t all. And what was it?--Pale green sheep in the foreground, pale
green mountains in the background, so pale you could shoot peas through
them. That's what you have to do now to make a success in Paris--get
your values so that you can shoot peas through 'em. And what will it be
to-morrow? And what help is it to the student, anyway?"

But one thing certain is, that whatever the fads and movements in the
Paris studios happened to be, the American student in those days did see
what was going on in Paris, and just to see, just to feel it, was, as
Duveneck held, a help, an inspiration. To-day, living in his own
_pensions_, studying in his own schools, loafing in his own clubs, he
does not take any interest in what is going on outside of them and will
talk about what "the Frenchmen are doing" as if he were still in
Kalamazoo or Oshkosh.

What the student, in Duveneck's and McFarlane's time saw going on round
him in Munich was, as well as I could make out, chiefly balls and
pageants. To this day I cannot help thinking of life in Munich as one
long spectacle and dance. Duveneck, who could talk with calmness of his
painting, was stirred to animation when he recalled the costumes he had
invented for himself and his friends. He could not conceal his pride in
the success of a South Sea Islander he had designed, the effect achieved
by the simple means of burnt Sienna rubbed into the poor man, but so
vigorously that it took months to get it out again, and a blanket which
he mislaid towards morning so that his walk home at dawn, like a savage
skulking in the shadows, was a triumph of realism. Pride, too, coloured
Duveneck's account of the appearance of the Socialist Carpenter of his
creation who made a huge sensation by inciting to riot in the streets of
an elaborate Old Munich--the origin of Old London and Old Paris and all
the sham Old Towns that Exhibitions have long since staled for us. But
his masterpiece was the Dissipated Gentleman, like all masterpieces a
marvel of simplicity--hired evening clothes, a good long roll in the
muddiest gutter on the way to the ball, and it was done; but the art,
Duveneck said, was in the rolling, which in this case, under his
direction, was so masterly that at the door the Dissipated Gentleman was
mistaken for the real thing and, if friends had not come up in the nick
of time, the door would have been shut in his face.

Duveneck was as enthusiastic over the Charles V. ball, though all the
artist