The Argosy — page 61: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

48 Lights and Shadows of Sketching. had unwittingly hit upon the kind of answer that was considered telling in his social circle. Anyhow, he simply walked away, humbled and crestfallen, his friends followed silently, evidently thinking much less of him. But that happened long, long ago. I was young then, and in full possession of my faculties. I could not rise to such a high level now! That contempt for the sketcher is not exclusively an English feeling, but exists in other countries among the lower classes, the following sad story will show. The worst fall I ever experienced was in artistic France, in com- paratively recent and historic times. Do you remember a picture of mine called ‘‘ Les Coquettes—Arles?” Three Arles girls walking arm-in-arm, giggling and pretending not to be aware of the presence of a handsome young Béarnais—who, for his part, struts and ‘peacocks ” behind them quite unconscious of the excitement he is creating P I knew exactly where my background was, and went to Arles to make a study of it. From the centre of the quaint old town, a narrow street runs up-hill. Near the top, and turning sharp to the right, is a narrower causeway that leads to the cloisters of St. Trophyme, and through the cloisters to the church. The causeway has a high wall on one side, and a low parapet on the other; and many feet below the parapet are the remains of the Roman theatre. The semi-circular rows of stone seats are still there ; broken, indeed, and decayed, but clearly traceable. Ruins of broken shafts le about, half buried in the long, burnt-up grass ; two columns alone are standing, rearing their heads into the clear blue sky. This is the background I wanted. I began work the very next morning, my back to the high wall, and the low parapet opposite to me. It wasa perfect day. The air was so still that the long brown grass never stirred. Silence reigned supreme. No impertinent sparrows frisked or chattered about. ‘The French cannot afford to keep them ; they eat them instead, roasted—ten of them strung on a wooden skewer, with little bits of fat bacon in between. The lizards and I had the place all to ourselves; I working away for dear life, the lizards flashing across and over the parapet, appa- rently taking suicidal headers into the theatre below. Gradually I became aware of a low musical sound far, far away. It was so faint that it was impossible to “‘ put a name to it.” It was a ‘*sound,” and no more. It ceased; then came again, stronger and clearer ; evidently church music. I was thinking of getting up and strolling into the church, when I saw the head of a procession on my left emerging from the steep street, and moving down my narrow causeway. On the procession came, nearer and nearer. Acolytes, with long silver crosses held up aloft ; priests and choristers singing a solemn dirge; old-fashioned church instruments, called ‘ serpents,” sending forth deep, lugubrious COPMICMOOO KS. EO