“Done.”
It was a fairly good landscape of two tall poplars reflected in a pool in the late afternoon. I put a dab of rose on the tops of the trees and on their reflections, making the effect of a sunset light. Then I got a gold panel for the frame, painting on it in most artistic Old English lettering, these touching words:
“The last sad kiss of dear departing day.”
It went to the Academy; it was sold for two hundred pounds; I got my ten. Of course, everybody knew where the verses came from—either Thompson’s “Seasons” or Wordsworth, etc.—and I was perfectly willing to let the dead poets have the credit for such sentimentality.
Chapter VIII: Summer Adventurings
I. Carrière St.-Denis
I have often wished I could have the faith of some Christians in the power of the Holy Book and, when I wanted to decide anything of importance, just open it to any page, put my finger on a spot, and proceed according to the instructions thereupon given. I have the gambler’s instinct, but perhaps only for little things, and while I have never gone to the Bible for material guidance, I have many times employed the childish quotation, “My mother says that I shall do this”—pointing a finger at each word—and following the lead. This does not always prove a happy method of selecting one’s future, but I think it is as near as one can come to it. There is only one case where I am certain it cannot fail, and that is for a very good reason—there is a prize package at the end of every string. If you stand in the center of Paris and start in any direction toward its environs, you will end at a place more charming than you can imagine. I have tried this experiment many times and have never been disappointed.
Carrière St.-Denis was discovered quite accidentally by two of my painter friends, and it was only after a long time that they let me in on the secret. Having traveled out of the city on the railway as far as Nanterre, you take your courage in your hands and get off at this place, which seems to have nothing more interesting than endless fields of vegetables. Despair not; cross the tracks and walk steadily on until you come to a canal. Here is a wooded island whose banks look like nothing so much as the old fishing place on the Concord River at home. All is quiet, with no signs of human habitation until you come to a post across from which a boat is tied. Here you must stop, put your hands to your mouth to form a trumpet, and cry: “Passeur!”—”Passeur!” After about the second call will come the answer, “Attendez!” and down the path from his little hut, which is entirely concealed by the trees, comes an old man bearing upon his shoulder a pair of oars. Without speaking a word, he comes over, you get into the boat, and he rows you across the canal, where, very gravely, he leaves the skiff and, again carrying the oars, he walks with you across the island. Here you are at the Seine, but a part of the river that you have not known before. Another boat is waiting, again the old man rows you over, but this time you land upon a gravelly beach flanked by a cliff so steep that you despair of ever climbing it.
At first glance this falaise reminds you of the familiar Palisades, only made of Caen stone, but on closer examination, you are astonished to find that there are doors and windows cut out of the solid rock! The blacksmith shop is a former quarry, as are many of the homes of the humbler and poorer, their people having taken up their habitations in the same manner as the hermit crab—in the shell of a former owner. On the other side is the village, looking like an old-fashioned jewel in a rough setting, while farther along, on the outskirts of the town, are the fields of cabbages and beets. You must be very careful in wandering over these stretches of growing vegetation, for at any moment you may come to a hole like a rabbit burrow almost concealed by the grass. If you have the Alice in Wonderland instinct (and you will certainly have acquired it by this time), you will plunge down this rough tunnel to see what mysteries the underground holds.
Men have dug out this rock, from which Paris has been made, leaving a labyrinth of paths and chambers. Every once in a while there are flashes of light very much like the glimpses of the sky that one gets from the train when going out from New York at the Grand Central Station. Over the edge of these openings hang blackberry vines, and the singing of birds can be heard. You are reminded of that story told by Wells, of the race of people that lived under the earth and came out at night to feed upon those who lived on top. There is one long tunnel which leads to an amphitheater larger than the Hippodrome. It is dark as the night, and you feel as if this must be the cathedral of these underground men.