her among yellowish
clouds--"_bien omelette, bein douillette, bein jaune, et bien
brulee_."[41]

[41] xi. 296. For the Callirrhoe, see x. 397.

On the whole, we cannot wonder either that painters hold literary talk
about their difficult and complex art so cheap, or that the lay public
prizes it so much above its intrinsic worth. It helps the sluggish
imagination and dull sight of the one, while it is apt to pass
ignorantly over both the true difficulties and the true successes of the
other. Diderot, unlike most of those who have come after him, had
carefully studied the conditions prescribed to the painter by the
material in which he works. Although he was a master of the literary
criticism of art, he had artists among his intimate companions, and was
too eager for knowledge not to wring from them the secrets of technique,
just as he extorted from weavers and dyers the secrets of their
processes and instruments. He makes no ostentatious display of this
special knowledge, yet it is present, giving a firmness and accuracy to
what would otherwise be too like mere arbitrary lyrics suggested by a
painting, and not really dealing with it. His special gift was the
transformation of scientific criticism into something with the charm of
literature. Take, for instance, a picture by Vien:

"_Psyche approaching with her lamp to surprise Love in his
sleep._--The two figures are of flesh and blood, but they have
neither the elegance, nor the grace, nor the delicacy that the
subject required. Love seems to me to be making a grimace. Psyche
is not like a woman who comes trembling on tiptoe. I do not see on
her face that mixture of surprise, fear, love, desire, and
admiration, which ought all to be there. It is not enough to show
in Psyche a curiosity to see Love; I must also perceive in her the
fear of awakening him. She ought to have her mouth half open, and
to be afraid of drawing her breath. 'Tis her lover that she
sees--that she sees for the first time, at the risk of losing him
for ever. What joy to look upon him, and to find him so fair! Oh,
what little intelligence in our painters, how little they
understand nature! The head of Psyche ought to be inclined towards
Love; the rest of her body drawn back, as it is when you advance
towards a spot where you fear to enter, and from which you are
ready to flee back; one foot planted on the ground