Hungarian as enthusiastically as if he had been born a Frenchman. It is this heartiness and generosity of response to creative talent which makes Paris the only Athens of our day- the true nursery and home of the ideal.

At one of the many banquets given to Munkacsy in those first days of his triumph, a little incident occurred delightfully characteristic, not only of that French emotionalism at which it pleases us to smile, but also proving the large generosity of French feeling Jules Breton, the celebrated painter, was called upon for a toast. In response to the invitation, he rose, approached Munkacsy, threw his arms about him with true Gallic

beautiful old tales of medieval enthusiasm-such a tale as comes down to us from the time, six hundred years ago, when all Florence joined in the procession which, with festal music and streaming banners, bore Cimabue's wondrous Madonna from the painter's house to its resting-place in the dark little Chapel of Santa Maria della Novella. For Munkacsy also, in these days of nineteenth-century prose, there was the poetic pean of music and festal pageantry. His entrance into a city was like that of a king. His advent was the signal for an ovation. On reaching Buda-Pesth, the whole city turned out to do him honor, municipal and clerical authorities preceding the brilliant cortége of young girls

who flung flowers in his path, and of citizens and artstudents who rent the air with their "bravas!"

In the Palais des Arts, where his "Christ" was on exhibition, he was led, there to be crowned by the venerable archbishop, who addressed him in language which matched well with the old-time enthusiasm of his reception: "Great compatriot! illustrious citizen! we salute thee with respect! Thou art the great Magyar painter ! Thou art the painter anointed by genius! We present to thee a crown for thy triumphal return to Hungary. Receive it as the homage of our admiration inspired by

as unknown to the throng of English, German and American visitors as it appeared unpronounceable to the French and Italian critics. But there was no mistaking the strength of the artist's genius. The "Milton" was declared to be, both by the press and the public, the picture of the exhibition, and the art judge ratified the verdict by awarding it the honor of the Grand Prix. With this sudden celebrity fresh interest was naturally enough awakened in the other pictures sent by Munkacsy to the exhibition. In these, "Les Recrues Hongrois " and "L'Intérieur de l'Atelier,"

thy genius."

Certain episodes in Rubens' romantic career alone furnish a parallel to this picture of overwhelming adulation.

The interest in the history and career of the man who has evoked such a recognition of his genius deepens when it is known that no longer ago than 1878 he had barely been heard of by the great world. Previous to the Paris International Exhibition, where his "Milton" brought him into sudden fame, Munkacsy had been known among certain circles of painters and the conacenti of Paris and Germany as an artist who had produced some clever genre pictures. But he ranked no higher than a dozen other clever genre painters. Among the masterpieces that filled the art galleries of the exhibition, however, there was one picture so striking in its power and originality as to excite universal admiration. It was signed Michael Munkacsy, a name almost

the artist displayed a versatility both of method and of fancy, and a breadth of scope which proved that the extent of his gamut was a wide one. No scene could be imagined in more marked contrast to the finish and poetic treatment of the "Milton " than the realistic figures dashed in with a con furioso touch composing the group in "Les Recrues." In "L'Intérieur" an equally distinct note of originality was struck. Here was an entirely new treatment of a genre subject, as unique in style and as novel in character as Fortuny's famous "interiors;" but this picture had none of that painter's rococo extravagances, recalling, on the contrary, the finish and the repose of those older masters whose methods were at once so simple and so subtle.

In a very marked degree Munkacsy's art has followed his fortunes. In the early days of his poverty and obscurity he painted those mournful figures and land

scapes-reproductions of scenes from his native country -which won for him his first successes. But of late years, since his days of opulence, his canvases have reproduced, in a somewhat unusual degree, the splendor which characterizes his life. It may, indeed, be doubted whether the secret of much of Munkacsy's success in solving some of the difficulties of his art is due to the fact that latterly fortune has placed him in the midst of splendid surroundings. It is questionable whether if he had remained poor he would ever have risen to greatness, in the sense that Millet became great in despite of his poverty. Munkacsy has the orientalist's love of magnificence, and an actual need of it as a source of artistic inspiration. As Wagner composed best when seated in a room splendidly upholstered, Munkacsy has a like impressibility to surroundings. He paints best amidst gold and velvet; and rich stuffs and beautiful objets d'art are as stimulating to him as wine is to others. He does not possess the glowing, luxuriant imagination of Delacroix or Rubens. He is a realist; he is at his best with his subjects before him, and when his milieu is in harmony with his tastes. It is certain, for instance, that he could never have painted the gorgeous mise-en-scéne of the "Christ" amidst poor or mean surroundings. The pictures which have made him famous, the "Milton" and this "Christ Before Pilate," are the products of his princely days, since he dwells in one of the most sumptuous of Parisian houses, and paints in a studio as beautiful as a page out of the Arabian Nights' dream.

Munkacsy's house is in the centre of the new Parnassus, which of late years has sprung into being as if by enchantment, in the Parc Monceau quarter. Painters and authors, actors and sculptors, have forsaken their classic haunts at Montmartre and the Place Clichy for the art-Canaan which centres about the Place Malesherbes and Avenue de Villiers. The Hungarian painter has bought a large brick dwelling on the latter boulevard. Outwardly the house presents no exceptionally imposing appearance, but inside it is a palace for princes

to envy.

