An Afternoon with Monet 
The clouds are threatening as we start from Paris this mild 
morning in June on a long-promised pilgrimage to the home of 
Claude Monet at Giverny. For many years the Connoisseur of 
our party has been buying the Master's pictures through the 
house of Durand-Ruel whose head, a man of remarkable 
artistic insight, was among the first to recognize the merit of 
the then startling work. Now the son of that old friend of 
Monet's has kindly arranged to take us out to behold the 
Master himself. 
The river road is rather rough but the Seine is always interest- 
ing; elder and syringa are in blossom and trees are red with 
the pears of France. After climbing the steep hill to St. 
Germain and passing through the long streets of the town, we 
are on the famous "Route de 40 Sous," a smooth and straight 
highway to Mantes, which received its quaint name from the 
fact that in order to get it done quickly, Napoleon I who 
planned it, offered for labor a daily wage, enormous for those 
times, of forty cents. The workers flocked by thousands to 
this remunerative employment. 
In the well-kept market gardens under the walls of the 
forest of St. Germain are many women picking strawberries, 
the wayside is gay with wild flowers, harebells and poppies, 
salvia and campion, mustard and mignonette; while every un- 
cultivated spot is overgrown with galium both white and 
yellow, scabiosa and low genista, wild roses and Queen Anne's 
lace. In the hedges buttercups and brambles and Jersey tea 
remind us of home. 
From La Chantereine, high above a stone bridge over the 
Seine, we see the Cathedral of Mantes standing against the 
sky. Can we pass it without looking in? We cannot. It is 
not a Cathedral at all, this lovely church of Notre Dame, but 
a charming example of what those builders from the twelfth 
to the fourteenth century could and did do. We look with 
joy at its richly sculptured portals, its open gallery connecting 
the two towers, its brilliant interior with its alternate round 
and clustered columns and its lofty vaulting. Certainly these 
impressions are worth fifteen minutes of our precious time. 
Between Mantes and Rosny is a splendid avenue of trees 
that meet overhead. Did Sully, that famous minister of Henry, 
of Navarre, plant them, he was born at Rosny ; or did that fair 
lady, the Duchesse de Berri, have them put in to shade her 
drives during her twelve years sojourn here. There is an 
Oriental saying that he who plants a tree earns the blessing 
of the passer-by. Surely in France there is many a blessing 
bestowed. Beyond Rosny, near Rolleboise, there is a superb 
view of the river and the valley of the Seine and all the way to 
