Petersburg High School - Missile Yearbook (Petersburg, VA)

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‘The JVlissih “I shall win the contest,” she said determinedly. “Then I can go to Paris and study under Cogniet II. Grandfather studied under Cogniet I, and became a member of the Beaux Arts. You win or you lose but I sincerly hope you win,” she said aloud to the picture. “I’ll wrap you up and mail you to the Art Exhibit in the morning.” The next morning she was up very early and wrapped and tied the canvas securely. She took it down to the post office on the corner and mailed it. It would be a week before she would hear from it. The suspense was sorely trying on her nerves. The days dragged slowly by. When time for the judging came, a heated argument took place between three men surrounded by hundreds of paintings. The man standing before the other two was a tall heavy- set fellow with a little mustache and spoke with a slight French accent. “I tell you that ees by far the best picture,” he thundered as he pointed to Joan’s picture. “I don’t know the artist, but I am certainly going to find out who she ees. Whoever she may be, she knows France. She has been there, and she has seen the peasants dance. Thees picture ees true to life; it ees won- derful! I don’t believe my father could have done much better himself. I tell you the girl ees a genius and only eighteen. If she can do work like thees now, what will she do by the time she ees twenty-five? And you think that ship ees better work than thees? I’ll agree it ees an excellent piece of work; but in my estimation it ees nothing compared to thees. It ees a beau- tiful ship ; it has good colors and ees well drawn ; outside of that it ees nothing, just a ship and that ees all. Thees picture ees true to life, full of action, wonderfully drawn, colorful; it has everything to make it a successful painting.” “Yes, yes, Meissonier,” replied one of the other men, “we realize the good qualities of that picture, but Mr. Meade and I prefer the ship, so the ship wins.” “I have nothing more to say except that I think the Peasant Dance ees the best ,” answered Meissonier. Back in the tenement house Joan noticed a man trudging along in the snow as she sat at the window dreaming of her picture. The man seemed to be looking for some particular house. Page sixteen

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P. H. S reading and music, Joan working with her paints. The eve- nings together gradually became fewer. Mr. Hillby said he was detained at the office. At first Joan missed these evenings, but she became ab- sorbed in her painting and thought less about it. Then the in- evitable, as Joan had termed it, had happened. Her father was to be married. This was indeed a blow to Joan. It had never occurred to her that he would ever marry again. Of course, no one could ever take the place of her mother. “But then, if it must happen I will try to make the best of it,” she said to herself. Naturally she resented another woman taking the place in the home that her mother had once taken, but if it meant added happiness to her Dad’s life she could certainly stand it. “But leave it to Dad; if he gets mar- ried again, he will certainly pick a good woman,” Joan had said to herself with some feeling of consolation. Now as she turned and looked at the painting, the vision of her good mother’s face drifted between her and the canvas. Joan heard her encouraging words as if she were really present and speaking: “Some day, my child, you will be famous like your grandfather,” and then the taunting words of her father: “Your paintings will never amount to anything. You had better be spending your time at something more valuable.” Joan’s face grew bitter, and her mouth closed in a tight line as she remembered her last night at home. She hadn’t waited for her father to come home; she had left only a note saying she thought it best to leave and asking him not to try to find her. Then she had left. She was determined to show him whether she was a failure or not. She could take care of her- self because she had some money left to her by her mother. Joan had come to a very poor part of the town and rented a room quite different from the beautiful home which she had left forever. “Forever?” The word startled her a bit. Yes, forever. She had made up her mind never to return home again unless she became famous. “Yes, I will become famous,” she said over and over again. “Doesn’t the Meissonier blood flow in my veins? Didn’t I come from a long line of painters? Didn’t my grandfather tell me when I was a mere child that I would be renowned some day?” Picking up her brushes, she added a few finishing touches to her picture. Page fifteen . . . .

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— P. H. S. Joan, thinking he was probably an agent or collector, dis- missed him from her mind when she heard a soft, gentle knock on her door. She went to the door and opened it. The man stared at her a few moments and then said like one in a daze, “Jeanne, Jeanne, it can’t be you!” Joan, not knowing the man, didn’t know what to do or say. She just stared back at him. When she recovered from her shock, she said a little timidly, “I beg your pardon, I am Miss Hillby. Is there anything I can do for you?” The tall man shook his head and wiped his eyes with the back of his hands in an effort to clear his mind. “I beg your pardon. You reminded me so much of my half-sister.” “Won’t you come in?” Joan asked. “Thank you,” Meissonier replied. “You see, I was one of the judges for the Art Contest, and I considered your picture for the first prize, but the other judges considered another one. I didn’t come to tell you that; I came to tell you that I consider you a genius. Every year the Art School of Paris in which I work allows a student who I think has the best talent for paint- ing to study for three years under any artist in Paris with all the expenses paid. I considered your painting the best in the United States.” Joan was dumb with surprise. She hardly knew what to say. She didn’t care about the contest; she was to study in Paris. “Would they allow me to study under Cogniet?” she asked timidly. “Yes, you have selected the best artist in Paris. My father studied under Cogniet I.” “Why, my grandfather studied under Cogniet, too. He was a very famous artist,” Joan answered with surprise. “Who was your grandfather?” asked Meissonier. “My grandfather was Meissonier, the most distinguished artist of his time. He died about five years ago.” “Do you mean Jean Louis Meissonier?” the man asked breathlessly. “Why yes, did you know him?” Joan asked. “Know him!” he said, “he was my father. How? Why? I’ve got it! Are you not the daughter of Jeanne Meissonier?” Page seventeen