The studio proper is situated at the top of the house, and to reach it one passes a noble hallway and several flights of wide stairs, which, in the language of modern artist-upholsterers, are beautifully "treated;" the portières, stained glass windows, eastern rugs and armor forming a mélange of rich, subdued and most harmonious tints.

Upon first entering the studio one is neither conscious of the noble proportions nor of the admirable lighting of this beautiful room. The eye is dazed by the gorgeousness of the decorations. A carnival of color meets the glance. If the Orient, with the richest treasures of its tints and stuffs, had been poured into Munkacsy's studio, no more thoroughly eastern effect, both in sumptuous splendor and originality of contrast, could have been produced. This is indeed the ideal studio, where profusion seems to beget a most artistic confusion, and where the useful and the splendid combine in unexpected picturesqueness.

The room, large and lofty in width and height, is fitted up in the style of the German Renaissance. There are splendid bits of carving in the great wooden fireplace in the oaken gallery which, five or six feet from the ceiling, runs along the south side of the room, and over the balustrade of which are thrown rare tapestries and Venetian rugs. In one corner of the room stands an antique carved pulpit, the rescued relic of some old monastery. There are also two beautiful twisted columns supporting the lintel of a great doorway,

interesting as specimens of early French carving. But the studio borrows its greatest splendor from the eastern stuffs which crowd every nook and corner. Over the Algerian tabourets, the inlaid tables, the divans and ottomans are strewn garments of strange hues and marvelous fashion-Chinese embroidered robes, silvered burnous, Japanese scarfs and caftas stiff with their gold and silver flowers and birds. Even from the ceiling depend delicate crêpes and dainty amber-colored gauzes. Silken draperies screen doors; and Chinese screens of all imaginable colors, dense with pictorial embroideries, crowd every corner of the vast apartment. To relieve the eye, which otherwise would become fatigued before such a world of opulence in color, the walls are dark, irregularly covered with sketches, portraits, ceramics aud cabinets. On several of the tables are giant hot-house plants, spreading palms and stately cacti, or tall vases filled with flowers.

On the occasion of our first visit to the studio it chanced to be the painter's reception day. The room was filled with groups of richly-dressed Parisiennes, whose Worth costumes were in curious contrast to the oriental character of their surrounding, producing one of those bizarre effects the late craze for orientalism has brought into fashion. Critics and artists were there also in full force, hovering among whom, in the zeal of her hospitable spirit, was Madame Munkacsy, whose beautiful toilet of peacock plush suggested the plumage of some rare tropical bird. To this bouquet of color was added the rich liveries of lackeys, assiduously passing coffee, gorgeous in their crimson satin waiscoats and gold-embroidered coats. Such a scene might have tempted the brush of Paul Veronese, and one could wish that Munkacsy may be inspired to reproduce on a larger and grander scale than "La Visite à Bébé" and "Les Deux Familles," a transcription of the brilliant splendor of a similar modern scene, which recalls, by its opulence and elegance, the days of Venetian magnificence. The chief topic of discussion was the recently finished "La Fête à Papa," which was standing upon the large easel, and which one veteran critic pronounced to be "La perfection de la coquetterie." Then the talk turned to the "Christ," which was just then the great art sensation in Paris. Munkacsy himself was one of this little group, and listened with much earnestness and interest to all that was said. Then, after a little, when the conversation turned upon the figure of "Christ," and a discussion arose as to the precise meaning to be read in the attitude, he began to explain what he had himself attempted to typify in his creation.

“I wanted to paint a man, not a God. How can one paint a God? It is impossible. Besides, it was the human, not the mystic, side of Christ's character which attracted me. One can only paint what one feels.”

This and much more was said with a simplicity and directness which are the chief characteristics of Mun

kacsy's manner. In conversation especially he possesses this first of personal charms. His simplicity is

as unstudied as it is effective in putting others at their ease. Though neither a brilliant nor a particularly fluent talker, the rapidity of his speech perhaps hindered by his use of a foreign tongue, Munkacsy seldom fails to talk freely about what concerns his art. He displays an eagerness and naturalness, when such subjects are touched upon, we are apt to associate with the more youthful period of a man's enthusiasms; but, in point of fact, what artist ever grows old? Munkacsy, so far from being old, has not as yet reached the term of years appointed to a man's completeset maturity. He is thirty-six, though both face and figure would suggest the

forties; for he has the rounded back of the diligent worker, and the face has the pallor that proclaims a severe strain on the vital forces. The face is itself of the pure Magyar type-high cheek-bones, bulging forehead, prominent lips, and eyes so small but of such tremendous shining qualities that they can alone be compared to the Mongolian. These are not the features of a dreamer nor of an idealist; they belong to the order of genius that gives us the radicals, the creators, the innovators. Munkacsy is all of these, his Magyar blood and ancestry bequeathing to him a heritage of daring courage and adventurousness in his aims and conceptions.

