beating. But all the time I walked up I repeated to myself, 'Jean, you are an artist. Artists have been at the court of kings,' and the thought gave me courage as though I had drunk a glass of wine.' "Père Coïc, you are, without exception, the most extraordinary man I ever met. You ought to have a statue erected to you on the Place," exclaimed Monsieur de Chèvres. "And who knows? There may be one yet," answered Angèle, letting fall a smile on the poor artist that made him feel as if he were already mounted on the pedestal of the proposed memorial. He painted on in silence. others put their handkerchiefs to their mouths. The gentlemen surveyed it through their eye-glasses. "Bravo! bravissimo! it surpasses my expectation," said Monsieur de Chèvres, breaking the silence. "I am relieved!" said the poor artist, with a radiant countenance. "It is always an anxious moment when I show my pictures for the first time. But mademoiselle inspired me." "That is evident at a glance. Those eyes. That hair! They are those of Venus herself; of the Queen of Love," as serted Monsieur de Beaumont, laying his hand on Père Coïc's shoulder. I think it is beginning to come," replied Père Coïc, with humble vanity, turning round with a smile. "I am dying with impatience to see the portrait," said Madame de Beaumont. "To-morrow, I think I can show it," answered Père Coïc. "It 66 must be smoother. My pictures when they are finished are always so smooth." And shining!" put in Monsieur de Chèvres. Oh, yes, they shine well!" said Père Coïc, with a complacent smile. "Like a well-varnished pair of boots," suggested Monsieur de Beaumont, making a motion with his hands as if he were using the blacking-brush. Something in the accent caught Père Coïc's ear; he quickly glanced with a slight flurry about him.' "It is not the varnish, but the soul that makes them shine," said Angèle. Beginning! my friend. It has come. I vow it is a portrait once seen, never to be forgotten." "It smiles well, does it not?" said Père Coïc, complacently gazing at his work. "It smiles divinely," cried Monsieur de Chèvres, gathering his fingers into a bunch and blowing them open with a kiss. "What I admire most are the eyes, they are so blue," put in Madame de Beaumont, in a thin voice of frightened laughter. "Mademoiselle's eyes are the true ul tramarine tint. I used it almost without white," answered Père Coïc. "But the eyelashes were there ever such eyelashes!" said Madame de Beaumont. Père Coïc laughed with the rest at the young lady's joke, but tears rose in his eyes. She believed in him. When he reached home he sat in his shabby room, They are heavier than mademoiselle's with her portrait before him, doing noth-—but long lashes, on the lower lid es ing. The hours passed, and still he did pecially, do well in painting," said the nothing. He threw back his head, with artist. his eyes closed, his poor pinched nose up in the air, he let the afternoon slip, smiling and muttering to himself. Always Angèle was there before him, throning aloft in her blue draperies, and always appearing to him so lovely that even in thought he dared not lift his eyes upon her. "It is the privilege of art to add beauties to nature," said Monsieur de Chèvres. "Not in this case," said the poor artist, shaking his head and making a deprecatory bow. "I hope monsieur is giving me the beautiful rosy tint of Monsieur le Maire - plenty of crimson lake in it," said Angèle. "Exactly, you would not know one from the other. A vermilion complex. ion!" answered Monsieur de Beaumont. "Strawberries and cream. The strawberries predominating well," said Monsieur de Chèvres. Père Coïc cast an uneasy glance over his shoulder at the speaker. I "It is a little too red for mademoiselle. all. I wish it to be the same as Monsieur le Maire's —a pendant to his," said Angèle. "It is a pendant it is the counterpart!" cried several voices. "Not the counterpart; Monsieur le Maire was Justice, mademoiselle is Grace," said Père Coïc with a bow to Angèle. "That is a famous bow of ribbon on my shoulder," remarked Angèle when she could trust her voice. "It throws Monsieur le Maire's scarf completely into the shade," said Monsieur de Chèvres. The painter laid down his brushes, rose and faced them. "I see it now, you are mocking me," he said, in a voice shaking with emotion. "You have been mocking me all the time "You have said it; in the catalogue of your works, there the two pictures will be labelled, Justice and Grace;" said Mon--it amused you to invite me to your rich sieur de Chèvres. The company tittered, and Père Coïc gave a wintry smile. "The portrait is developing the mien of a Roman emperor; your delicate, aristocratic nose, mademoiselle, has the impressive hook of the eagle," remarked Monsieur de Beaumont, still examining the picture with his eye-glass, and draw ing in the air an exaggerated curve with his finger. "You find the nose too long?" said Père Coïc, passing his brush over the painted feature; then with a feeble effort at self-assertion he screwed up his eyes and ducked his head on one side; "I do not think so. I find it is quite mademoiselle's nose.' 99 It house to laugh at me. Perhaps I don't He stopped abruptly; in turning het stumbled blindly up against the easel. For a moment he paused, grasping it to support himself. Then he began hurriedly with trembling hands to gather together his painting materials. "But you misunderstand. It is nothing less than a