a wild 
 creature of the woods, but as one guarding 
 with his life all it holds most dear. Be- 
 cause," he went on, "his mate was just be- 
 yond with her two cubs, and as the iron 
 struck him he lunged forward, with defiance 
 in his eyes, as if to say, 'You shall not harm 
 them until you have killed me.' " 
 
 Bertel thought a great deal about the story, 
 and for a long time afterward, when men 
 talked of bravery, he saw a lion in the Indian 
 jungle, standing with a javelin in its breast, 
 yet defying the hunters to touch its mate and 
 little ones. And often when he went to visit
 
 232 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 Jan he would ask him to repeat the tale. 
 Then, some one, seeing him at work on the 
 figure-heads in the shipyard, persuaded his 
 father that such talent for drawing and carv- 
 ing ought to be cultivated and he was 
 sent to the Royal Academy of Fine Arts. 
 Throughout that winter there were sketches 
 to be made in the evenings, so there was no 
 time for visits. Before summer came Jan 
 died, and there were no more twilight tales. 
 But he remembered those he had heard, and, 
 most vividly of all, that of the wounded lion 
 in the Indian jungle. 
 
 Years passed, with summers of Denmark's 
 lovely twilights and winters made glorious 
 by northern lights. Bertel still worked at 
 his drawing, and at carving too, modeling 
 figures he hoped some day to fashion in 
 marble. But marble costs much money, and 
 Thorwaldsen was poor. He went to Rome, 
 hoping in that home of art to find some one 
 who would give him an order, that he might 
 prove what he could do. But no order came. 
 Still he worked on undaunted, even when the 
 first model of his *'J^so^" crumbled into 
 fragments because he was too poor to have
 
 OLD JAN'S TWILIGHT TALE 233 
 
 it cast. He struggled on until it seemed use- 
 less to hope longer. Then, heart broken and 
 discouraged, he packed his trunk to return to 
 Copenhagen. 
 
 But it was not meant for Bertel Thorwald- 
 sen to die unknown. An English banker, 
 whose name, by the way, was Hope, heard of 
 the artist, and came to see his work. To 
 Thorwaldsen he seemed as good as his 
 name, for he gave him an order for a statue, 
 which was so finely executed that the genius 
 discovered long before in the Copenhagen 
 shipyard came to be recognized all over 
 Europe. Order after order came, and he 
 carved so rapidly and exquisitely that the 
 whole world was amazed. Not since the 
 days of the old masters had any wrought 
 such wonders with chisels and marble, and 
 he was called to almost every continental city 
 that wished to erect a splendid statue. The 
 Danes, who had thought him a worthless fel- 
 low, no longer talked about Gottshalk's no- 
 account son, but spoke proudly of "Our 
 Thorwaldsen." 
 
 Just as he was rising to his zenith, Swit- 
 zerland was eager to erect a monument to
 
 234 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 the memory of her children who had died in 
 defense of the Tuileries. All the world 
 knows how, when Louis XVI was taken be- 
 fore the assembly that was to deprive him of 
 his power, a mob attacked the palace. The 
 Swiss guards might have driven it back, but 
 a messenger from the king came with word 
 that they should not fire into the crowd, but 
 were to retire. Within the palace was a 
 handful of warders whom the royal edict did 
 not reach, and they, not knowing of the or- 
 der, tried to defend the place. But too weak 
 to hold out against the populace, and too 
 faithful to desert their post, they were mas- 
 sacred without mercy. What was more fit- 
 ting than that the mountain land that nur- 
 tured them should raise an undying tribute 
 to their memory? 
 
 General Plyffer von Altishofen, an officer 
 of the guard who escaped from the mob, had 
 returned to Lucerne and was living in re- 
 tirement there. It was his idea to erect a 
 monument to honor his fallen comrades, and 
 he made known his plan. 
 
 All Switzerland responded. From every 
 canton, from every lake-gemmed valley, and
 
 OLD JAN'S TWILIGHT TALE 235 
 
 upland Alp, came a manifestation of the 
 spirit that has made the country a fitting land 
 of Tell, and the voice of the people said, "We 
 will make it a national monument to our 
 heroic dead." 
 
 Funds began to pour in, the amount grow- 
 ing steadily and rapidly until enough was 
 realized to erect something very splendid and 
 very enduring. 
 
 *' Who shall the sculptor be ?" was then the 
 question. 
 
 And in answer was asked another ques- 
 tion, **Who but Thorwaldsen?" 
 
 So to Italy, where the magician of the 
 North was at work, came a call from crys- 
 tal lake and snow-capped peak that he should 
 come to Lucerne. And to Lucerne he went, 
 to begin the work that was to immortalize 
 him. 
 
 But he had a hard problem to solve. 
 What was a theme noble enough to commem- 
 orate such heroism? It must be something 
 grandly appropriate, yet different from 
 every monument in the world, for the spirit 
 of patriotism was afire in Switzerland, and 
 nothing commonplace would be considered.
 
 236 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 One sketch after another was made, only 
 to be cast aside as being a conception not big 
 and fine enough. Then one night as he lay 
 thinking about it, when the wind whipped 
 the water of the lake until it sounded like 
 the old Baltic beating against his own Dan- 
 ish shores, there came a memory of Jan's 
 twilight tale. 
 
 ''Standing with a javelin in its breast," the 
 old man had said, "yet defying the hunters 
 to touch its mate and little ones." 
 
 Nothing could be more appropriate than 
 that, he thought, and the next day he sub- 
 mitted the design, a wounded lion guarding 
 the escutcheon of France. 
 
