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But what happened to the festival? (02/28/99) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner		THE WIZARD OF OISE | PAGE 1, 2, 3 - - - - - - - - - - The muddy road led us from the plateau down to the edge of another part of town. Long and narrow, Auvers straggles along for about three miles, wrapping around the plateau. Soon we stumbled upon the workshop of landscape painter Charles François Daubigny (1817-78). Stumbled? Well, not really: There were several signs pointing to it. In fact, there are signs on just about every street corner in Auvers pointing to one attraction or another. You can't get lost. Daubigny was an illustrious member of the Barbizon School of painters who worked primarily around Fontainebleau. Nonetheless he spent much of his life in and near Auvers. Thirty years before van Gogh arrived, Daubigny was here to welcome the aged master Camille Corot, sometimes called a "pre-impressionist," and the young Claude Monet. Although Daubigny's atelier wasn't supposed to be open in winter, we weren't aware of that and boorishly rang the bell. Instead of snarling, the owner smiled winningly and let us in. He turned out to be Daubigny's great-great-grandson. A small, soft-spoken man in his 60s or 70s, Daniel Raskin Daubigny was wearing worn leather slippers and a woodsman's shirt open at the collar. His wife shook our hands, then returned to the kitchen where she was cooking up something that smelled delicious. "Delicious" was the word that kept dancing in my mind as M. Raskin Daubigny showed us from room to room. It was a humble family house and workshop, built in 1861 and decorated by Corot, Daumier, Oudinot, Daubigny père and his son Charles (aka Karl). The plank floors creaked. Beeswax, dust, old paper: Heady smells mixed with those of Madame's slow-simmering stew. Wintery light slanted in through high windows. On the walls were lovely landscapes and seascapes, or light, joyful renditions of wheat sheafs, roosters, the four seasons. As we shuffled along, M. Raskin Daubigny told us how he'd spent years and a small fortune restoring the place, then decided to open it to the public in 1990. The convoluted tale of the inheritance and the travails of his relatives seemed straight out of Balzac or Zola. To top it all, once he'd fixed the atelier and thrown open its doors, the French IRS tripled his taxes, or so he claimed with disgust. But he was a cheerful man nonetheless and proud as could be of his heritage. "Oh, yes, this was my room, too," he announced, showing us the children's room, called la Chambre de Cécile. "I was terribly afraid of the big bad wolf," he added. In 1863 Daubigny, his daughter Cécile and son Charles had painted the walls with fanciful scenes from the tales and fables of Perrault, Grimm and La Fontaine. Little Red Riding Hood was there, and the wolf. I, too, would have been afraid of him, staring out at my crib, licking his chops. The best was yet to come. The atelier itself, now furnished like a living room, has a cathedral ceiling and a wall of windows. The other three walls are covered by enormous landscape canvases showing Italy's lake district, herons and French country scenes. "Corot conceived them," said M. Raskin Daubigny. "Daubigny father and son painted them, with Oudinot. Some parts may have been done by Corot himself." Whoever painted them, they remain perfect for the site, a glorious work of installation art. We stared at the landscapes long and rapturously as M. Raskin Daubigny told us in fascinating detail about his great-great-grandfather's friendship with Corot and Monet. And about how an unscrupulous art dealer tried in the 1980s to buy the whole house and atelier from him to dismantle and ship it to America. "I don't care about money," he said, eyes twinkling. "I care about this." The atelier is now a registered landmark and no one can touch it. By the time we'd studied the clutter of Daubigny souvenirs in a glass case (medals from painting salons, a daguerreotype, plaster casts) and stepped out into the garden, it was nearly lunch time. Monsieur and Madame showed us a last oddity: the floating painting workshop that Monet used, propped up against a garden wall. It was a small river boat with a studio-cabin (for painting, cooking, sleeping). "Actually, this is a replica Monet built of the boat my great-great-grandfather used to drift down the Oise to the Seine, painting as he went, all the way to Normandy and the sea." It was this delicious image that accompanied us as we followed the signs back to Auvers' church and a lunch spot called Les Roses Ecossaises, recommended by M. Raskin Daubigny. Though a tad pinkish and twee, it was a good call: The ham and cheese omelets were the size of frisbees, the homemade pear-and-chocolate pie worth the trip from Paris to Auvers. Tourists like us talked in hushed voices of van Gogh. A table of locals noisily applauded a freshly coiffed white poodle that yapped on command and sneezed at its owner's cigarette smoke, much to everyone's hilarity. "Is he called Vincent?" I asked. "Vincent? No, his name is Event," answered his owner. "Because he was such an important event in my life ..." N E X T+P A G E | Transported to 19th century Paris   _________________________________ For more information: _________________________________