Young Scheffer worked away at any subject he thought would sell.  He painted just as his teacher, Guerin, told him, and Guerin painted just like his idol, David, or as nearly as he could.

Art had gotten into a fixed groove; laws had been laid down as to what was classic and what not.  Conservatism was at the helm.

Art, literature, philosophy, science, even religion, have their periods of infancy, youth, manhood and decay.  And there comes a time to every school, and every sect, when it ceases to progress.  When it says, “There now, this is perfection, and he who seeks to improve on it is anathema,” it is dead, and should be buried.  But schools and sects and creeds die hard.  Creeds never can be changed:  they simply become obsolete and are forgotten; they turn to dust and are blown away on the free winds of heaven.

The art of the great David had passed into the hands of imitators.  It had become a thing of metes and bounds and measurements and geometric theorems.  Its colors were made by mixing this with that according to certain fixed formulas.

About this time a young playwright by the name of Victor Hugo was making much din, and the classics as a consequence were making mighty dole and endeavoring to hiss him down.  The Censor had forbidden a certain drama of Hugo’s to be played until it had been cut and trimmed and filed and polished, and made just like all other plays.

Victor Hugo was the acknowledged leader of the spirit of protest; in lyric music Rossini led; and Delacroix raised the standard of revolt in painting.  With this new school, which called itself “Romanticism,” Madame Scheffer and her sons sincerely sympathized.  The term “Romanticism” of itself means little, or nothing, or everything, but the thing itself is the eternal plea for the right of the individual—­a cry for the privilege to live your own life and express the truth as you feel it, all in your own way.  It is a revolution that has come a thousand times, and must and will come again and again.  When custom gets greater than man it must be broken.  The ankylosis of artistic smugness is no new thing.  In heart and taste and ambition Ary and the Little Mother were one.  Madame Scheffer rejoiced in the revolt she saw in the air against the old and outgrown.  She was a Republican in all her opinions and ideals; and these feelings she shared with her boys.  They discussed politics and art and religion over the teacups; and this brave and gentle woman kept intellectual pace with her sons, who in merry frolic often carried her about in their arms.  Only yesterday, it seemed to her, she had carried them, and felt upon her face the soft caress of baby hands.  And now one of these sons stood a foot higher than she.

Ary Scheffer was tall, slender, with a thoughtful, handsome face.  The habit of close study, and the early realization of responsibilities had hastened his maturity.  Necessity had sharpened his business sense and given a practical side to his nature, so he deferred enough to the old world to secure from it the living that is every man’s due.