A WONDERFUL PHOTOGRAPH.

Hawke's Bay Herald, Volume 13, Issue 1083, 14 September 1869, Page 4

A WONDERFUL PHOTOGRAPH.

In a certainisecluded little 1 village in dittany, ther6 lived some years ago an honest peasant-woman, known 'as uLa Veuve Yvontoe." She happened one day to hear Rome' of, Jher heighbpjirs' speaking of the wonderful powers of photography. With absorbed attention she listened as they told herhowthat by means of this wonderful, set wetfe produced on paper, in the space of a minute, hot only stars and trees, landscapes ; atwi buH&jn^s; but the caprices of the sea, the phenomena of the sky, and the most transient expressions of the human face. , ' indeed!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands, and after a moment's pause she demanded eagerly, " Where are the best of these marvellous pictures to be seen?" ; ' ': ' .'"ln Paris," was the reply. "Why do you ask, Mere .Yvonne ?" ;," : Ne_ver wind," said she, nodding her head thoughtfully. -" I have an idea. You will see." The widow's mind was strong and simple ; itdid not take long to "makeup." Without staying to deliberate, without listening to the advices ,and warnings that besieged her on every side, and without confiding to any one the object of her journey, she packed up a few necessaries, and one fine morning, rich with the savings of many industrious years, and armed with a written '. character from the farmer by whom she had been employed, she set ofi alone for' Paris. She arrived in the great capital, with her scarlet petticoat, her white neckerchief, her large cap, and her honest face. It was a big place she saw, much larger than she i had expected ; very brilliant and busy and bewildering; but though astonished, she was not a bit dismayed ; she traversed the interminable Boulevards with the nonchalance of a born Parisian, giving no sort of attention to the city "lions;" paying no heed to its monuments and museums, its parks and gardens, its gaieties and fetes ; having in her honest head but a single idea, namely, the power of photography. Directly she arrived she inquired, "Who ifl the best photographer ?" Opinions differed ; some told her Brwin ; others, 'jSalbman ; others, Frank, Gustave, Levy, Bertall. , V But which of all these," asked the dame, "is most successful in portraits of children?" In reply she was furnished with the ad- ' dress of a certain clever artist, whore name I. am not at liberty to record, and to whose studio she at once hastened. ; " Everybody, says, monsieur," she began, V that your likenesses of children are admirable." "Everybody is very kind," replied the photographer, smiling. ".That you take them in the most graceful and natural attitudes," resumed the . dame ; " and that they are so life-like that they almost seem to speak." •• ■••* If I have attained any unusual skill in this branch of my art, . madame;" he replied, "it is probably because I have worked oon amove. I love the little rogues. It is pure .pleasure to me to perpetuate their innocent smiles and graces. I have, moreover,: plenty of little subjects of my own to practice upon. See here !" He opened a door, called, and the next moment half-a-dozen merry children, of ages varying 'from three to twelve, rushed j into; ,the room, and crowded round his knees. "You may imagine;" he continued smiling, " that it is not always an easy matter to reduce these fidgety little customers to the necessary immobility; it requires a little tact, and a good deal of patience. It is a child, I presume, madame, whose por- , trait you wish taken ?" '.'Yes, monsieur, it is a child; but he will not trouble you by restlessness," replied Dame Yvonne, shaking her head. "He will be neither petulant nor rebellious, the poor little love. Good reason why: he . "Yes?" said the artist, interrogatively, stroking the forehead of his youngest child as Bhe paused. ; "He is dead!" said Dame Yvonne> gravely. At these startling words, uttered in a voice in which approaching sobs betrayed themselves, the photographer felt distressed, and ashamed of his own egotism. He felt he must have bitterly renewed the mother's grief in exhibiting to her these fair children, and caressing them before her eyes. " Go and play on the balcony," he whispered, hastily ; and as they passed through the door he kissed them tenderly, but softly, lest his visitor should hear. Then, returning to bis seat near her, he said, with great gentleness, "As the little child of whom you speak is dead, it is, I conclude, a posthumous portrait you wish to have taken, —the picture of the little creature whose innocent soul has fled, lying in his white bed, a. cross in his band,, a crown of white roses on his colorless forehead. It will be a painful task to me ; but to oblige you, madame, I shall be happy, if you will give me your address, to proceed as soon as possible to your Dame Yvonne drew from her pocket a large red and blue handkerchief, with which, quite simply, she wiped her tearful eyes. " Thank you, monsieur," she said ; " but J. need not give you so much trouble. My child has been dead six years." The photographer looked stupefied. ?♦ You have then already a portrait of I your son ?" he said, after a pause — "a paint- , ing, 'perhaps, that you wish photographed?" .\ "A painting of him!— l?" exclaimed Pame Yvonne. , "Mon Dieu, no ! or why should I have come all the way from Brittany? , I have no sort of relic or remembrance pi jny sweet angel's face; it is the hope of obtaining one that has induced me to make this long journey." The photographer started to his feet in ■tiiiteramazeiijient. , vvV) What,, madame I" he exclaimed ;," and "46iyAU; imagine that without the original, irittout another portrait, without any sort 'bT'in&ication or guide, I can produce a '%^^ child dead six years ago?" .^.yl^WJ^^ojdsieur 1" cried Dame Yvonne, \ ip.hpr turn ; ''and do you mean to say it is \ impossible ?. People vaunt on every side the prodigies, the miracles of photography; ■boast thatit surp^es thefea. in the mys- .;■ .i^Uiabm ribremeniß' of ite;Waves, and the i; :^i^ih^e of its clouds, ', and f^j^^^fh^y^i' noßt'. intricate; 'trck ', 'oss^s^. $$&%■ buildings* an# piQttu-; :^-^^^^^^piioti.trTr9ann6t the- arfc/that ; §; Ji^^^^a^it^se^maryels . «* . my son'? ißffifias> ;■;■• :);'•■• •-" ■■■■■■ ;■ /■■■

