and expression, coquettishly suppressing a detail here, and emphasizing a characteristic there; you feel, in addition, that the entire object floats airily in an atmosphere of cleverness; that it is but a bit, an example, a miniature type of an environment wholly attuned to the note of cleverness—­of competence, facility, grace, elegance, and other abstract but not at all abstruse qualities, quite unrelated to what, in any profound sense, at least, is concrete and vitally significant.  Artificiality so permeated the Louis Quinze epoch, indeed, that one may say that nature itself was artificial—­that is to say, all the nature Louis Quinze painters had to paint; at least all they could have been called upon to think of painting.  What a distinction is, after all, theirs!  To have created out of nothing, or next to nothing, something charming, and enduringly charming; something of a truly classic inspiration without dependence at bottom on the real and the actual; something as little indebted to facts and things as a fairy tale, and withal marked by such qualities as color and cleverness in so eminent a degree.

The Louis Quinze painters may be said, indeed, to have had the romantic temperament with the classic inspiration.  They have audacity rather than freedom, license modified by strict limitation to the lines within which it is exercised.  But there can be no doubt that this limitation is more conspicuous in their charmingly irresponsible works than is, essentially speaking, their irresponsibility itself.  They never give their imagination free play.  Sportive and spontaneous as it appears, it is equally clear that its activities are bounded by conservatory confines.  Watteau, born on the Flemish border, is almost an exception.  Temperament in him seems constantly on the verge of conquering tradition and environment.  Now and then he seems to be on the point of emancipation, and one expects to come upon some work in which he has expressed himself and attested his ideality.  But one is as constantly disappointed.  His color and his cleverness are always admirable and winning, but his import is perversely—­almost bewitchingly—­slight.  What was he thinking of? one asks, before his delightful canvases; and one’s conclusion inevitably is, certainly as near nothing at all as can be consistent with so much charm and so much real power.  As to Watteau, one’s last thought is of what he would have been in a different aesthetic atmosphere, in an atmosphere that would have stimulated his really romantic temperament to extra-traditional flights, instead of confining it within the inexorable boundaries of classic custom; an atmosphere favorable to the free exercise of his adorable fancy, instead of rigorously insistent on conforming this, so far as might be, to customary canons, and, at any rate, restricting its exercise to material a la mode.  A little landscape in the La Caze collection in the Louvre, whose romantic and truly poetic feeling agreeably pierces through its elegance, is eloquent of such reflections.