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If, however, this painter can interpret the such a record of any dear one he posinformed but inexpressible emotions of the sesses or had possessed? It seems to me soul, he appears to be no less in sympathy like a kind of triumph of the art of porwith unawakened, unsophisticated, ele- traiture to thus rescue and fix for all time mental consciousness. There is an inno- the benign and kindly presence of an cence and immaturity of expression on the individual like this. And when it comes countenance of "La Belle Zélie," of liquid to a question of artistic worth, the inci

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eyes and dewy lips, that suggests the beauté du diable so effectively given in portraits by the English and wholesome Hoppner.

Call not this painter hard and dry who can so suggest by line mainly, the exuberance, richness, the soft and rounded forms of full and bounding life. Although our painter is deficient in what may be regarded as color, this canvas shows a color sense through some subtle magic of line.

Now turn to a portrait in which another fine appreciation of individuality is noted. In the pages of portraiture can one find a more beautiful and intimate rendition of a human being than in that of "M. Bochet"? Would not the reader prize

siveness of its drawing, generosity of its forms the discrimination and beauty of its details lift it high in the scale of virtuosity of performance. It is of Holbein with the modern note of fuller projection and envelope. Surely judgment and taste were unerringly present when this work was produced.

We must now turn our attention to other expressions of the genius of our artist; for, although a few more examples of his painted portraits will be here reproduced, the limits of this paper leave space only to examine a few of those marvellous portraits in pencil which in no way, except in medium, yield in interest and fascination to his larger work in portraiture.

In verification of this the reader is asked to study the beauty and style of the drawing of "Mme. Destouches" (page 647), a little masterpiece. This sweet and wholesome face, expressive of happy, contented, and protected young womanhood, is not only fully realized, but logical definition of costume and drapery, and grace of composition have rarely, if ever, been displayed in a portrait on this scale, in this or any medium. It has a vitality and charm that is human, and for delicacy of touch is, perhaps, unrivalled-except by Ingres himself.

There is much the same fine logic of line in the portrait drawing of "M. Leblanc" (page 652), but it is more solid and robust as becomes the delineation of a man. The figure stands firmly on its feet, and is given, with these slight means, a corporeal volume unmistakably vigorous and sound; while the cloak, presented in lines of singular charm, suggests again the primitives, in its chastened variety and logical fall. Throughout, in this well-poised figure, the laws of gravity are subtly respected.

But it is not in dealing with single portraits that Ingres contents himself-groups do not embarrass him-filial sentiment is not beyond the bounds of this wizard instrument of his, as in the "Stamaty Family" (page 653). For cohesive composition, domestic feeling and individual characterization, one will scan widely the field of known portraiture to discover its rival. This family group represents M. Stamaty, Consul at Civita Vecchia, with his wife and children. The constructive disposition of this group is as well-considered and as thoughtful as if the medium of its production was to be that of oil colors. The intimate definition of character in each countenance and head is really wonderful considering the minute scale of the work; and in its human appreciation of filial companionship and the associations of home it is a veritable poem. All of Ingres's integrity of drawing is to be found here, as scrupulous, as searching and precise as when lavished on the unique interest of a single figure.

These words concerning an artist of great accomplishment-however slight and inadequate have been spoken because of an urgency of belief, on the part of the writer, in poetic justice.

Ingres counted on his old age to vindi

cate him when contemporaneous criticism and indifference seemed almost too hard to be borne-and indeed before he died he received honors in abundance. But over and above this tangible recompense comes the reward of those who, sensitive to chastity of form and lineal interest, find in his cameo-like and cherished contours an inspiration and insight that are the logical sequence of integrity of performance.

To those who pore over these little leaflets on which he has impressed enduring distinction by most fragile means, there comes a sense of illumination akin to that we have been conscious of in studying the most precious productions of the past. There is latent a chord in every one which responds to forms of beauty; and if there arises a genius who, in his art realizes those qualities which inherently appeal to us, he is eventually hailed as a benefactor, a liberator, for it is through his work that the slumbering instinct for beauty is awakened, taste crystallized, and standards established; and by the stimulating and critical sense thus engendered the mind becomes receptive to all created beauty.

