I had been told by Crowinshield, in Boston, that I had something that would be of great value in the future, but was very dangerous then—_chic_. With the conceit of youth, I thought it meant something, so I began to paint as soon as I joined Julian’s. My first work was the head of an Italian; it was very bad. Boulanger stopped in back of me and said: “If you go on this way, you might as well go home and make shoes.” A thing like that had seldom happened to me; I couldn’t help showing off, and it hit hard. I realized that the criticism was right, but I thought that he should have told me how to cure myself. So I left the room and waited on the stairs for a half hour before he came out. Seeing me, he tried to push by, but I stopped him, saying: “I admit everything you said. I do not know anything, but I came here to learn. (By this time the tears were streaming down my cheeks.) You shall _not_ leave here until you tell me what to do.” He thought for a moment. “Well, have you seen the outline drawings by Gérôme?” I thought them the finest things I knew of, and said so. “Go back and make one, and mind you, young man, see that you take a week over it. Good morning.” These drawings were larger than the academy paper, so I got a three-foot stretcher and put wrapping paper on it. They wouldn’t let me in the front row at school because it was too large and obstructed everyone else’s view; I had, therefore, to go in the back of the room and stand up to see the model. In two days I had finished it, and I started it over again, rubbing out so much that I wore holes in the paper. After one every week for three weeks, they came easier. Boulanger was away on a vacation, and when he came back he passed me by as though I did not exist. July, August, September went by and still he ignored me. I was too scared and miserable to speak to him. Finally, one day he walked in back of my easel and halted as if shot! Turning to the whole school, he said: “None of you could do a drawing like this, and I doubt if any one of you could copy it.” Then turning to me, “Let’s see you make an academy.” I switched from being a loafer and _chiquer_ from that moment, and realized that only by eight hours’ daily work and hard digging could I become a painter. The next week there was a prize offered of a hundred francs for the best drawing—and I won it.