chef-d'œuvre, this portrait. You must finish it," said Monsieur de Chèvres. He looked round, and saw the laughter on all the faces; he quickly glanced towards Angèle with a perplexed appeal. "I shall not finish the portrait. I am She was laughing. His eyelids quivered, not mistaking you," answered Père Coïc he grew somewhat pale. Soon the cho- in muffled tones, not pausing in the task rus took up the whispered strain again-of gathering together with half-impotent he could hear the titters and distinguish hands his paints and brushes. some phrases. "The eyes look like French plums. What doleful reminiscences of leeches the eyebrows bring!" "The hair would make the fortune of a pomatum, if the picture were copied as an advertisement." "The chin looks like a slice of cheese." "There is a decided inflammation on the top of the nose." "Well, here is the money, my friend, all the same, as if it were finished, but at least leave it with us, as it is," protested Monsieur de Chèvres, to whom Angèle had passed her purse. "I shall neither take your money nor leave you my picture," said the artist, suddenly rising from his bent posture; "for you see, I had rather not have a "Is it a chilblain?" crust to put into my soup than accept the "I must see it I cannot wait another means of having it from those who mock minute," cried Angèle. me and my work." "I should like to know mademoiselle's opinion," said Père Coïc faintly. She jumped down. "Oh, mon Dieu!" she exclaimed with a gasp. "What a nose, and what a tangle of hair! A lovesick eagle wearing a wig." Père Coïc looked at her when she resumed her seat. She was agitated with suppressed merriment. He worked aimlessly on, now painting desperately, here and there all over his picture not say ing a word, his lips drawn, a slight moisture on his brow. LIVING AGE. VOL. XXXVII. 1876 "But that is not fair," cried Angèle. "I want my portrait. I shall never have another opportunity of being represented with that commanding nose and those languishing eyes." 7 During Père Coïc's closing words the door had opened and a man had paused on the threshold in the act of entering. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, clad in a velveteen suit, with leathern gaiters reaching to the knees. His complexion was aglow with the freshness of the wind and rain, and his eyes were bright. A dark beard covered the lower half of his face. He looked for a moment at the scene before him: the gaunt man gesticulating with arm uplifted; the well-dressed crowd of men and women around him; Angèle enthroned aloft in blue, garlanded with roses. Some one caught sight of him and exclaimed, "C'est Dufresny enfin." Then followed the hubbub of greeting. The new comer at once made his way to his betrothed, who had risen dimpling and blushing to receive him. He held her hand in his. "My dear Angèle," he said quickly, under his breath, "this is cruel. Do you not see he feels it?" During the exchange of salutations Père Coïc once more had turned, and stooping down blunderingly resumed the packing up of his paints and brushes. In his confusion he had squirted a tube of oil-color over his fingers, when he felt a hand upon his shoulder. "You are a painter, my friend. I have heard some peasants who sat for me speak of you. I, too, am a painter. Let us shake hands!" The humble artist darted a suspicious glance upward at the speaker. He met the manly mildness of the dark eyes bent upon him, and he half unconsciously let his hand slip into the one outstretched; as he felt its strong and gentle grasp close over his, the tension about his mouth relaxed, and a moist appeal came into his eyes. "You see, monsieur," he said, "I know how to paint the poor, but I do not know how to paint the rich." "That is because we artists can only paint those who sympathize with us," answered Dufresny, with cordial emphasis. If we and our models do not understand each other, we are stupid before them. We are all astray. Other people do not understand this, but we know it. We must have sympathy." Ah, monsieur, how true that is how true!" mumbled the poor painter. "Ah! you you understand; you are an artist. But all the same they have hurt me." "You should not let them hurt you," continued Monsieur Dufresny, in those heart-stirring tones. "What do they know about art? What do they understand of its difficulties, of the labor the honest painting of a bit of ribbon or a flower represents? You must mind me, my friend, who am a brother artist, and I tell you I admire you for what you have achieved, unaided. There is not one here – myself included — who would have had the pluck and work in us to do it." "You are very good, monsieur," said the artist, a sob dilating his chest. "Now I shall walk home with you. You shall show me your pictures," went on Dufresny, shutting the paint-box with a snap, at whose lock the shaking fingers of Père Coïc had been vainly fumbling. They went out together, Monsieur Dufresny carrying the clumsy box, Père Coïc following with the portrait. "I think," said Mademoiselle Angèle with staccato accentuation, "considering how little we have had of Monsieur Dufresny's society latterly, he might have remained with us to-day." It shows he has a good heart, my niece," said Mademoiselle de Lustre, looking up from her knitting with a flurried brow. "You laughed at that poor artist; he has gone to console him. He has a good heart." 