y can distinguish between obvious relations and subtle
harmonies; they will prove that they can recognize that quality which is
common to works of art of all schools and ages, and that, when they see
it, they like it. And those unlucky people who cannot, even in the
presence of a work of art, forget for a moment all about politics and
philanthropy, may like to remember that Marchand, too, has been unlucky.
After great hardships he had just won his way to a position of some
security when war broke out. He has lately been called up, not, I think,
for active, but for some sort of military service. His pay, I believe,
is one sou a day, and what happens to those who depend on him one does
not care to imagine.

Marchand was born at Paris in 1883. His work is not unknown in England.
Four of his pictures were shown at the Grafton Galleries in 1912; and
not long ago I saw an exquisite little "still life" by him--No. 12 in
this Exhibition, unless I mistake--at the New English Art Club. I wonder
how it got there.

V

THE MANSARD GALLERY[20]

[Sidenote: _Nov. 1917_]

The collection of modern pictures made by Mr. Fry, and shown, first in
Birmingham and then at the Mansard Gallery, is the most important we
have seen in London since the beginning of the war--since the Grosvenor
House show in the summer of 1914, to be exact. That the best exhibition
we have seen for so long should be held in the best gallery is a bit of
good luck which, in these unlucky days, seems extraordinary; but what
seems miraculous almost is that Messrs. Heal and Sons seem positively to
prefer good pictures to bad. I would, therefore, advise any one who
thinks my advice worth having to keep an eye on the Mansard Gallery.

In this exhibition the best of the younger English artists--I am sorry
there is nothing by Stanley Spenser, Wyndham Lewis, Bomberg or
Roberts--are confronted by a handful of their French contemporaries.
They are not confronted by the best of them: Mr. Fry has hung nothing by
Matisse, Bonnard or Picasso, for instance, though, had he pleased, he
could have shown a couple of pictures by the last-named, at any rate. He
chose well, I dare say; but it is mere justice to admit that the only
two French artists fairly represented are Marchand and de Vlaminck. For
the rest, the single picture by l'Hote is a characteristic work of that
engaging but not very formidable painter; the two small pictures by
Friesz, good as they are, hardly rank