However skilful the artist may be in the reproduction of form and the handling of color, he will always be far inferior to nature if his soul has never heard the inner murmur of all those mysteries of the sensitive, and I will venture to say, spiritual life, contained in forests, waterfalls and ravines.  Lacking this initiation, he will play the cold and flavorless part of one who tells a twice-told tale; for it is in landscape especially, that talent consists in revealing the painter’s own feeling.

The charm of things felt is not produced merely by a grand way of looking at things:  the mind, the soul, occupy but little space; but where they figure, the canvas is well filled, and the brush betrays their presence.

I remember, in support of my thesis, that at one of the annual expositions at the Salon—­which then represented the aristocracy of painting,—­there was a tiny picture:  a hut half hidden in moss and flowers.  It was almost lost among the portraits of distinguished personages, the historic incidents, the scenes taken from fashionable life, and almost drowned in the bloody reflections from the vast display of battle pictures, which, as was then the custom, monopolized half the space.

Well! this canvas, a yard wide and not so long, held you captive, took your thought prisoner, and inevitably impressed itself on your memory.  You longed to ramble over its thick turf; to enter that cottage whose open windows gave you the feeling that it was a peaceful shelter; you loved that poor simplicity, which seemed to hide happiness.

Certainly the author of this graceful, touching picture practiced Delsarte’s law, at least from intuition.

Profound emotions are not always due to objective beauty; the beauty of the work is a thing apart from what it represents.  Who does not recall, in another order of talent, this effect, due to the brush of Bonnat:  an ugly, old Spanish woman is praying in a dark chapel; she prays with eyes, lips and soul.  There was never seen more complete absorption, more complete forgetfulness of self in humble fervor.  It was far more touching than all the types of sensual beauty, with pink and white and perfumed skins—­with delicate limbs, in disagreeable attitudes!

This is, yet once again, due to the fact that sentiment is stronger than sensualism; and because the artist’s skill, taking the place of beauty in his subject, becomes genuine aesthetic beauty:  so much so that, looking at old age and ugliness—­as represented by Bonnat,—­the spectator is enchanted and applauds—­the success of the work!

If, however, to perfect execution is allied beauty—­not sensual, but aesthetic,—­if it is made manifest from the point of view of form, feeling and thought, the enthusiasm will be still greater, because all the aims of art are realized at one and the same time.

Chapter IX.

Delsarte’s Beginnings.