What but this inveterate sincerity of the contemporary worker has helped to rescue from neglect, and bestow belated recognition on many masters of the past? The illusive charm of Botticelli, the sweet and tender feeling in Mino da Fiesoli, are, perhaps, alike indebted for their present high estimation to the integrity of such as Ingres.

Ruskin, I think, speaks somewhere of "the moral turpitude of a line"; but the lineal rectitude of our master teaches nothing but probity!

It is this great and sterling worker we have chosen to celebrate at a moment when the general practice of art appears contrary to his teachings. There is, none the less, much to be learned from him; and indeed his sincerest admirers are now to be found among the most intelligent of the advanced and more modern schools. Manet held him in highest regard, and Degas exalts him as the object of his enthusiastic partisanship.

This is the reward of sincerity, conviction, and the pursuit of truth. Ingres has given to the world treasures of realism, has become the backbone of that splendid freedom which is the glory of present painting and which, tempered by his example, may become the sound method of the future.

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I

HIS FATHER'S SON

By Edith Wharton

FTER his wife's death Mason Grew took the momentous step of selling out his business and moving from Wingfield, Connecticut, to Brooklyn. For years he had secretly nursed the hope of such a change, but had never dared to suggest it to Mrs. Grew, a woman of immutable habits. Mr. Grew himself was attached to Wingfield, where he had grown up, prospered, and become what the local press described as "prominent." He was attached to his ugly brick house with sandstone trimmings and a cast-iron area-railing neatly sanded to match; to the similar row of houses across the street, the "trolley" wires forming a kind of aerial pathway between, and the sprawling vista closed by the steeple of the church which he and his wife had always attended, and where their only child had been baptized.

It was hard to snap all these threads of association, visual and sentimental; yet still harder, now that he was alone, to live so far from his boy. Ronald Grew was practising law in New York, and there was no more chance of his returning to live at Wingfield than of a river's flowing inland from the sea. Therefore to be near him his father must move; and it was characteristic of Mr. Grew, and of the situation generally, that the translation, when it took place, was to Brooklyn, and not to New York.

"Why you bury yourself in that hole I can't think," had been Ronald's comment; and Mr. Grew simply replied that rents were lower in Brooklyn, and that he had heard of a house that would suit him. In reality he had said to himself-being the only recipient of his own confidences-that if he went to New York he might be on the boy's mind; whereas, if he lived in Brooklyn, Ronald would always have a good excuse for not popping over to see him every other day. The sociological isolation of Brooklyn, combined with its geographical nearness, presented in fact the precise con

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ditions for Mr. Grew's case. He wanted to be near enough to New York to go there often, to feel under his feet the same pavement that Ronald trod, to sit now and then in the same theatres, and find on his breakfast-table the journals which, with increasing frequency, inserted Ronald's name in the sacred bounds of the society column. It had always been a trial to Mr. Grew to have to wait twenty-four hours to read that "among those present was Mr. Ronald Grew." Now he had it with his coffee, and left it on the breakfast-table to the perusal of a "hired girl" cosmopolitan enough to do it justice. In such ways Brooklyn attested the advantages of its propinquity to New York, while remaining, as regards Ronald's duty to his father, as remote and inaccessible as Wingfield.

It was not that Ronald shirked his filial obligations, but rather because of his heavy sense of them, that Mr. Grew so persistently sought to minimize and lighten them. It was he who insisted, to Ronald, on the immense difficulty of getting from New York to Brooklyn.

"Any way you look at it, it makes a big hole in the day; and there's not much use in the ragged rim left. You say you're dining out next Sunday? Then I forbid you to come over here to lunch. Do you understand me, sir? You disobey at the risk of your father's malediction! Where did you say you were dining? With the Waltham Bankshires again? Why, that's the second time in three weeks, ain't it? Big blow-out, I suppose? Gold plate and orchids-opera singers in afterward? Well, you'd be in a nice box if there was a fog on the river, and you got hung up half-way over. That'd be a handsome return for the attention Mrs. Bankshire has shown you-singling out a whipper-snapper like you twice in three weeks! (What's the daughter's nameDaisy?) No, sir-don't you come fooling round here next Sunday, or I'll set the dogs on you. And you wouldn't find me in anyhow, come to think of it. I'm lunching out myself, as it happens-yes sir, lunching out. Is there anything especially comic in

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my lunching out? I don't often do it, you say? Well, that's no reason why I never should. Who with? Why, with-with old Dr. Bleaker: Dr. Eliphalet Bleaker. No, you wouldn't know about him-he's only an old friend of your mother's and mine."