 The men of the committee were delighted. 
 It was an unusual theme, and worthy of such 
 a memorial. So the model was begun. 
 
 Thorwaldsen had never seen a live lion, 
 but that was no insurmountable obstacle to 
 him. He studied old statues for form and 
 proportion, reading, drawing, and working 
 night and day, and when the finished model 
 suited him it was chiseled out of native 
 granite in the general's garden, against a 
 rugged cliff overlooking the lake and facing
 
 OLD JAN'S TWILIGHT TALE 237 
 
 the peaks, a fitting tribute to the children of 
 the Alps. 
 
 And did Switzerland approve? Ah, yes. 
 The day of its unveiling was made a national 
 holiday. From every canton throngs of 
 people poured into the city, singing the songs 
 of Helvetia and showering honors upon a 
 Northern artist. Yet none knew whence 
 came his inspiration, for not until many 
 years afterward did he reveal the secret. 
 Then, walking one evening with his loved 
 friend, Hans Christian Andersen, he told the 
 cargo-loader's story. 
 
 'T was just a lad when I heard it," he 
 said, *'but I never forgot it." 
 
 Thus it became known that old Jan's tale 
 of a wounded lion in an Indian jungle, told 
 at twilight to a blue-eyed boy in Copenhagen, 
 became the inspiration of the matchless mon- 
 ument that to-day looks out over the clear 
 waters of the Lake of the Four Cantons, and 
 is known the world around as "The Lion of 
 Lucerne."
 
 WHEN THE PRINCESS PASSED
 
 XIII 
 WHEN THE PRINCESS PASSED 
 
 THE little Italian town was gay in its 
 holiday dress, for the Princess was 
 coming. On this smiling morning of early 
 April Veronica Gambara, flower of the 
 house of Pio, was to ride in state to the palace 
 to become the bride of Ghiberto of Correg- 
 gio, and it seemed that nature vied with man 
 in welcoming her. Under a sky of tur- 
 quoise, roses red as flame and yellow as the 
 gold of Ophir bloomed in odorous array. A 
 thousand banners swung like pendant rain- 
 bows across the line of march, and a 
 thousand gaudy sashes flashed on the waists 
 of village girls. Mummers sang their 
 blithest melodies, and in gardens beyond the 
 crowd larks trilled to the sun. Yes, it was 
 a fitting day for the union of two lordly 
 houses. 
 
 Some one gave a shout and the crowd 
 241
 
 242 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 pressed nearer the street, for the procession 
 was coming, and with eager eyes the people 
 watched the approach of the splendid, stately 
 cavalcade. Now they could see the advance 
 guard of soldiers, now the red uniforms of 
 the outriders, the gilding of the royal coach, 
 and the ivory and purple robes of Veronica, 
 all gorgeous in the sun. Resplendent ban- 
 ners gleamed before and behind her, smiling 
 faces greeted her as she smiled back at them, 
 and cheers rang out the homage of the 
 townsfolk as they nodded to each other say- 
 ing, ''She is well suited to become the Lady 
 of Correggio." But one sturdy peasant lad 
 was gravely silent, although his eyes shone 
 as if they had beheld a vision. He was a 
 stocky, short fellow not quite fourteen, and 
 his name was Antonio Allegri. When the 
 others hurried to the plaza to join in the fes- 
 tivities, he turned toward the cottage of the 
 village baker — a low, stone, whitewashed 
 building with a trellis of climbing roses and 
 a garden plot where grew artichokes and len- 
 tils — and people wondered why he went. 
 But they soon forgot about him in thoughts 
 of other things.
 
 WHEN THE PRINCESS PASSED 243 
 
 All afternoon merriment ran high in the 
 town of Correggio. Up in the palace great 
 folk sat at the wedding feast, and down in 
 the public plaza the townspeople vented their 
 joy in dancing. Those who could afford a 
 present, sent it as a token of good will to 
 Veronica, while those who had nothing to 
 give gathered wayside flowers and piled them 
 before the altar of the Virgin, praying that 
 a blessing might rest on the head of Ghiber- 
 to's bride. Every one paid homage to the 
 Princess by joining in the celebration, every 
 one but the baker's boy. He lay in the sha- 
 dow of the artichokes behind the white- 
 washed cottage and seemed to be very busy 
 with something. 
 
 Toward sundown Catarina, his sister, 
 came from the place of the dancers and went 
 into the house to add a bit of ribbon to her 
 gown. Her cheeks flamed in the joy of the 
 occasion, for it was a day such as Correggio 
 never had seen, and she was glad it came in 
 her time, instead of before or after it. She 
 wondered about Antonio, who had not been 
 to the plaza throughout the afternoon, and 
 failing to find him in the cottage, stood a mo-
 
 244 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 ment under the roses that crept over the 
 doorway, and then she saw him at the edge 
 of the garden. 
 
 "Fratello mio (brother mine)," she ex- 
 claimed, "why do you not dance with us in 
 honor of the Lady Veronica ? It is not right 
 that you fail in homage to the Princess." 
 
 The sturdy lad in the peasant smock came 
 toward her as she spoke. 
 
 'T do not fail," he replied. 'T pay homage 
 to the Princess with a picture." 
 
 Catarina clapped her hands. 
 
 "A picture!" she exclaimed. "Do let me 
 see it." 
 
