Petersburg High School - Missile Yearbook (Petersburg, VA)

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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

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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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The “Jylissjh “My mother’s name was Jeanne Meissonier,”’ answered Joan bewildered. “Who are you?” “I am Jean Louis Meissonier II, your mother’s half-brother. I left home at the age of twelve and my father never knew what became of me. I heard he was dead, but I couldn’t get to France in time for the funeral.” Joan explained to him why she was here in the rooming house. “You poor child,” her uncle said, “you are going to France with me next week, and in a few years you will be as great as your grandfather.” o On Being a Poet By Iris Harlow I wondered often yesterday If poet I would be; Perhaps I’d be a Tennyson, First place would do for me. I wonder as I sit today And read my rhymeless ode, How I could ever think that I Was on the poet’s road. Yet poet soon again I’ll be; Next week I’ll be so bright I’ll think myself a Burns. That is, Until I start to write. Page eighteen