stem under the skin. He observes with extraordinary
subtlety the awkwardness of the nude being at a time when nudity is no
longer accustomed to show itself, and this true nudity is in strong
contrast to that of the academicians. One might say of Degas that he has
the disease of truth, if the necessity of truth were not health itself!
These bodies are still marked with the impressions of the garments; the
movements remain those of a clothed being which is only nude as an
exception. The painter notices beauty, but he looks for it particularly
in the profound characterisation of the types which he studies, and his
pastels have the massiveness and the sombre style of bronze. He has also
painted cafe-scenes, prostitutes and supers, with a mocking and sad
energy; he has even amused himself with painting washerwomen, to
translate the movements of the women of the people. And his colour with
its pearly whites, subdued blues and delicate greys, always elevates
everything he does, and confers upon him a distinctive style.

Finally, about 1896, Degas has revealed himself as a dreamy landscapist.
His recent landscapes are symphonies in colours of strange harmony and
hallucinations of rare tones, resembling music rather than painting. It
is perhaps in these pictures that he has revealed certain dreams
hitherto jealously hidden.

And now I must speak of his technique. It is very singular and varied,
and one of the most complicated in existence. In his first works, which
are apparently as simple as Corot's, he does not employ the process of
colour-spots. But many of the works in his second manner are a
combination of drawing, painting and pastel. He has invented a kind of
engraving mixed with wash-drawing, pastel crayon crushed with brushes of
special pattern. Here one can find again his meticulous spirit. He has
many of the qualities of the scientist; he is as much chemist as
painter. It has been said of him, that he was a great artist of the
decadence. This is materially inexact, since his qualities of
draughtsmanship are those of a superb Classicist, and his colouring of
very pure taste. But the spirit of his work, his love of exact detail,
his exaggerated psychological refinement, are certainly the signs of an
extremely alert intellect who regards life prosaically and with a
lassitude and disenchantment which are only consoled by the passion for
truth. Certain water-colours of his heightened by pastel, and certain
landscapes, are