 The boy handed her a charcoal sketch, 
 and she sat down on the step to look at it. 
 She was proud of this brother of hers, whose 
 drawing more than once had caused the 
 townsfolk to open their eyes wide. Almost 
 a year before the schoolmaster declared he 
 had talent and might become a painter some 
 day, and since then he had improved much. 
 Her eyes brightened with pleasure as she 
 studied this sketch, for to her it seemed the 
 finest he had ever made. It was a small 
 drawing, no larger than her two brown
 
 WHEN THE PRINCESS PASSED 245 
 
 hands, but it represented a company of an- 
 gels scattering flowers and fruit in the path 
 of Veronica Gambara, and every figure was 
 perfectly proportioned and clear. She asked 
 that she might keep it to show to some of her 
 friends, tucked it into her bodice, and to- 
 gether they went to the plaza to join the 
 revelers, where there was to be a feast for 
 the townsfolk provided by Ghiberto in honor 
 of his bride. 
 
 Then, gay indeed was the evening ! Bon- 
 fires were lighted and torches gleamed 
 through the olive trees, turning the arti- 
 chokes and lentils in the garden patches into 
 fantastic creatures, and dancing feet sped to 
 low, delicious music as accordions swelled 
 and shrank between sensitive, skilful fingers. 
 Now some merry masker broke through the 
 crowd and offered a nosegay to whoever 
 could guess his identity, now a husky village 
 youth gave an exhibition of physical skill, 
 Antonio with the rest. At midnight the fes- 
 tivities ended in a blaze of artificial light, and 
 the people went to their homes to remember 
 the glad holiday through many a year to 
 come, to give to their children and their chil-
 
 246 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 dren's children the story of the time when 
 Veronica came among them as a bride. But 
 little did they know that day was the begin- 
 ning of something that will be a glory to Cor- 
 reggio as long as the world lasts. 
 
 Now it happened that Catarina had a 
 friend who was a sister to one of the guards 
 at the palace. To her she showed the draw- 
 ing, and the girl, thinking it quite wonderful, 
 took it to the soldier brother, who called his 
 captain's attention to it, and finally it came 
 under the notice of Veronica herself. It 
 pleased the Princess to be portrayed so de- 
 lightfully, and amazed her to know it was 
 done by a fourteen-year-old. Like most of 
 the great folk of Italy of that day, she under- 
 stood art and recognized talent when she 
 found it, and that very afternoon the baker's 
 boy was summoned into her presence. 
 
 He was putting loaves into the stone oven 
 when the messenger came with the word, 
 and his ruddy face was redder still from the 
 heat. Upon hearing that the Princess 
 wanted to see him, he believed there must be 
 some mistake, and after he got to the palace 
 wished very much he had not gone. Being
 
 WHEN THE PRINCESS PASSED 247 
 
 short and stocky and rather clumsy, he was 
 much abashed in the presence of the royal 
 lady. He was at home in his father's white- 
 washed cottage and in the garden patch in 
 the shadow of the artichokes, where he bent 
 over his paper and charcoal through many a 
 summer afternoon, and there he knew just 
 what to do with his hands and feet. But in 
 the palace of Correggio they were woefully 
 in the way, and he wished his peasant cos- 
 tume contained ruffles or pockets or some- 
 thing where he could hide them. But when 
 Veronica Gambara began to talk of pic- 
 tures, his awkwardness fled. He forgot that 
 he was a baker's son who did not know court 
 ways, and his eyes gleamed as they had 
 gleamed that day when the royal coach 
 went by. 
 
 The Lady of Correggio told him of the 
 work of Andrea de Mantegna, a most illus- 
 trious artist of Mantua, and of Master Leon- 
 ardo da Vinci, who was then doing wonder- 
 ful things in Milan, not far away, and as he 
 listened fascinated, exclaimed, *Tt is my 
 dream to become a painter !" 
 
 Then Veronica smiled that rare smile of
 
 248 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 hers that had inspired poets to write sonnets 
 and caused men to call her, "The flower of 
 the house of Pio," and answered in a low 
 voice, "1 shall help to make that dream come 
 true." 
 
 She kept her word. From that day the 
 Lady of Correggio was the friend and pa- 
 tron of the baker boy, and from that day An- 
 tonio sketched and painted as he never had 
 done before. He worked with a mighty pur- 
 pose, for now that Veronica chose to aid him, 
 he knew his father would not stand in his 
 way and insist that he become a tradesman, 
 as once he had wished him to do. Almost 
 nothing is known of his teachers. His uncle 
 gave him some instruction, but his talent was 
 so great that, almost unguided, it expressed 
 itself in work such as Correggio had never 
 seen. 
 
 Then, when seventeen, something hap- 
 pened that proved a blessing in disguise to 
 Antonio Allegri. The plague broke out in 
 his home town, and the royal family and 
 many of the people fled to Mantua for safety. 
 The young artist went with the rest, and 
 there, for the first time in his life, beheld the
 
 WHEN THE PRINCESS PASSED 249 
 
 work of a master painter. He began study- 
 ing the pictures of Mantegna and learned 
 much that he appHed to his own work. Re- 
 turning to Correggio some months later he 
 toiled steadfastly, and day by day Veronica, 
 who delighted in his improvement, marveled 
 at his progress. Now she was very sure he 
 would become a successful painter, but she 
 did not dream that four centuries after her 
 time people from all over the world would 
 go to the town as to a shrine, not to see the 
 palace where the lords of the land had lived, 
 but to behold the spot where Antonio the 
 baker's boy first stretched his canvases, and 
 where he lived and worked and died. Yet 
 that very thing came to pass. 
 
