I

Dedication

To the Lieutenant-Colonel of Artillery, Periollas,

As a Testimony of the Affectionate Esteem of the Author,

De Balzac

Whenever you have gone to take a serious look at the exhibition of

works of sculpture and painting, such as it has been since the

revolution of 1830, have you not been seized by a sense of uneasiness,

weariness, sadness, at the sight of those long and over-crowded

galleries? Since 1830, the true Salon no longer exists. The Louvre has

again been taken by assault,--this time by a populace of artists who

have maintained themselves in it.

In other days, when the Salon presented only the choicest works of

art, it conferred the highest honor on the creations there exhibited.

Among the two hundred selected paintings, the public could still

choose: a crown was awarded to the masterpiece by hands unseen. Eager,

impassioned discussions arose about some picture. The abuse showered

on Delacroix, on Ingres, contributed no less to their fame than the

praises and fanaticism of their adherents. To-day, neither the crowd

nor the criticism grows impassioned about the products of that bazaar.

Forced to make the selection for itself, which in former days the

examining jury made for it, the attention of the public is soon

wearied and the exhibition closes. Before the year 1817 the pictures

admitted never went beyond the first two columns of the long gallery

of the old masters; but in that year, to the great astonishment of the

public, they filled the whole space. Historical, high-art, genre

paintings, easel pictures, landscapes, flowers, animals, and water-

colors,--these eight specialties could surely not offer more than

twenty pictures in one year worthy of the eyes of the public, which,

indeed, cannot give its attention to a greater number of such works.

The more the number of artists increases, the more careful and

exacting the jury of admission ought to be.

The true character of the Salon was lost as soon as it spread along

the galleries. The Salon should have remained within fixed limits of

inflexible proportions, where each distinct specialty could show its

masterpieces only. An experience of ten years has shown the excellence

of the former institution. Now, instead of a tournament, we have a

mob; instead of a noble exhibition, we have a tumultuous bazaar;

instead of a choice selection we have a chaotic mass. What is the

result? A great artist is swamped. Decamps' "Turkish Cafe," "Children

at a Fountain," "Joseph," and "The Torture," would have redounded far

more to his credit if the four pictures had been exhibited in the

great Salon with the hundred good pictures of that year, than his

twenty pictures could, among three thousand others, jumbled together

in six galleries.

By some strange contradiction, ever since the doors are open to every

one there has been much talk of unknown and unrecognized genius. When,

twelve years earlier, Ingres' "Courtesan," and that of Sigalon, the

"Medusa" of Gericault, the "Massacre of Scio" by Delacroix, the

"Baptism of Henri IV." by Eugene Deveria, admitted by celebrated

artists accused of jealousy, showed the world, in spite of the denials

of criticism, that young and vigorous palettes existed, no such

complaint was made. Now, when the veriest dauber of canvas can send in

his work, the whole talk is of genius neglected! Where judgment no

longer exists, there is no longer anything judged. But whatever

artists may be doing now, they will come back in time to the

examination and selection which presents their works to the admiration

of the crowd for whom they work. Without selection by the Academy

there will be no Salon, and without the Salon art may perish.

Ever since the catalogue has grown into a book, many names have

appeared in it which still remain in their native obscurity, in spite

of the ten or a dozen pictures attached to them. Among these names

perhaps the most unknown to fame is that of an artist named Pierre

Grassou, coming from Fougeres, and called simply "Fougeres" among his

brother-artists, who, at the present moment holds a place, as the

saying is, "in the sun," and who suggested the rather bitter

reflections by which this sketch of his life is introduced,--

reflections that are applicable to many other individuals of the tribe

of artists.