'Dufresny is a Don Quixote! Vive la république ! He is a Don Quixote!" cried Monsieur de Chèvres, waving his hand above his head. From Temple Bar. CRIMEAN TOWN LIFE. THE Crimea is a land rather of the past than of to-day; a land of memories rather than of passing events; a land whose period of activity and importance is past, whose time of decay and torpor seems to have come. To England it is a land of memories at once sad and heroic, memories of some glory gained, many great names brought to light to be enrolled forever on the lengthening scrolls of fame, and of much priceless blood and young life spent to very little purpose. To the world in general it is the historic Tauric Chersonese, the land of fabled darkness, whence the dread Cimmerians sallied forth on their errands of spoliation and slaughter; the land of the Scythians, a colony of the Greeks, a kingdom of Mithridates the Great; another region for the hordes of Genghis Khan to sweep over and hold subject, until in time it passed from his successors to the khans of Turkey, from whose feeble grasp it was half wheedled, half wrested by Russia, beneath whose rule it has, like the Caucasus, decreased in population and in fruitfulness. Once, in old days, the Genoese settlers at Kaffa, making use of their favorable position, carried their trade overland even to far Kathay, and made the name of the Tauric Chersonese known far and wide in the world of commerce. To-day, save for its salt and hides, a small quantity of lambs' skins of a peculiar kind, some wine and less petroleum, and for the grain trade that passes through it from the Azov, the Crimea is scarcely known. The people who dwell in this land are a mixture of many nations: relics of different races so blended as to have lost all national characteristics; though amongst them one race at least, the Nogay Tartars, claim as pure a lineage as any race yon earth. L Colonists of many nations dwell amongst the people of the soil: Greeks, Germans, Bulgarians, and Jews; but their numbers grow small year by year, as the hated compulsory military service forces them to emigrate, while the conditions under which foreigners can obtain land in the Crimea are not such as to attract fresh Yenicaleh is tumbled-down ruin, where a few score of Greek lighters dwell, and if the bar of Kertch were ever effectually dredged away, would probably lack inhabitants altogether. Simpheropol and Karasu-Bazar I know, alas! only by hearsay. The first is the capital of the province built with a view to its work as such, and with that work its importance begins and ends. Karasu-Bazar is the manufacturing town of the Crimea, with a large population, chiefly Asiatic. Eupatoria has still some small share of prosperity, thanks to her salt, and her mud-baths. As seen from the sea she presents nothing but a bleak shore whereon a forest of windmills takes the place of trees. Kertch remains, the town with the oldest history and bestbuilt houses in the Crimea. Here then on Mithridates Hill let us take our stand, and look out upon the every-day life around us. Kertch is a town of considerable external pretensions; seen from the sea with her mosquito fleet at her feet, and her streets growing from the base half-way to the summit of the hill that forms the background of the view, she is a comely little city enough. Round her outskirts roll long lines of round-topped hills whence many a chief has been exhumed to be conveyed (all that remains of him) to the museum at St. Petersburg. In an area of about eight thousand The old hill on which the town is built square miles there are not more than eight must have been (if antiquaries will forconsiderable towns, and of these Sevasto- give the term) rather an old rubbish heap pol is a ruin, where all the buildings, save than a natural excrescence of the earth, the churches, have been tumbled head- for deep down in its centre people still long by shot and shella ruin which de- dig up broken pottery, and other antique rives any importance it possesses not refuse, in such quantities as to preclude from its magnificent but disused harbor, the possibility of their having got there but from the graveyards which lie around, by accident. Up the face of the hill goes filled with the dead of other lands. Nine an immensely broad stairway of ancient years ago, gutted houses were still unre-moss-grown stone, a relic of long-past paired, the streets were tenanted by gaunt, grandeur. At the foot of the stairway is long-haired swine, half-starved curs half a broad square surrounded by good stone wild, and hawks and blue hen-harriers, who fought for the offal in the deserted comers. But the business of the present article is not with great matters, such as the politics, or ancient history, of the land, but rather with the quiet home-life of a land once great, but now forgotten. Since the days of the Genoese, Theodosia has come once.to the surface as a fashionable bathing-place, but since then Livadia, the summer home of Russia's empress, has drawn the bathers from Theodosia to Yalta, while the papers of today ring the knell of Yalta's prosperity when they tell us that Livadia the palace is to become Livadia the educational establishment; and since the grape cure was like Bath waters, rather a fashion than a reality, the days of Yalta may probably be said to have passed when the days of its patroness ended. houses, and sweet-scented acacias, while farther seaward is the bazaar set round with less odorous drinking-dens, whence