_“Figure aux cheveux roux, d’ombre et de paix voilée, Errante aux bords des lacs sous son nimbe de feu, Salut! L’humanité dans ta tombe scellée O jeune Esseinien, cherche son dernier dieu!_ The boyish Christ, a halo of flame about His head, wandering along the shores of Galilee. Humanities last God.” The dilettante plays. The great artist learns to suffer; creating is the pendant of unselfish anguish. “How good it is to read in a quiet room!” Redon exclaims—“with a window upon a forest.” He could say that, because he had not permitted the tumult of the world to touch his heart. That was a finer thing to do than to collect dollars. Success, what is popularly called so, is more or less vulgar, and a little too noisy now-a-days. Redon is a poet in words without suspecting it. Hear him! Painters—go look upon the sea! There you will find color, find light; And a deep sky that lives. There you will catch song of the sands, Countless imperceptible shadowings, You will come strengthened back from the sea, Until the great word will be yours. It is under the charm of autumn evenings that I resume my memories. There is something in this season that turns my thoughts toward the past. It is sad, a little. It helps recall that which is gone. In my soul it makes silence; sweet and discreet, like autumn leaves that drop. Once Redon met a man named Chenavard who had known Delacroix. This was in 1878. The man’s memories of the great painter gave him impulse to paint, he states. Delacroix always stood at his easel, or else he walked rapidly back and forth, whistling an opera of Rossini’s. The man could not forget the abandon, fertility, power of invention, _the fury_, of Delacroix. Redon insists that success can destroy and then pervert an artist’s sense of beauty. And he was of the opinion that it is in winter when music has its greatest influence. It belongs to the skies of the evenings of winter, with their silence. Music is art of night and its dreams. But painting belongs to day and the sun! Exactitude, truth, action, are of the domain of words. Therefore not native to Germany, land of music, abstract thought, visions. It is most at home in France, in England. He dislikes the music of England. He loved the Basque Country. The soil seemed an ancient fatherland where he must have lived, loved, suffered. There the wandering winds of summer, the slightest motion of water, sound of the human voice, awoke imperious memories. Everything touched his heart. In life we may be always stumbling upon our ancient and forgotten dwelling places, where in some other dress of flesh we played. One life for the manifold mind is inconceivable, for its uselessness, its injustice. Lives are multiple. Science will teach us how, _some day_, to remember.