stic group to which
he belonged, he suffered from hunger, neglect, obloquy; but when
prosperity did at last appear he did not succumb to the most dangerous
enemy that besets the artist. He fought success as he conquered
failure, and his continual dissatisfaction with himself, the true
critical spirit, has led him to many fields--he has been portraitist,
genre painter, landscapist, delineator of nudes, a marine painter and
a master of still-life. This versatility, amazing and
incontrovertible, has perhaps clouded the real worth of Renoir for the
public. Even after acknowledging his indubitable gifts, the usual
critical doubting Thomas grudgingly remarks that if Renoir could not
draw like Degas, paint land and water like Monet or figures like
Manet, he was a naturally endowed colourist. How great a colourist he
was may be seen at the Metropolitan Museum, where his big canvas, La
Famille Charpentier, is now hung.

Charpentier was the publisher of Zola, Goncourt, Flaubert, and of the
newer realists. He was a man of taste, who cultivated friendships with
distinguished artists and writers. Some disappointment was experienced
at the recent public sale of his collection in Paris. The _clou_ of
the sale was undoubtedly the portrait of his wife and two children. It
was sold for the surprising sum of 84,000 francs to M. Durand-Ruel,
who acted in behalf of the Metropolitan Museum. Another canvas by
Renoir fetched 14,050 francs. A _sanguine_ of Puvis de Chavannes
brought 2,050 francs, and 4,700 francs was paid for a Cezanne picture.

The Charpentier Family, originally entitled Portrait de Madame
Charpentier et Ses Filles, was painted in 1878, first exhibited at the
Salon of 1879, and there we saw and admired it. The passage of the
years has tempered the glistening brilliancies and audacious chromatic
modulations to a suave harmony that is absolutely fascinating. The
background is Japanese. Mme. Charpentier is seated on a canopy
surrounded by furniture, flowers; under foot a carpet with arabesque
designs. She throws one arm carelessly over some rich stuff; the hand
is painted with masterly precision. The other arm has dropped in her
lap. She is an interesting woman of that fine maternal type so often
encountered in real France--though not in French fiction, alas! Her
gaze is upon her children, two adorable little girls. A superb dog, a
St. Bernard, with head resting on paws, looks at you with watchful
eyes. One of the girls sits up