 Strange events sometimes shape the 
 careers of men, and a strange and pictur- 
 esque one now helped to shape that of An- 
 tonio Allegri. In Parma, forty miles away, 
 was the Convent of San Paolo, one of the 
 richest institutions of Italy. Its abbess was 
 Donna Giovanna Piacenza, daughter of a 
 powerful nobleman, and every nun within its 
 walls was from one of the lordly houses of 
 Italy. These women loved beautiful things
 
 250 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 and could afford to have them around them. 
 The pavements over which they walked were 
 adorned with exquisite tile work, and every 
 year or two some artist was employed to 
 brighten the walls and ceilings with frescoes. 
 One day Abbess Giovanna made up her mind 
 to have a chamber decorated, and hearing 
 from her friend Veronica Gambara of the 
 excellent work of the young painter of Cor- 
 reggio, decided to employ him. So word 
 came to Antonio that he should go to Parma, 
 and he left the low stone house among the 
 artichokes and started on the way, walking 
 all the distance and carrying his painter's 
 supplies with him. 
 
 Those he passed thought him a clumsy 
 country peddler bound for the next village to 
 sell his wares, and when the Abbess Gio- 
 vanna saw how like a simple peasant he 
 looked, she feared she had made a mistake 
 in entrusting the commission to this crude 
 youth, and wished she had employed a fin- 
 ished artist. But great was her surprise 
 when she beheld the completed chamber, and 
 she exclaimed to her legal adviser, "All Italy
 
 WHEN THE PRINCESS PASSED 251 
 
 will come to honor this favorite of Ve- 
 ronica !" 
 
 But Antonio did not hear her words of de- 
 light, for he was already on his way back to 
 Correggio, hurrying along the dusty high- 
 way toward the whitewashed cottage, rejoic- 
 ing in the satisfaction of work well done. 
 
 This was the beginning of great appoint- 
 ments for him. The beauty of the frescoes 
 in the Convent of San Paolo soon became the 
 talk of Parma, and other commissions were 
 given to the young artist. So back to the 
 city he went, first to paint in the Church of 
 St. John the Evangelist, later in the Cathe- 
 dral, and again his work amazed all who saw 
 it, just as it had amazed the abbess and the 
 nuns, just as it had amazed Veronica Gam- 
 bara on that sunny April day. The pearl 
 and gold of his flesh tints, the white and 
 orange and rose of his draperies, were un- 
 surpassed even by the master painters of 
 Italy. Neither Raphael nor Titian of Ca- 
 dore had produced more exquisite work, and 
 his fame traveled. Orders came to him 
 from princes and nobles, but while he exe-
 
 252 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 cuted them with wonderful success, they did 
 not spoil him. He was a man of simple 
 tastes and went on in the old, simple way. 
 Still he lived and worked in the quiet of his 
 home town, surrounded by his children and 
 those of his sister Catarina, and only a few 
 times in his life did he leave it. Up in the 
 splendid city of Mantua dwelt the brilliant 
 and beautiful Isabella d'Este, a princess pow- 
 erful as she was fair. She was the friend of 
 Veronica Gambara, and several times An- 
 tonio went to her court. But he was not at 
 home there. He could work better in the 
 peace of Correggio among the peasant folk 
 he had known from childhood, and there he 
 stayed. 
 
 At that time Italy was in the full glory of 
 the Renaissance, and not far away were cities 
 where marvelous things were being done, but 
 the baker's son did not visit them. He never 
 saw the Venice of Titian and Tintoretto, the 
 Florence where Giotto and Michael Angelo 
 and Andrea del Sarto wrought their wiz- 
 ardry, the imperial city beside the yellow Ti- 
 ber where Raphael toiled and achieved. His 
 genius was so great he did not need to seek
 
 WHEN THE PRINCESS PASSED 253 
 
 inspiration in the creations of other men, but 
 found it in the skies of morning and evening, 
 the glory of the sun at midday, and in the 
 deep blue silence of the starry night. In- 
 stead of gazing across the lagoons that glad- 
 dened the eyes of the Venetian painters, he 
 looked out over a sea of vines where vinta- 
 gers danced when the harvest was over, 
 where scarlet and purple and orange head- 
 shawls of peasant women, bending to their 
 work in the sun, gave him ideas of color. 
 Instead of going far to seek models, the eyes 
 and cheeks and lips of the village girls be- 
 came his pictured faces, while his cherubs 
 and angels were the laughing children who 
 played in the streets of his native town. 
 Perhaps sometimes he dreamed of journey- 
 ing to the Milan of Leonardo da Vinci. Per- 
 haps he had visions of some day seeing Rome 
 with its Vatican and Borghese Villa — per- 
 haps, but we do not know. We know only 
 that he stayed on in Correggio, and that at 
 forty years of age he died there, in the cot- 
 tage with its trellis of climbing roses where 
 for so many years he had lived and worked. 
 Then, as time passed, people grew to ap-
 
 254 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 preciate more and more the genius of An- 
 tonio Allegri, and canvases for which he had 
 received very small sums became priceless. 
 Every lord of the land wanted to possess 
 something by Correggio, for, as was the cus- 
 tom in those days, they called him by the 
 name of his native town. Powerful nobles 
 tried to buy his work from churches and con- 
 vents that held it, and sometimes, being not 
 for sale, carried it away by force. This 
 happened to "The Holy Night," one of his 
 masterpieces now in the gallery of Dresden. 
 The Duke of Modena tried to obtain it by 
 fair means, and, failing in his aim, seized it 
 by foul, leaving the little town in mourning 
 when he robbed it of its treasure. This glo- 
 rious painting passed from one lordly house 
 to another, until finally, becoming the prop- 
 erty of Augustus of Saxony, it came to be 
 one of the art gems of Germany. 
 
