DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.63220#0020
COROT
One of Corot’s biographers, M. Alfred Robaut, tells a story which
may be given here :
44 One day,” he remarks, 44 when I was in Corot’s studio, there
entered a father with his son, the former exclaiming : 4 Monsieur
Corot, here’s a young man of whom your friend M. X-will
have spoken to you. He threatens to upset the happiness of the
whole family. I wanted to secure a position for him, something
solid which should provide for his existence ; but he, on the con-
trary, has taken it into his head to become a painter ! Now I ask
you, Monsieur Corot, is it reasonable ?—for I was assured I might
rely on your advice.’
444 H’m, h’m,’ replied the painter, placing his pipe on the edge of his
easel, 4 this is serious, sir, very serious ! But come, did this young
man finish his studies ? ’
44 4 Nearly,’ answered the father.
44 4 And since then ? ’
44 4 Ah, Monsieur Corot, nothing that’s much good ! Six years ago I
put him in business, and that didn’t suit him. He was always scrib-
bling behind his master’s counter, and then-’
44 Corot, ready to burst with laughter, bit his lip and exclaimed :
4 Why, that’s my own story you’re telling me. . . . That’s absolutely
what happened to me ; and, if you like, I will tell you the rest. . . ’ ”
44 The rest,” in Corot’s case, may be told in a few lines. M. Delalain,
discovering that his assistant had no aptitude for sedentary work,
made him a sort of town-traveller. Carrying a parcel of patterns,
wrapped up in water-proof cloth, Corot went from street to street
among the retail dealers, doing his work, but doubtless doing it
badly, for the result was very meagre. Many a time his employer
met him in the street, gazing at the pictures and prints in the shop
windows, and shifting from place to place in order to get a better
view, sometimes putting his parcel on the ground to shade his eyes
with both hands ; as often as he possibly could do so he went into
the Louvre. At such times Corot was far away from all thought
of his sales or the profit he might make out of them. Little cared
he either for the lessons his master had given him in the art ot
disposing of his goods, especially that of getting rid of old-fashioned
damaged stuff at the highest possible price—principles altogether
repugnant to the honest conscience of the lad, who could not under-
stand why one should be at such pains to entrap other people.
44 But that’s business ! ” replied M. Delalain, 44 Ah, you’ll never
have the commercial spirit ! ”
No, as will soon be seen, Corot was never to have the shopkeeper’s,
c iv
One of Corot’s biographers, M. Alfred Robaut, tells a story which
may be given here :
44 One day,” he remarks, 44 when I was in Corot’s studio, there
entered a father with his son, the former exclaiming : 4 Monsieur
Corot, here’s a young man of whom your friend M. X-will
have spoken to you. He threatens to upset the happiness of the
whole family. I wanted to secure a position for him, something
solid which should provide for his existence ; but he, on the con-
trary, has taken it into his head to become a painter ! Now I ask
you, Monsieur Corot, is it reasonable ?—for I was assured I might
rely on your advice.’
444 H’m, h’m,’ replied the painter, placing his pipe on the edge of his
easel, 4 this is serious, sir, very serious ! But come, did this young
man finish his studies ? ’
44 4 Nearly,’ answered the father.
44 4 And since then ? ’
44 4 Ah, Monsieur Corot, nothing that’s much good ! Six years ago I
put him in business, and that didn’t suit him. He was always scrib-
bling behind his master’s counter, and then-’
44 Corot, ready to burst with laughter, bit his lip and exclaimed :
4 Why, that’s my own story you’re telling me. . . . That’s absolutely
what happened to me ; and, if you like, I will tell you the rest. . . ’ ”
44 The rest,” in Corot’s case, may be told in a few lines. M. Delalain,
discovering that his assistant had no aptitude for sedentary work,
made him a sort of town-traveller. Carrying a parcel of patterns,
wrapped up in water-proof cloth, Corot went from street to street
among the retail dealers, doing his work, but doubtless doing it
badly, for the result was very meagre. Many a time his employer
met him in the street, gazing at the pictures and prints in the shop
windows, and shifting from place to place in order to get a better
view, sometimes putting his parcel on the ground to shade his eyes
with both hands ; as often as he possibly could do so he went into
the Louvre. At such times Corot was far away from all thought
of his sales or the profit he might make out of them. Little cared
he either for the lessons his master had given him in the art ot
disposing of his goods, especially that of getting rid of old-fashioned
damaged stuff at the highest possible price—principles altogether
repugnant to the honest conscience of the lad, who could not under-
stand why one should be at such pains to entrap other people.
44 But that’s business ! ” replied M. Delalain, 44 Ah, you’ll never
have the commercial spirit ! ”
No, as will soon be seen, Corot was never to have the shopkeeper’s,
c iv