ntly, the function of a painter is to paint; the discussion of
such interesting matters as Love, Life, Death, and "The grand for ever,"
he leaves to the literary gentlemen. He has nothing to say about Man's
place in the Universe, or even in Camden Town; it is in combinations of
lines and colours that he deals, and, as you may see, he has already
produced some of extraordinary subtlety and significance. Before such a
picture as No. 7 or No. 12 the most inveterate psychologist, should he
happen to possess a grain of sensibility, must be dumb; unless he murmur
respectfully the name of Chardin.

Marchand is neither a doctrinaire nor a timid Conservative. He is
familiar with the work of Cezanne, Matisse, Picasso, and the whole
Cubist school; and if by simplification, distortion, or what men of
science would call "flat absurdity," he can in any way improve his
composition, he does not hesitate to simplify, distort, or fly in the
face of facts. He wants to create significant form, and all means to
that end he finds good. But he is no doctrinaire. He never distorts or
makes his pictures look queer on principle. He cares nothing for being
in the fashion, neither does he eschew a novel eccentricity lest the
nicest people should say that he is going a little too far. His work is
uncompromisingly sincere. He neither protests against tradition nor
respects it. He is an artist.

I shall not be surprised to hear that some critics consider Marchand dry
and intellectual. Certainly he is not lyrical or charming. No picture by
him has the ravishing loveliness of a Renoir or the delicious handling
of a Duncan Grant. I suspect he paints all his big things in the studio.
He makes sketches; and I shall be glad to hear what any one competently
acquainted with the drawings of the old masters has to say about No. 39.
But when he gets to work on his canvas I do not suppose he thinks of
anything beyond the complete realization of a definite and perfectly
elaborated scheme. There are no happy accidents or lucky flukes in his
painting. It is as stark and solid as the work of Ingres or Mantegna.
Some people call that sort of thing dry and intellectual; others call it
masterly.

If English amateurs take kindly to these pictures they will do
themselves great honour. They will prove that they can distinguish
between the easy juxtaposition of pretty patches of colour and the
profound and sensitive research of a true colourist; they will prove
that the