 "The Madonna of St. Jerome," generally 
 called "The Day," has a similar story. For 
 many years it remained in the church for 
 which it was painted, until the people,fearing 
 for its safety, placed it in the Cathedral of 
 Parma under guard. But that guard meant
 
 WHEN THE PRINCESS PASSED 255 
 
 nothing to Napoleon Bonaparte, who came 
 with his army and took it, carrying it off to 
 France. But after many years and through 
 much effort, Italy got it back, and to-day it 
 beautifies the (/?<omo (cathedral) from which 
 it was stolen, the very one in which, long 
 before, Antonio set his scaffolding and 
 painted frescoes. 
 
 Many galleries in many different lands 
 now glory in the work of Correggio. It is 
 scattered throughout Europe, in Austria- 
 Hungary, Germany, England, France, Spain, 
 and Russia, as well as over Italy, which 
 seems strange indeed when one stops to think 
 that he who painted these pictures was never 
 more than forty miles away from his native 
 town. But in no one place in the world is as 
 much of it to be found as in Parma. The 
 Convent of San Paolo, the municipal gallery, 
 the Church of St. John the Evangelist, and 
 the duomo are all rich in his creations. 
 There they are to be beheld on canvas and in 
 fresco form, all marvelously beautiful, all 
 flooded with that peculiar gold and pearly 
 light, the secret of which was known to this 
 master only. In this one city his work is to
 
 256 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 be seen in such glorious array that Ludwig 
 Tieck, the German poet and critic, once ex- 
 claimed in wonderment, ''Let no one think 
 he has seen Italy, let no one believe he has 
 learned the lofty secrets of art, until he has 
 seen thee and thy cathedral, O Parma !" 
 
 By which he means the work of Antonio 
 Allegri, better known as Correggio, the baker 
 boy, who stood with the gleaming eyes of one 
 who has beheld a vision when Princess Ve- 
 ronica Gambara, the flower of the house of 
 Pio, passed on her way to the palace to be- 
 come the bride of the young Lord Ghiberto.
 
 THE JOYOUS VAGABOND
 
 XIV 
 THE JOYOUS VAGABOND 
 
 THE boy sprang to his feet and leaned 
 forward, listening. Could it be as 
 late as that? It seemed not more than ten 
 minutes he had dreamed there on the edge 
 of the grotto, and now the cathedral bells 
 were ringing, and he remembered that at 
 home they would be saying the Angelus. 
 He bent his head and clasped his hands, mur- 
 muring the words his mother had taught him 
 back there in the fields of Lorraine, when the 
 ocher of gloaming was on the pastures and 
 chimes sounded out, calling across the ham- 
 lets from the dome of Nancy. Then, picking 
 up his cap and birch staff, he started home, 
 following the goat trail to the town. 
 
 Briskly, sturdily he swung on his way, as 
 if to make up for lingering so long. Then 
 suddenly he stopped and stood still. Some 
 259
 
 26o BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 one was coming down the road that led from 
 the French frontier. 
 
 His big eyes grew bigger as he looked, as 
 if doubting, wondering. Could he be mis- 
 taken ? Then a flush of pleasure overspread 
 his face and he gave a joyous cry. 
 
 "Uncle Pierre," he called, *'oh. Uncle 
 Pierre!" and ran toward the advancing 
 pedestrians. 
 
 There were three of them, men in caps and 
 garments not of the Baden country, and they 
 were dust stained and travel worn. The 
 foremost of the group, taller and more stur- 
 dily built than the others, smiled like one who 
 has suddenly heard good news. 
 
 "Well, to be sure," he exclaimed blithely, 
 " 'tis my own sister's lad, Claude Gellee." 
 
 And then two brown hands were clasped in 
 greeting. 
 
 Eastward, below the purple line of fir and 
 spruce that marked the beginning of the 
 Black Forest Mountains, the Rhine moved 
 like a jeweled serpent in the sunset, and be- 
 yond, as if guarding the treasure, stood San- 
 tis, opal-tinted. There was no fairer sight 
 in all Germany, and a gipsy love of the open
 
 THE JOYOUS VAGABOND 261 
 
 was in the boy's heart. It was for a glimpse 
 of this rare view he had left his brother's 
 shop in Freiburg and trudged three miles 
 across the uplands after a hard day's work. 
 It was the lure of sheeny river and fantastic 
 peak, melting amethyst, coral, and smoke 
 gray into violet stretches of sky line, that 
 had held him there until sunset time, 
 forgetful of the fact that there were 
 chores to do at home and that he owed 
 much, very much, to his brother. But now 
 he seemed not to see. He talked eagerly and 
 rapidly, asking for bits of news and gossip 
 from beyond the mountains. Were the 
 roses in the cure's garden as red as ever this 
 summer, and did old Mere le Brun still suffer 
 from rheumatism? It was good to hear 
 from the distant village, and the sound of the 
 French tongue was sweet to his ears. For 
 Claude was not a German lad, nor had his 
 childhood days been passed in Freiburg. 
 
