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Updated: September 17, 2025
Life is short, and more important things, things of more significant import, demand attention. The grounds on which the works of Bouguereau and Cabanel are admired are certainly insufficient. But they are experts in their sphere. What they do could hardly be better done.
Some authorities give the birthplace of Bouguereau as La Rochelle; at any rate he died there at midnight, on the nineteenth of August, 1905. The main distinction about this artist's pictured faces is the peculiarly earnest expression he has given to the eyes.
Now actor-baiting is no new game; as a winter sport it is as popular as making jokes about mothers-in-law, decrying the art of Bouguereau or Howard Chandler Christy, or discussing the methods of Mr. Belasco. None of these has achieved success on the stage.
But even the gamins did not know yet. At the great Ateliers of Messieurs Bouguereau and Lefebvre the first day of the week is the busiest and so, this being Monday, the studios were crowded. The heat was suffocating. The walls, smeared with the refuse of a hundred palettes, fairly sizzled as they gave off a sickly odor of paint and turpentine.
The translucent flesh-tints, pearl-white flushing into pink—"Bouguereau realized at last," as Nannie Wetmore was in the habit of summing up her cousin’s complexion—was as marvellous as ever.
It is my weakness. The landscape is a genuine Corot, and, though a connoisseur might perhaps throw a doubt upon that Salvator Rosa, there cannot be the least question about the Bouguereau. I am partial to the modern French school." "You will excuse me, Mr. Sholto," said Miss Morstan, "but I am here at your request to learn something which you desire to tell me.
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