day and night come the maudlin strains of the drunken ishvoshchik, or the cracked notes of the singing-girls. The bazaar, or public market, is a collection of roofed stalls, in which most of the buying and selling in every Crimean town is done. Hither in the morning, the peasant women, in short petticoats, with huge long boots, wrinkled by wear and weather into all unwieldly elephantine shapes, come in to sell their wares. Hither the long-haired Ivan, red-bearded and pink-shirted, comes to sell the grebe he shot yesterday, or the fish he took in reduction he knew must follow. This evil habit of bargaining for everything falls heaviest on strangers. Here in the bazaar all the necessaries of the kitchen are to be found spread out before the housewife's eyes, and as all the shops are open and close to each other, a vigorous and noisy competition for custom goes on which distracts the purchaser but prevents exorbitant charges. In reality every article of food except groceries is extraordinarily cheap here, but those are as extravagantly dear; the only really bad time for the kitchen in Kertch is about Easter, when there is such a glut of lambs in the market, that for weeks nothing else is killed, and the whole town has to subsist on abominably gelatinous mutton of the tenderest age. the straits by last night's toil. Here | demanded for it, it is only because the when their goods are sold Ivan and vendor rather more than doubled the Macha, simple souls, get drunk on their price in the first instance to allow for the earnings at the little stall where "Uncle Stepan" sells the potent vodka, nastiest and cheapest of spirits. Here a few hours later you will find them in loudtongued strife, but though the noise of it is great the storm is not a dangerous one, and in a few more hours they will both be peaceably asleep on the broad of their backs by the wayside. You think the police will move Macha or Ivan. Yes, if they are in the way, but otherwise they may crack a joke on them, though it must needs be an old one, and let the sleeping dogs lie. All day long the bazaar is loud with the shrill voices of quarrellers of both sexes, but blows never follow the oaths, unless a Tartar or a Greek be mixed up in the row; then there is a bright flash of steel and murder is done in the broad daylight. In the morning when Ivan and Macha have slept off the effects of their carouse, no sense of shame takes hold of them; on the contrary, a glow of self-gratulation at the memory of the good times they have had possesses them, and they trudge home to lead a hard, early-rising, thrifty, but ye gods! what a slovenly life, until the accumulated kopecks shall warrant another spree. Her marketing over, Katia trots home up the flight of stairs to her eyrie on the hill, a low, whitewashed, stone house, to which she has to pick her way over a road without a bottom and some feet deep in mud. If we follow her we shall see how she lives. The door opens into a long corridor, where two or three pots of cactus are filling the whole place with the abundant glory of their scarlet blossoms. The rooms open off from this corridor Hither, too, Katia the young housewife and display interiors bare of paper, incomes in the yet early morning, when the nocent of carpets, and not over-crowded fishers are just in from the sea, and their with furniture. The walls are in places glistening spoils are still lively on the hollow, and contain apparatus for heating fishmongers' carpets of brown matting. the house of a most efficient and economiOver her head a modest shawl is tied, cal nature. A fire lighted in these Rusunder her arm is a vast basket, and in her sian stoves will so heat the walls that a hand she grasps tight the rouble or rouble fire on the next day will not be needed. and fifty kopecks which is to buy the day's The heat too is evenly distributed, so provisions. Day by day she gets all she that the inhabitants of the house are not wants for herself, not purchasing through obliged to scorch their faces whilst the another or laying in a store for the week, cold freezes their spines as in England. but rather looking forward to the market- But the bright red coals are hidden, and ing as a pleasant exercise for her keen flickering flames and hot ashes lend none wit and shrewd tongue. A smart little of that glow of beauty and coziness to woman of business is Katia and loud of Russian interiors, which in England tongue to boot, as all Russian women are makes the whistling of the bitter wind in the drawing-room as in the bazaar, in and dripping of the eaves only so much the higher circles as much as in the low-music to enhance the feeling of comfort est. Our Katia has an accurate knowledge of prices, ay, and of the individual In Katia's house, too, all the windows character of every shopman she deals are double, and throughout the four with as well, but in spite of it all I doubt months during which the waves below are much if she ever gets the best of a bar-bound in the iron grip of frost, those wingain. Every rascal in the bazaar is pre-dows are never opened to let in a single pared for the haggling match that takes place with each successive customer, and if our housewife goes away with a purchase obtained for one-half the first price indoors. draught of the sweet and piercing fresh air. The ordinary Russian house would not be popular with children; there are no banisters to slide down, for the best |