scarlet blossoms, monkeys, and a royal tiger. She recalled that Rousseau had been a working-man, painting on Sunday, his only free day, how he had never left Paris, creating his jungles after visits to the Jardin d'Acclimatation and the Jardin des Plantes. What a genius! This was not imitation but creation. And yet there were those who asserted that he painted in this sure way through naïvete. Looking at the picture, Campaspe realized that the artist had been entirely aware of what he was doing, that he must have been certain even on his darkest days that eventual recognition would come to him. Work such as this—Campaspe was irresistibly reminded of Lucas Cranach—was assuredly no accident. She pondered over this idea. She was sitting on the floor in the centre of the drawing-room, still regarding the pictures, set up against the wall, when Bunny was announced.
Hello, Bunny, she called out, without rising, when he was shown in.
Hello, 'paspe. His manner was solemn. What have you got here?
Oh! some pictures Fannie sent me. Aren't they divine? I could eat that tiger of Rousseau's.
They are good. There's something about that jungle which suggests to me what I have been trying to do in my rotten music.
Your music is as good as the picture, she retorted.
I can't compose any longer, 'paspe.
