Though I always took a strong interest in scientific questions, Art was the real passion of my life. But, imbued as I was with the narrow, utilitarian views which surrounded my youth, I had looked upon Art as a luxury which should not be indulged in at a time when the poorer classes could not read and write. When at last I became emancipated from this fallacy, my husband did his best to encourage my artistic development though he himself did not appreciate plastic art. Form and colour in themselves or in harmony did not appeal to him; he took much more interest in a subject than in the way it was treated; he liked psychological or realistic work, landscapes, "genre" pictures, but classical, Renaissance, or Impressionist works bored him. In spite of the divergence of our tastes in that connection, he never ceased to encourage me or to take an active interest in my work; often and often he accompanied me to picture galleries, making sincere and somewhat pathetic efforts to appreciate the beauty of great masterpieces. Next to music he enjoyed Nature most, perhaps because it offered him an inexhaustible source of scientific observation. His wearied nerves caused him to seek for soothing impressions, and calm, quiet ponds were what he preferred, with their reeds and aquatic plants, among which he loved to discover tiny beings, hidden under the leaves and below the surface of the water. Teaching and public work took up nearly the whole of his time; his leisure was devoted to home life and to an intimate circle of friends with whom he was bound by a common scientific fervour and by a University life. He kept up those friendships even after life had scattered them. His active kindness made him a centre of attraction to his relations and we were always very much surrounded. After his father died, in 1878, his mother and two of her grandchildren came to live with us. She was at that time sixty-four years of age and had the appearance of an old lady; she did not follow the fashion but wore her white hair simply parted and framing her face; alone her fine dark eyes had preserved their youthful sparkle and bore witness to her former beauty. She had a bright and cheerful disposition and a charming kindliness to every one; her desire for activity was unfortunately thwarted by the state of her health. Elie showed his mother a tender solicitude which manifested itself in the smallest details; for instance, he who detested cards would play Patience with her; or he would drive her round the markets, which interested her like the good housekeeper she was. When he came in from the laboratory he never failed to go to her to ask her for details of her health; he talked to her playfully and affectionately, making her laugh, telling her the incidents of the day. She continued to be interested in everything, especially that which concerned her dear Elie, the "consolation of her life," as she called him.