red to
historical truth, Rubens' fabulous magnificence to all the frippery
copied exactly from the lay figure.

The painter who is a machine will pass away, the painter who is a mind
will remain; the spirit for ever triumphs over matter.

_Wiertz._

XXXIV

A little book by the Russian soldier and artist Verestchagin is
interesting to the student. As a realist, he condemns all art founded on
the principles of picture-makers, and depends only on exact imitation,
and the conditions of accident. In our seeking after truth, and
endeavour never to be unreal or affected, it must not be forgotten that
this endeavour after truth is to be made with materials altogether
unreal and different from the object to be imitated. Nothing in a
picture is real; indeed, the painter's art is the most unreal thing in
the whole range of our efforts. Though art must be founded on nature,
art and nature are distinctly different things; in a certain class of
subjects probability may, indeed must, be violated, provided the
violation is not disagreeable.

Everything in a work of art must accord. Though gloom and desolation
would deepen the effects of a distressing incident in real life, such
accompaniments are not necessary to make us feel a thrill of horror or
awaken the keenest sympathy. The most awful circumstances may take place
under the purest sky, and amid the most lovely surroundings. The human
sensibilities will be too much affected by the human sympathies to heed
the external conditions; but to awaken in a picture similar impressions,
certain artificial aids must be used; the general aspect must be
troubled or sad.

_Watts._

XXXV

The remarks made on my "Man with the Hoe" seem always very strange to
me, and I am obliged to you for repeating them to me, for once more it
sets me marvelling at the ideas they impute to me. In what club have my
critics ever encountered me? A Socialist, they cry! Well, really, I
might answer the charge as the commissary from Auvergne did when he
wrote home: "They have been saying that I am a Saint-Simonian: it's not
true; I don't know what a Saint-Simonian is."

Can't they then simply admit such ideas as may occur to the mind in
looking at a man doomed to gain his living by the sweat of his brow?
There are some who tell me that I deny the charm of the country. I find
in the country much more than charm; I find infinite splendour; I look
on everything as they do on the little powers of which Chr