The Somerset reporter., 1898-08-25
THE APPLE TREE.

one evening L nOtlce0 by Moussla' q
photograph. which always stood covered
with white Grape veil on small ia
BILE, three red checked apples. These
plebeian fruits seemed out of place in
the aristocratic Partisan drawing room,
crowded with rare knickknacks and
works of art. Moussia' s mother, observ-
ing my questioning glance, said, point
ing to picture at the end of the room,
"These fruits were picked on the apple
tree which you see in this picture, the
last one painted by Moussia. y Then the
sorrowing woman told me the story of
the apple tree SO intimately connected
with that of the young artist, Marie
Bashkirtseff, who died when only "a
years old.
In the spring of 16S-- Moussia was
planning to paint peasant woman in
the open country for the salon of the
following year. She spent days looking
in the outskirts of Paris for suitable
landscape in which to place her model.
One morning she found near Sevres a
field inclosed by fence palings, beyond
which walk overgrown with grass lost
itself under willows, through whose
young shoots the sun shone brightly.
Half way up the walk, on background
OF grayish green bushes, with an outline
almost as soft as that of smoke. stood a
robust apple tree broadly spreading its
f1owery branches The whole scene was
filled with tender, fresh. stirring har-
mony, with spring itself. Moussia was
moved. She felt that this was the look
ed for spot. Opening the gate, she walk
ed toward the house, which was sepa-
rated from the orchard by garden fill
ed with beehives. The proprietor hap
pened to be one of those half bourgeois,
half peasant horticulturists who provide
the Partisan markets with flowers and
fruits The request made by the enthu-
siastic looking young girl with the ex-
pressive blue eyes fattered him. He
loved his trees, and the admiration of a
painter for them pleased him extremely.
Moussia was readily given permission
to work in the Enclosure, and she began
the very next day.
Early in the morning she arrived on
the tramway, with her model, who
carried their lunch in a basket Nous
STA understood her art. She was no
longer beginner, for some of her pic.
lures had already been much talked of
at the salon. Though belonging to a
rich family, which occupied high po-
sition among the aristocracy of her
country, she worked not as an anna
teur but as an artist anxious to win
fame. Her work showed the melancholy
fire and poetry which belong to those
born in Little Russia. The sketch of
her painting absorbed her entirely. She
was trying to put on the canvas some of
the effervescent spring about her. She
painted rapidly, as If afraid not to be
able to finish the task she had under
taken. Every morning she came back,
in spite Of the April showers and the
rawness Of the air, which often made
her cough. The owners of the place ad-
mired her pluck, and as they saw her
painting, bareheaded, standing in the
dew, with blouse over her gray dress,
they believed Der to belong to their sta
ing for her daily bread.
The housewife brought her warm
milk, the children played near her
while she rested, and the horticulturist,
learning that some young trees interfer
ed with the perspective, had not hest
tated to cut them down. 1t was touch
ing to see this man, usually SO careful
of his possessions, willingly sacrifice
them to crafty the wish of the young
artist. By degrees touching intimacy
began between them. At noon Moussia
was often invited to share the cabbage
soup and bacon.
The picture was growing The peas
ant seated at the foot of the apple tree
looked most lifelike. Only a few finish
ing touches were needed. Gathered
around the easel, the family agreed that
the apple tree was beautiful, for it
seemed as if by stretching out ones
hand the pretty, fresh, pink and white
blossoms could be plucked. One evening
Moussia carried her picture away to
show it to some friends promising to
return with it in order to finish certain
details in the landscape. They waited
for her in vain. One by one the blossoms
on the tree were carried away by the
breeze. At the end of a fortnight q
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