With such an entree into life, how was it possible that he should ever become a master?  His advantages were his disadvantages, and all his faults sprang naturally as a result of his marvelous genius.  He was the victim of facility.

Everything in this world happens because something else has happened before.  Had the thing that happened first been different, the thing that followed would not be what it is.

Had Gustave Dore entered the art world of Paris in the conventional way, the master might have toned down his exuberance, taught him reserve, and gradually led him along until his tastes were formed and character developed.  And then, when he had found his gait and come to know his strength, the name of Paul Gustave Dore might have stood out alone as a bright star in the firmament—­the one truly great modern.

Or, on the other hand, would the ossified discipline and set rules of a school have shamed him into smirking mediocrity and reduced his native genius to neutral salts?

Who will be presumptuous enough to say what would have occurred had not this happened and that first taken place?

* * * * *

Before Gustave Dore had been in Paris a year his father died.  Shortly after, the Strassburg home was broken up, and Madame Dore followed her son to Paris.  Gustave’s tireless pencil was bringing him a better income than his father had ever made; and the mother and three sons lived in comfort.

The mother admonished Gustave to apply himself to pure art, and not be influenced by Philipon and the others who were making fortunes by his genius.  And this advice he intended to follow—­not yet, but very soon.  There were “Rabelais” and Balzac’s “Contes Drolatiques” to illustrate.  These done, he would then enter the atelier of one of the masters and take his time in doing the highest work.

But before the books were done, others came, with retainers in advance.  Then a larger work was begun, to illustrate the Crimean War, in five hundred battle-scenes.

And so he worked—­worked like a steam-engine—­worked without ceasing.  He illustrated Shakespeare’s “Tempest” as only Dore could; then came Coleridge, Moore, Hood, Milton, Dante, Hugo, Gautier, and great plans were being laid to illustrate the Bible.

The years were slipping past.  His brothers had found snug places in the army, and he and his mother lived together in affluence.  Between them there was an affection that was very loverlike.  They were comrades in everything—­all his hopes, plans and ambitions were rehearsed to her.  The love that he might have bestowed on a wife was reserved for his mother, and, fortunately, she had a mind strong enough to comprehend him.

In the corner of the large, sunny apartment that was set apart for his mother’s room, he partitioned off a little room for himself, where he slept on an iron cot.  He wished to be near her, so that each night he could tell her of what he had done during the day, and each morning rehearse his plans for the coming hours.  By telling her, things shaped themselves, and as he described the pictures he would draw, others came to him.