 Westward, in that green and gold valley 
 where the Moselle swings in gleaming fes- 
 toons to meet the Rhine, the cottage of his 
 fathers stood on the plains of Nancy. There 
 he had lived, a merry peasant lad, until the
 
 262 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 year before when his parents died and the 
 village was no longer home. He was just 
 twelve years old, but hereafter must make 
 his own way in the world, and realizing this, 
 he thought of a calling more to his liking 
 than that of a toiler in the fields. So he 
 crossed the mountains to Freiburg, where his 
 brother was established as a wood-carver. 
 
 "Is n't he a spry stripling to have come 
 alone and on foot all the way from Lor- 
 raine?" the uncle asked his companions as he 
 told the story. "Did n't beg his bread like a 
 worthless lout, either," he continued with 
 thrifty peasant pride, "but earned it by 
 honest labor along the way. And now Jean 
 writes he has made much progress at wood- 
 carving. Do you like the craft, lad?" 
 
 Claude nodded, setting his Black Forest 
 cap farther back on his head as he spoke. 
 
 "Yes, it is fun to see the figures grow out 
 of the blocks." 
 
 And he gave a glowing description of life 
 in Freiburg and home with his brother. 
 
 They were near the town now, so near that 
 the Gothic spire of the Munster seemed di- 
 rectly overhead, and half way up a narrow
 
 THE JOYOUS VAGABOND 263 
 
 side street he could see Jean driving the geese 
 before him. He was sorry about that, for it 
 was his work to bring them from the herbage 
 field, and he had not meant to stay away so 
 late. But he would do without his ramble 
 to-morrow and make up for to-day's tardi- 
 ness by working until dark. 
 
 But if Jean felt any anger toward his be- 
 lated brother he forgot it when he saw the 
 familiar garments of Lorraine and heard the 
 loved patois of his native valley. He led 
 them into the building that was both shop 
 and home, where they laughed and talked 
 over the meal that was soon spread for them, 
 telling all the news of the old village. 
 
 "We may stay here for three days and en- 
 joy life in our good French fashion," the 
 uncle announced as they talked of the joy of 
 meeting. "Then we must on to Rome to sell 
 our wares." 
 
 For they were lacemakers, who once each 
 year made the trip to Italy to dispose of their 
 handiwork, and had little time for anything 
 save toil. But those three days were theirs 
 for rest and pleasure, during which they 
 might forget the world held any cares.
 
 264 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 They told stories and bits of gossip, joking 
 and singing in tlie merry peasant way until 
 the Freiburgers who lived close by wondered 
 why there was such high revelry in the house 
 of Gellee the carver. 
 
 Next morning Claude was up at dawn. 
 There were chickens to feed and geese to be 
 driven to pasture, and he wanted to be 
 through before the visitors awoke. Their 
 time together would be short at best, and then 
 a year would pass before they met again. 
 So he meant to be with the uncle as much as 
 possible. 
 
 The cathedral bells were chiming six when 
 he came back and went into the shop to assort 
 the tools. They would do less work than 
 usual that day, because of hours to be given 
 over to the guests. But there was an altar 
 piece for the church at Rosenheim, an order 
 that could not be delayed, and things must be 
 made ready for Jean to finish it. He moved 
 back and forth, putting knives and files and 
 tracers where his brother could lay hands 
 upon them, and while he worked his uncle 
 came in. 
 
 "Jean says you have made much progress," 
 
 i
 
 THE JOYOUS VAGABOND 265 
 
 he said as he looked at the bits o£ carving, 
 finished and unfinished, that were scattered 
 about on the tables. "Have you done any of 
 these?" 
 
 Claude went over to where he stood. 
 
 "Yes, some of them," he answered. 
 "With the big ones I helped and this one I 
 did alone." 
 
 And he designated a tray of silver larch- 
 wood, on which a flock of birds were skim- 
 ming over tree tops. 
 
 The uncle examined it carefully, and as he 
 looked nodded his head as if thinking. 
 Claude wondered what was in his mind, but 
 asked no questions. 
 
 "I hope he thinks I have done well," he 
 thought as he watched him. 
 
 Then he heard his brother coming in from 
 the garden. 
 
 The lacemaker looked up with a smile 
 when he saw Jean standing in the doorway. 
 
 "Claude has been showing me his carv- 
 ing," he remarked, "and I 've an idea about 
 him." 
 
 The boy stood still, listening, waiting. 
 Did he consider his work good or bad? He
 
 266 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 had put his best effort into it, and the brother 
 had often praised the result. Would his 
 uncle praise it, too? 
 
 Then came a glad surprise. 
 
 ''He has done marvelously well," the lace- 
 maker said, as he held up the beautiful bit of 
 handiwork. 'Tt seems he has a gift for 
 carving, and methinks there is more in store 
 for him than being a wood-worker." 
 
 And he told stories he had heard in Rome, 
 of youths from far provinces who had gone 
 there penniless and unknown, but being pos- 
 sessed of genius had grown to be glorious 
 artists and men of great estate. Might not 
 Claude, his own sister's lad, be one of that 
 number ? And before the boy realized what 
 it was all about, they decided that he should 
 go to Rome. 
 
 Rome ! The word had a magical sound to 
 his ears. It was far from Freiburg, he 
 knew, across mountains and plains, many 
 leagues farther than his native Lorraine, 
 that seemed so distant. He would see 
 gleaming palaces and great nobles and splen- 
 did statues and pictures, hundreds of them, 
 done by masters of chisels and colors. In
 
 THE JOYOUS VAGABOND 267 
 
 those days there were no railroads connect- 
 ing the North and the South, and the lace- 
 makers, being poor, would take the journey 
 on foot, selling their wares and earning 
 board and lodging as they went. Leagues 
 of highland, leagues of lowland, and perhaps 
 trails drifted over with snow. But what of 
 that? Beyond was a city of unnumbered 
 splendors, which might seem fairer and more 
 incomparable after days and nights of vaga- 
 bonding. 
 
