Wasn't his mother ever going to let
him work in peace? . . . So the poor lady, starting out in the morning
toward the rue de la Pompe, stopped midway and went instead to the
church of Saint Honore d'Eylau.
The father displayed more prudence. A man of his years could not expect
to mingle with the chums of a young artist. In a few months' time, Julio
passed entire weeks without going to sleep under the paternal roof.
Finally he installed himself permanently in his studio, occasionally
making a flying trip home that his family might know that he was still
in existence. . . . Some mornings, Desnoyers would arrive at the rue de
la Pompe in order to ask a few questions of the concierge. It was ten
o'clock; the artist was sleeping. Upon returning at midday, he learned
that the heavy sleep still continued. Soon after lunch, another visit
to get better news. It was two o'clock, the young gentleman was just
arising. So the father would retire, muttering stormily--"But when does
this painter ever paint?" . . .
At first Julio had tried to win renown with his brush, believing that
it would prove an easy task. In true artist fashion, he collected his
friends around him, South American boys with nothing to do but enjoy
life, scattering money ostentatiously so that everybody might know
of their generosity. With serene audacity, the young canvas-dauber
undertook to paint portraits.
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