The secret of success is never to be satisfied; that is, never to be satisfied with your work or your success.  And this idea seems to have animated Auguste Renoir during his long, honourable career of painter.  In common with several members of the impressionistic group to which he belonged, he suffered from hunger, neglect, obloquy; but when prosperity did at last appear he did not succumb to the most dangerous enemy that besets the artist.  He fought success as he conquered failure, and his continual dissatisfaction with himself, the true critical spirit, has led him to many fields—­he has been portraitist, genre painter, landscapist, delineator of nudes, a marine painter and a master of still-life.  This versatility, amazing and incontrovertible, has perhaps clouded the real worth of Renoir for the public.  Even after acknowledging his indubitable gifts, the usual critical doubting Thomas grudgingly remarks that if Renoir could not draw like Degas, paint land and water like Monet or figures like Manet, he was a naturally endowed colourist.  How great a colourist he was may be seen at the Metropolitan Museum, where his big canvas, La Famille Charpentier, is now hung.

Charpentier was the publisher of Zola, Goncourt, Flaubert, and of the newer realists.  He was a man of taste, who cultivated friendships with distinguished artists and writers.  Some disappointment was experienced at the recent public sale of his collection in Paris.  The clou of the sale was undoubtedly the portrait of his wife and two children.  It was sold for the surprising sum of 84,000 francs to M. Durand-Ruel, who acted in behalf of the Metropolitan Museum.  Another canvas by Renoir fetched 14,050 francs.  A sanguine of Puvis de Chavannes brought 2,050 francs, and 4,700 francs was paid for a Cezanne picture.

The Charpentier Family, originally entitled Portrait de Madame Charpentier et Ses Filles, was painted in 1878, first exhibited at the Salon of 1879, and there we saw and admired it.  The passage of the years has tempered the glistening brilliancies and audacious chromatic modulations to a suave harmony that is absolutely fascinating.  The background is Japanese.  Mme. Charpentier is seated on a canopy surrounded by furniture, flowers; under foot a carpet with arabesque designs.  She throws one arm carelessly over some rich stuff; the hand is painted with masterly precision.  The other arm has dropped in her lap.  She is an interesting woman of that fine maternal type so often encountered in real France—­though not in French fiction, alas!  Her gaze is upon her children, two adorable little girls.  A superb dog, a St. Bernard, with head resting on paws, looks at you with watchful eyes.  One of the girls sits upon his shaggy hide.  The mother is in black, a mellow reception robe, tulle and lace.  White and blue are the contrasting tones of the girls—­the blue is tender.  A chair is at the side of a lacquer table, upon which are flowers.  Renoir flowers,