like
Napoleon Gaillard, or good paintings like Gustave Courbet, that he
should deliberately lay himself open to ridicule, and perhaps to
everlasting execration, is what we cannot admit. To this Monsieur
Courbet would reply: "It is the artists that I represent; it is the
rights and claims of modern art that I uphold. There must be a great
revolution in painting as in politics; we must federate too, I tell you;
we'll decapitate those aristocrats, the Titians and Paul Veroneses;
we'll establish, instead of a jury, a revolutionary tribunal, which
shall condemn to instant death any man who troubles himself about the
ideal--that king whom we have knocked off his throne; and at this
tribunal I will be at once complainant, lawyer, and judge. Yes! my
brother painters, rally around me, and we will die for the Commune of
Art. As to those who are not of my opinion, I don't care the snap of a
finger about them." By this last expression the friends of Monsieur
Gustave Courbet will perceive that we are not without some experience of
his style of conversation. Courbet, my master, you don't know what you
are talking about, and all true artists will send you to old Harry, you
and your federation. Do you know what an artistic association, such as
you understand it, would result in? In serving the puerile ambition of
one man--its chief, for there will be a chief, will there not, Monsieur
Courbet?--and the puerile rancours of a parcel of daubers, without name
and without talent. Artist in our way we assert, that no matter, what
painter, even had he composed works superior in their way to Courbet's
"_Combat de Cerfs_" and "_Femme au Perroquet_," who came and said, "Let
us federate," we would answer him plainly: "Leave us in peace, messieurs
of the federation, we are dreamers and workers; when we exhibit or
publish and are happy enough to meet with a man who will buy or print a
few thousand copies of our work without reducing himself to beggary, we
are happy. When that is done, we do not trouble ourselves much about our
work; the indulgence of a few friends, and the indignation of a few
fools, is all we ask or hope for. We federate? Why? With whom? If our
work is bad, will the association with any society in the world make it
good? Will the works of others gain anything by their association with
ours? Let us go home, _messieurs les artistes_, let us shut our doors,
let us say to our servants--if we have any--that we are at home to no
one, and,