 So southward through the Black Forest 
 they journeyed, wood-carver's apprentice 
 and lacemakers three, toward the land where 
 there would be money in exchange for wares, 
 and perhaps glory undreamed of for Claude. 
 Across Switzerland they went, and through 
 the Italian Alps, past lake and fell, into pink 
 and gold Tuscany. Florence, Lily of the 
 Arno, with her matchless gardens and pal- 
 aced boulevards, was alluring then as she is 
 to-day, but Florence was not their destina- 
 tion. Resting there a few days, in a house 
 overlooking the river, Claude helped to dis- 
 pose of some of the laces. Then they moved 
 down the valley toward Rome.
 
 268 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 Were his dreams of the glories of the place 
 realized? Ah yes ! It seemed a magic land 
 in which he dwelt, where all the streets were 
 enchanted gardens and all the people folk of 
 Elfland, and when he went to the great build- 
 ings that housed the works of art he won- 
 dered how so many noble ones came to be in 
 the world. Day after day he dreamed 
 among them, thinking of nothing save their 
 beauty and color, planning for nothing but 
 that some day he, too, should join the com- 
 pany of creators. 
 
 Then something unexpected happened, 
 causing the uncle to leave Rome immediately. 
 That meant one of two things for Claude. 
 He must return to the North or stay in a 
 city whose language he could neither speak 
 nor understand, with little money in his 
 pocket and small prospect of getting any 
 from his relatives. But he didn't study 
 long. He looked at the pictures that had 
 opened wonderland to him, and when his 
 uncle put the question he answered, 'T stay." 
 
 So with five sous in his pocket and a 
 mighty hope in his heart, Claude Gellee be- 
 gan life as a solitary lad in Rome. In a poor
 
 THE JOYOUS VAGABOND 269 
 
 quarter near the Tiber he found cheap lodg- 
 ings, spending hours every day in the studios 
 and galleries among the treasures to be seen 
 there. Sometimes he ground colors for a 
 painter, sometimes turned choreboy, making 
 enough to supply his modest wants, and 
 sometimes — he went hungry. But did his 
 courage fail him, did he think of returning 
 north? Not once. He might have gone 
 back to Freiburg to the workshop of his 
 brother, or to Lorraine where his uncle lived, 
 and gleaned and sowed in the fields. But 
 no! He had come to Rome to try his for- 
 tune, to be an artist if God willed it, and in 
 Rome he meant to stay. Once in a while a 
 little money came from the carver brother in 
 Germany, once in a while ; but the sums were 
 small and the times far, far apart. Then the 
 Thirty Years' War broke out and Jean could 
 send nothing more. So Claude was thrown 
 solely on his own efforts, the very greatest of 
 which did not suffice to pay for bed and 
 board and the teaching he craved. But he 
 would not give up. He stayed on and on, 
 studying the treasures, working without in- 
 struction, making use of the simple art prin-
 
 270 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 ciples taught him by his brother, trying to 
 help himself by watching and doing. On 
 velvet summer nights when pleasure-loving 
 Romans thronged the vias he lay on a clump 
 of weeds beyond the city wall, watching the 
 play of moonlight on the Alban hills; while 
 in the perfumed dawning, when the pulse of 
 the city was still in sleep, he was up before 
 birds called and out on the Campagna, to see 
 the rose and gold of sunrise gleam out of the 
 gray, to mark the line of shadow along the 
 copsewood, and note the position of the sun 
 at every change. Too poor to afford teach- 
 ers, he went to Nature, master of them all, 
 believing always, hoping always, that some 
 day he would become an artist. 
 
 One morning, as he roamed back and 
 forth, looking at canvases in one of the great 
 treasure houses, he came upon a painting by 
 Goffreddo. It was a landscape with broad 
 reaches of sea and wooded shore, and dim, 
 fantastic in the misty background, palaces 
 with domes and spires ; blue in the sky, saf- 
 fron and«mauve on the sea, and a silver haze, 
 like a wind-blown gossamer floating along 
 the tree tops. Nothing seen in Rome had de-
 
 THE JOYOUS VAGABOND 271 
 
 lighted him so, and as he looked and looked 
 again he thought, "That is how I want to 
 paint. I will find Goffreddo and see if he 
 will teach me." 
 
 Successful artists in that day were ac- 
 claimed throughout Italy, and although liv- 
 ing in a distant city the abiding place was 
 well known. So it was with Goffreddo. 
 Almost the first person Claude asked told him 
 where to find the master. 
 
 *'He is in Naples," said a rich patron of one 
 of the studios he frequented, wondering why 
 a shabbily clad peasant lad should care to 
 know. 
 
 Claude knew the location of Naples. It 
 was to the southward, a good hundred and 
 fifty miles. But what of that? Distance, 
 lack of traveling funds, could be no check to 
 one who had gone companionless and on foot 
 from the fields of Lorraine to the hills of 
 Freiburg, and again on foot, by Swiss lakes 
 and Italian plains to the Eternal City. He 
 would go to Naples, to Naples where the 
 master dwelt, and since there was no money 
 to pay his fare by chaise, what would serve 
 him better than his sturdy peasant legs ? So
 
 '2^2 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 to Naples he went, earning his bread en 
 route as he had earned it two years before 
 crossing the Vosges Mountains, and in Na- 
 ples he found Goffreddo. 
 