Gradually Ronald's insistence became less difficult to overcome. With his customary sweetness and tact (as Mr. Grew put it) he began to "take the hint," to give in to "the old gentleman's" growing desire for solitude.

"I'm set in my ways, Ronny, that's about the size of it; I like to go tick-ticking along like a clock. I always did. And when you come bouncing in I never feel sure there's enough for dinner-or that I haven't sent Maria out for the evening. And I don't want the neighbors to see me opening my own door to my son. That's the kind of cringing snob I am. Don't give me away, will you? I want 'em to think I keep four or five powdered flunkeys in the hall day and night—same as the lobby of one of those Fifth Avenue hotels. And if you pop over when you're not expected, how am I going to keep up the bluff?"

Ronald yielded after the proper amount of resistance-his intuitive sense, in every social transaction, of the proper amount of force to be expended, was one of the qualities his father most admired in him. Mr. Grew's perceptions in this line were probably more acute than his son suspected. The souls of short thick-set men, with chubby features, mutton-chop whiskers, and pale eyes peering between folds of fat like almond kernels in half-split shells-souls thus encased do not reveal themselves to the casual scrutiny as delicate emotional instruments. But in spite of the dense disguise in which he walked Mr. Grew vibrated exquisitely in response to every imaginative appeal; and his son Ronald was perpetually stimulating and feeding his imagination.

Ronald in fact constituted his father's one escape from the impenetrable element of mediocrity which had always hemmed him in. To a man so enamoured of beauty, and so little qualified to add to its sum total, it was a wonderful privilege to have bestowed on the world such a being. Ronald's resemblance to Mr. Grew's early conception of what he himself would have liked to look might have put new life into

the discredited theory of pre-natal influences. At any rate, if the young man owed his beauty, his distinction and his winning manner to the dreams of one of his parents, it was certainly to those of Mr. Grew, who, while outwardly devoting his life to the manufacture and dissemination of Grew's Secure Suspender Buckle, moved in an enchanted inward world peopled with all the figures of romance. In this high company Mr. Grew cut as brilliant a figure as any of its noble phantoms; and to see his vision of himself suddenly projected on the outer world in the shape of a brilliant popular conquering son, seemed, in retrospect, to give to that image a belated objective reality. There were even moments when, forgetting his physiognomy, Mr. Grew said to himself that if he'd had "half a chance" he might have done as well as Ronald; but this only fortified his resolve that Ronald should do infinitely better.

Ronald's ability to do well almost equalled his gift of looking well. Mr. Grew constantly affirmed to himself that the boy was "not a genius"; but, barring this slight deficiency, he was almost everything that a parent could wish. Even at Harvard he had managed to be several desirable things at once-writing poetry in the college magazine, playing delightfully "by ear," acquitting himself honorably of his studies, and yet holding his own in the fashionable sporting set that formed, as it were, the gateway of the temple of Society. Mr. Grew's idealism did not preclude the frank desire that his son should pass through that gateway; but the wish was not prompted by material considerations. It was Mr.Grew's notion that, in the rough and hurrying current of a new civilization, the little pools of leisure and enjoyment must nurture delicate growths, material graces as well as moral refinements, likely to be uprooted and swept away by the rush of the main torrent. He based his theory on the fact that he had liked the few "society" people he had met

had found their manners simpler, their voices more agreeable, their views more consonant with his own, than those of the leading citizens of Wingfield. But then he had met very few.

Ronald's sympathies needed no urging in the same direction. He took naturally, dauntlessly, to all the high and exceptional things about which his father's imagina

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