Cannot it give ever so imperfect a resemblance of her child to a desolate mother,, who— ',. Sobs broke the sentence. Dame' Yvonne could say no more. l Now here was at once a great grief to console and the honour^p, fa,- great invention to defend. The, kin.d-li^arted photographer did not wish the simple 'peasant to return to her Breton .village disappointed, so he reflected awhile. ; ■ ?'■ "Madame," he said, thoughtfully, "nothing is absolutely impossible." " Ah," she cried, quickly, " then you can give me a portrait of my darling ?" " Perhaps," saidhe. "Though he has been dead six years?" she asked. . ' - "Who knows?" he said. "I will try at any rate." ' " God bless you, monsieur— you and your family, if you accomplish this good action," exclamed Dame Yvonne, tremulously. "What can Ido to help you? Is there anything necessary for ■" "You have preserved the clothes of the child you have lost ?" he asked. "Preserved them?" she echoed; "I would no more part with them than a church' would relinquish its sacred relics. I have the very little garments, still as good as new, in which I dressed him the last time he ran chasing the butterflies in the green fields." "Send them. to. me directly," said the artist. " You shall have them in an hour, monsieur," she replied. "Good," said he. "Only three more questions: What was the colour of his hair?" " Golden," she replied. " How old was he ?" continued the photographer. • " Five years," was the reply. " Was he sufficiently advanced in intellir gence to have any sense of religion — to be pious ?" he asked. "Pious! Ah ciel, the poor little angel! — he was always at prayers," replied the widow ; "at night, before he went to rest, at the foot of his little bed ; in the moming, when he rose, before the image of our Blessed Lord, that hung on his bed-room wall " " That is enough," said the photographer, rising. "When science and pity work hand in hand in a common cause, we may well hope for success. I have so strong a wish to aid you, madame, that I do not doubt that I shallfind a way. Adieu! Au revoir." The clothes were sent, the work was begun, and two days afterwards Dame Yvonne received the first proof of the portrait. She uttered a cry of joy. "It is he !" she exclaimed. " I know him again J It is my son ! See ! there is the little vest with the silver buttons — the little trousers I made with my own hands ; there are his little arms, his tiny fingers, his long golden hair falling over his shoulders. Oh yes, it is — it is my little child ! Oh monsieur, how., much do I owe you ?" " Madame," said the photographer, "in presenting to you an image which you recognise as your son, dead six years ago, I have accomplished a miracle. Miracles are not paid for." ' For us, the miracle is not difficult to explain. Nothing is so like, in figure, air,, and attitude, to a child of five years old as another child of the same age. The photographer had merely placed before the camera one of his own children, dressed in the pretty Breton costume of the dead boy. He was represented kneeling on a cushion, his head bent, his face hidden by his hazels,, which were raised and clasped together in. the noble and graceful attitude of .prayer. Dame Yvonne returned to Britanny. She showed the portrait to every one she knew ; and to all who would listen she enlarged, in terms of reverence and wonder, on the marvellous power of photography, which had produced the likeness of a boy who had been dead six years. If any one indiscreetly asked, "Dame Yvonne, why does your son hide his face thus in his hands?" she answered, much affected, " You must be a bad Christian not to guess that. The poor little angel, who is in heaven, prays for his mother, left in the world, bereaved and desolate." Mary Elizabeth.