The story of the painter's early life has found its way into print, the various versions of which bear so little relation to the truth that a kind of Munkacsy legend has been invented. Yet the truth is romantic enough to have no need of biographer's embellishments. This truth we were fortunate enough to hear from Munkacsy himself. One morning, happening to call at the studio at an early hour-early, that is, for laterising Paris-and taking advantage of a tête-à-tête freedom of talk to recount to him an amusing fabrication concerning his earlier career which had lately appeared in a Western newspaper, Munkacsy, after a hearty laugh, said:

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I presume you have never heard the real facts of my life, so many untruths are published; yet the truth is simple enough. My father was a Hungarian taxgatherer, and I am one of five children. During the Hungarian Revolution he was thrown into prison, as were many others, by the Prussians. He had refused to give up the tax-money which he had in his cash-box, and suffered for his honesty. My mother died when I was quite young. We children were thus left adrift till five uncles and aunts charitably came to our assistance. One of us went to live with each. I was sent to live with an aunt at Czarba. One day a band of brigands entered our house, and, after pillaging and destroying everything they could lay hands on, they beat my aunt so cruelly that she died. I managed to escape. An uncle residing at Arad consented to take charge of me after this event. He was a farmer in a very small way, not rich enough to spend much money on my education, so that when I was ten years old he put me to work at a joiner's, where I spent seven of the most unhappy years of my life. While I was at the joiner's, I fell ill of a fever, and perhaps to this misfortune or chance I may attribute the change in my career. I was sent home to my uncle's to be nursed. intermittent fever from which I was suffering left me intervals of comparative health. When I was not too ill I used to amuse myself by drawing and painting, and I developed a prodigious taste for writing execrable verses. In fact, I dreamed I was a poet. But fate decreed I was to be a painter; for my uncle, seeing one day some of my crude drawings, thought it just as well to let me have a few lessons-with a view to the joinery business.

The

"There happened just then to be a clever painter called Szamosi in the town. One day he saw some of my crude efforts and they pleased him. He advised me strongly to give up carpentry and try art. My uncle, of course, opposed the idea, but to no purpose. Szamosi and I left him one morning and went off to Arad, where for some time we lived and worked together, and where I learned of my good Professor the elements and some of the difficulties of art.

"Had I known the difficulties carlier," said Munkacsy here with a grave smile, "I question whether I should ever have become a painter.

"This happened in 1861. Szamosi taught me not only drawing, but literature and history. He was, indeed, as kind as a father to me. People often annoy me by saying that I was the pupil of an itinerant signpainter, and so on. The fact is, Szamosi (who is still alive and doing well in Hungary) was and is a good painter and an excellent teacher. He is the only master I ever had.

"From Arad I went to Buda-Pesth (where I sent in some genre pictures to the Kunst Verein), and thence to Vienna. I had a hard life of it; working much and making very little. My intention in going to Vienna was to study with Professor Rath, but he died about that time, and I worked for some time alone at the Vienna Academy.

"On leaving it I spent two years at Munich, and thence proceeded to Düsseldorf, where I made the acquaintance of Kraus, and painted my first important picture, 'Le Dernier Jour d'un Condamné,' which, as you know, was sent to the Paris salon and carried off a medal. It was painted, I acknowledge, in the very dark manner with which I am often reproached. It was not until I came to Paris that I began to get rid of this fault. Paris has contributed much to my present sucIndeed, it has widened my views of art and rid me of my tendency to gloom."

cess.

It was not in this, but on still another day, that we learned how the painter came by his peculiar name. It was as Michka Liebs that he worked in the joiner's workshop, the latter being the family name; but upon his becoming an artist, he changed Munkacs, the name of the town in which he was born, to Munkacsy, adopting the latter as his artist appellation.

Among modern artists, perhaps none are more untraveled than Munkacsy. His own confession that, except of certain portions of Austria and Hungary, and a few of the Continental art cities, such as Munich, Düsseldorf and Paris, he had seen nothing, even of Europe, was surprising indeed-the more so, since in the "Christ" the grouping of the multitude suggests thorough familiarity and study of Eastern life and character. He has never even been to Italy, except for a single day passed at Venice.

His art has both suffered and gained by this loss. The "Christ," it is safe to say, would never had been given to the world in its present form had the artist had the originality of his conception in a certain measure impaired by a too intimate acquaintance with the masterpieces of Italian religious art. On the other hand, the great painting would unquestionably have gained something in unity, and its defects been the less pronounced, had the painter been enabled to make a study of the great masters a part of his early education.

Michael Munkacsy, in the growth and development of his art and genius, has passed through several quite distinctly marked processes, for his genius is of an eclectic order. It is also of such vigor and scope that its fullest expression could only be attained with the maturity of the artist's powers. These processes can be very easily traced and defined. The works produced in what may be termed his earlier manner were those painted when under the influence of l'école du noir, when, fresh from the Munich and Düsseldorf schools, he had become infected with their tendency to gloom. Munkacsy, though perhaps the most distinctly original artist of the century, has by no means escaped either the art influences or the contemporaneous mannerisms of the time. While of late years no painter has fut his way through the traditions of the school with more superb indifference to their dictates, or a higher scorn of all that