his two ateliers, on the Place Pigalle, and
at Neuilly. Notwithstanding his arduous combat with the Institute and
public indifference, his cannot be called an unhappy existence. He had
his art, in the practice of which he was a veritable fanatic; he was
rich through inheritance, and he was happy in his love; affluence,
art, love, a triad to attain, for which most men yearn, came to Puvis.
Yet the gadfly of ambition was in his flesh. He was a visionary, even
a recluse, like his friend Moreau, but a fighter for his ideas; and
those ideas have shown not only French artists, but the entire world,
the path back to true mural tradition. It is not an exaggeration to
say that Puvis created modern decorative art.

His father was chief engineer of mines, a strong-willed, successful
man. Like father, like son, was true in this case, though the young De
Chavannes, after some opposition, elected painting as his profession.
He had fallen ill, and a trip to Italy was ordained. There he did not,
as has been asserted, linger over Pompeii, or in the Roman Catacombs,
but saved his time and enthusiasm for the Quattrocentisti. He admired
the old Umbrian and Tuscan masters, he was ravished by the basilica of
St. Francis at Assisi, and by Santa Maria Novella, Florence. Titian,
Tintoretto, finally Veronese, riveted his passion for what has been
falsely styled the "archaic." Returning to Paris he was conducted by
his friend Beauderon to the studio of Delacroix, whom he adored. He
remained just fifteen days, when the shop was closed. Delacroix, in a
rage because of the lack of talent and funds among his pupils, sent
them away. Puvis had been under the tuition of Henri, the brother of
Ary Scheffer, and for years spoke with reverence of that serious but
mediocre painter. He next sought the advice of Couture, and remained
with him three months, not, however, quarrelling with the master, as
did later another pupil, Edouard Manet. Puvis was tractable enough; he
had one failing--not always a sign of either talent or the reverse--he
refused to see or paint as he was told by his teachers, or, indeed,
like other pupils. Because of this stubbornness, his enemies, among
whom ranked the most powerful critics of Paris, declared that he had
never been grounded in the elements of his art, that he could not draw
or design, that his colour-sense only proved colour-blindness. To be
sure, he does not boast a fulgurant brush, and his line is often stiff
and awkward