PAGE 6
Not Great, But Happy
by
A week from the day on which the picture was received, the Baron Holbein entered Florence. On inquiring for Pierre Delebarre, he found that every one knew the young artist.
“Come,” said one, “let me go with you to the exhibition, and show you his picture that has taken the prize. It is a noble production. All Florence is alive with its praise.”
The baron went to the exhibition. The first picture that met his eyes on entering the door was a counterpart of the one he had received, but larger, and, in the admirable lights in which it was arranged, looked even more like life.
“Isn’t it a grand production?” said the baron’s conductor.
“My sweet, sweet child!” murmured the old man, in a low thrilling voice. Then turning, he said, abruptly–
“Show me where I can find this Pierre Delebarre.”
“With pleasure. His house is near at hand,” said his companion.
A few minutes walk brought them to the artist’s dwelling.
“That is an humble roof,” said the man, pointing to where Pierre lived, “but it contains a noble man.” He turned away, and the baron entered alone. He did not pause to summon any one, but walked in through the open door. All was silent. Through a neat vestibule, in which were rare flowers, and pictures upon the wall, he passed into a small apartment, and through that to the door of an inner chamber It was half open. He looked in. Was it another picture? No, it was in very truth his child; and her babe lay in her arms, as he had just seen it, and Pierre sat before her looking tenderly in her face. He could restrain himself no longer. Opening the door, he stepped hurriedly forward, and, throwing his arms around the group, said in broken voice–“God bless you, my children!”
The tears that were shed; the smiles that beamed from glad faces; the tender words that were spoken, and repeated again and again; why need we tell of all these? Or why relate how happy the old man was when the dove that had flown from her nest came back with her mate by her side The dark year had passed, and there was sunshine again in his dwelling, brighter sunshine than before. Pierre never painted so good a picture again as the one that took the prize–that was his masterpiece.
The Young Baron Holbein has an immense picture gallery, and is a munificient patron of the arts. There is one composition on his walls he prizes above all the rest. The wealth of India could not purchase it. It is the same that took the prize when he was but a babe and lay in his mother’s arms. The mother who held him so tenderly, and the father who gazed so lovingly upon her pure young brow have passed away, but they live before him daily, and he feels their gentle presence ever about him for good.