In the sad and anxious rectitude of his attire the artistic interest in modern man is concentrated upon his head and hands; and upon these salient points Carriere focussed his art.  Peaceful or disquieted, his men and women belong to our century.  Spiritually Eugene Carriere is the lineal descendant of the Rembrandt school—­but one who has read Dostoievsky.

VI.  DEGAS

Let us suppose that gay old misogynist Arthur Schopenhauer persuaded to cross the Styx and revisiting the earth.  Apart from his disgust if forced to listen to the music of his self-elected disciple Richard Wagner, what painted work would be likely to attract him?  Remember he it was who named Woman the knock-kneed sex—­since the new woman is here it matters little if her figure conforms to old-fashioned, stupid, masculine standards of beauty.  But wouldn’t the nudes of Degas confirm the Frankfort philosopher in his theories regarding the “long-haired, short-brained, unaesthetic sex,” and also confirm his hatred for the exaggerations of poet and painter when describing or depicting her?  We fear that Schopenhauer would smile his malicious smile and exclaim:  “At last the humble truth!” It is the presentation of the humble truth that early snared the affections of Degas, who has with a passionate calm pursued the evanescent appearances of things his entire life.  No doubt death will find him pencil in hand.  You think of Hokusai, the old man mad with paint, when the name of Degas is mentioned.  He was born in Paris July 19, 1834—­his full name is Hilaire Germain Edgard (or Edgar)—­and there is one phrase that will best describe his career:  He painted.  Like Flaubert, he never married, but lived in companionship with his art.  Such a mania could have been described by Balzac.  Yet no saner art ever issued from a Parisian atelier; sane, clear, and beautiful.

Degas is a painter’s painter.  For him the subject is a peg upon which to hang superb workmanship.  In amazement the public asked:  How could a man in the possession of his powers shut himself up in a studio to paint ballet girls, washerwomen, jockeys, drabs of Montmartre, shopgirls, and horses?  Even Zola, who should have known better, would not admit that Degas was an artist fit to be compared with such men as Flaubert and Goncourt; but Zola was never the realist that is Degas.  Now it is difficult to keep asunder the names of Goncourt and Degas.  To us they are too often unwisely bracketed.  The style of the painter has been judged as analogous to the novelist’s; yet, apart from a preference for the same subjects for the “modernity” of Paris, there is not much in Degas that recalls Goncourt’s staccato, febrile, sparkling, “decomposed”, impressionistic prose.  Both men are brilliant, though not in the same way.  Pyrotechnics are abhorrent to Degas.  He has the serenity, sobriety, and impersonality of the great classic painters.  He is himself a classic.