re, and I render them in
such manner that your intelligence may be satisfied.' This is an appeal
to average experience--at the best the cumulative experience; and with
the average, or with the sum, art cannot deal without derogation. The
Spaniard seems to say: 'Thus things are in my pictorial sight. Trust me,
I apprehend them so.' We are not excluded from his counsels, but we are
asked to attribute a certain authority to him, master of the craft as he
is, master of that art of seeing pictorially which is the beginning and
not far from the end--not far short of the whole--of the art of painting.
So little indeed are we shut out from the mysteries of a great
Impressionist's impression that Velasquez requires us to be in some
degree his colleagues. Thus may each of us to whom he appeals take
praise from the praised: He leaves my educated eyes to do a little of the
work. He respects my responsibility no less--though he respects it less
explicitly--than I do his. What he allows me would not be granted by a
meaner master. If he does not hold himself bound to prove his own truth,
he returns thanks for my trust. It is as though he used his countrymen's
courteous hyperbole and called his house my own. In a sense of the most
noble hostship he does me the honours of his picture.

Because Impressionism is so free, therefore is it doubly bound. Because
there is none to arraign it, it is a thousand times responsible. To
undertake this art for the sake of its privileges without confessing its
obligations--or at least without confessing them up to the point of
honour--is to take a vulgar freedom: to see immunities precisely where
there are duties, and an advantage where there is a bond. A very mob of
men have taken Impressionism upon themselves in this our later day. It
is against all probabilities that more than a few among these have within
them the point of honour. In their galleries we are beset with a dim
distrust. And to distrust is more humiliating than to be distrusted. How
many of these landscape-painters, deliberately rash, are painting the
truth of their own impressions? An ethical question as to loyalty is
easily answered; truth and falsehood as to fact are, happily for the
intelligence of the common conscience, not hard to divide. But when the
_dubium_ concerns not fact but artistic truth, can the many be sure that
their sensitiveness, their candour, their scruple, their delicate
equipoise of perceptions,