 "Better seek some labor here and make 
 enough to get back to Rome," a loiterer in 
 the street said in answer to his question 
 when he asked the way to the studio of the 
 painter. "Goffreddo will not receive you, 
 for he is selfish and hard, or if he does he will 
 make your life so miserable you '11 rue the 
 day you met him. Believe me, he is a merci- 
 less task-master." 
 
 But Claude would not heed his words. 
 Had he gone hungry in Rome and taken the 
 long journey through a bandit-infested coun- 
 try only to give up the thing of his dreams 
 when it seemed within his reach? He 
 wanted to be a painter, and Goffreddo was 
 the master he meant to have. So, undaunted 
 by discouraging advice, he sought the artist's 
 door. 
 
 Perhaps it was the story of his days and 
 nights of hardship, perhaps the light in the 
 glowing eyes that bespoke the dreamer's soul, 
 but something touched the master who was
 
 Wonderful roseate days began
 
 THE JOYOUS VAGABOND 275 
 
 called severe and unhelpful, something made 
 him feel that Claude deserved a trial. He 
 received him into his studio, and wonderful, 
 roseate days began. 
 
 Life in Naples was much as it had been in 
 Rome. He ground Goffreddo's colors and 
 kept the workshop in order, earning his food 
 about the city by doing various kinds of 
 labor. And what a dream city it was, with a 
 glittering sky above a glittering bay and 
 miles and miles of rainbow-colored terraces ! 
 He loved to watch Vesuvius, standing there 
 like a giant wrapped in mist, loved to see the 
 fisher boats float like fairy liners from far 
 seaward, the swarthy rowers singing as they 
 neared the wharf of Santa Lucia. And 
 often, when there was a little time to spare, 
 he pictured some of the scenes in the street : 
 the children, bare of head and bare of feet, 
 the goats that browsed along the vias, and 
 the girls and women who laughed at him 
 from under scarlet kerchiefs. But most of 
 all he delighted in painting the weird, dark 
 cypress trees, the groves of plane and olean- 
 der encompassing some princely residence, 
 the stretches of rainbow-colored reef out
 
 276 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 Sorrento way, and the gleam of rose and 
 purple Capri in the afterglow. The hours 
 other boys would have spent in play he 
 passed with pencils, drawing-board and col- 
 ors. And when Goffreddo saw how well he 
 did he smiled and nodded his head. 
 
 *'Yes, Claude," he spoke one day as he 
 watched him work, "it was meant for you 
 to be a landscape painter." 
 
 And the boy, rejoicing, painted more 
 feverishly than before. 
 
 Two years passed in the city of Vesuvius, 
 with rambles along the iridescent bay and 
 never-to-be-forgotten hours in the studio of 
 the master. Then Goffreddo being unable 
 to keep him longer, he returned to Rome as 
 he had come to Naples, vagabonding, and 
 took up his work more earnestly than ever. 
 Agostino Tassi was his teacher, and again he 
 paid for his lessons by color grinding and 
 turning choreboy, watching, listening, labor- 
 ing, improving every hour, until his work 
 grew so excellent that orders came in for his 
 pictures, and he opened a studio of his own. 
 
 From that time forth fortune smiled on 
 Claude. He painted tirelessly, unceasingly.
 
 THE JOYOUS VAGABOND 2.yy 
 
 always on the landscapes he loved so much, 
 and always his creations found a ready mar- 
 ket. Then word of the beauty of his can- 
 vases reached Pope Urban, who commis- 
 sioned him to make four pictures for the 
 Papal Palace, which were so exquisitely done 
 that one art lover exclaimed, "Such glori- 
 ous work must be that of angels," and he had 
 more orders than he could fill. His land- 
 scapes were in such demand and brought 
 such high prices that only the very rich could 
 afford to own them, and he came to be what 
 his uncle, the lowly lacemaker, had dreamed 
 he might become, a glorious artist and a 
 man of great estate. 
 
 And still he stayed on in Rome, among the 
 scenes where he had grown to success, paint- 
 ing the sublime sunsets of the Campagna, 
 the quiet peaceful bays and coves of Naples 
 that had left an indelible impress on his 
 heart, and loving France with an exile's love. 
 Once he went back, spending a year in the 
 haunts of his childhood, but the scenes he 
 pictured most wonderfully were those of the 
 Italian land, so to Rome he returned, never 
 again to leave it.
 
 278 BOYHOOD STORIES 
 
 But always he remembered that he was a 
 Frenchman. He never forgot that his cradle 
 rocked in Lorraine, never ceased to love 
 the valley where he had lived, a peasant boy. 
 And because of the place of his nativity and 
 his great love for it, they gave him his coun- 
 try's name, and he who was born Claude Gel- 
 lee is known to fame as Claude Lorraine. 
 For undying fame he won. Guileless toiler 
 from the banks of the Moselle, joyous, 
 dreaming vagabond, he grew to be the king 
 of landscape painters, the brightest star in 
 the art of France. The beauty of his can- 
 vases is incomparable, and although gifted, 
 ambitious men have been striving to equal 
 him for over two hundred years, no one has 
 succeeded. Still he stands alone, the master 
 portrayer of nature, of whom Sir Joshua 
 Reynolds said, "We may sooner expect to 
 see another Raphael than another Claude 
 Lorraine." 
 
 Is it therefore strange that France is proud 
 to have her immortal son bear the name of 
 one of her great provinces?
 
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