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Updated: May 23, 2025
Fred had made friendships in his life, warm, hand-clasping, shoulder-thumping friendships, but they had been of gradual unfolding. Never before had anyone walked full-grown into his affections. On the third afternoon, sitting in the thick shade of a gracious tree, Monet had told Fred something of his story.
Ah yes, timid sheep make easy herding!" For the first time Fred Starratt saw Monet quivering with unleashed conviction, and he glimpsed the hidden turbulence of spirit which churned under the placid surface. "After a while," Monet went on, "when I got almost to the snapping point, they sent me to Ward Six.
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.
Each part is truer than ever before, and unless one have a specially developed sense of ensemble in this very special matter of values in and affected by sunlight, one gets from Monet an impression of actuality so much greater than he has ever got before, that he may be pardoned for feeling, and even for enthusiastically proclaiming, that in Monet realism finds its apogee.
"Nonsense! Last night made you morbid. Harrison ought to have known better. This is no place for Christmas! One day should be always like another." Monet shook his head. "While they were sing ... something passed ... I can't describe it. But I grew cold all over ... I knew at once that... Oh, well! what's the use? You do not understand!" He flung his hands up in a gesture of despair.
We admire the marvellous mastery with which Monet drew tower and portico: see that tower lifted out of blue haze, no delicacy of real perspective has been omitted; see that portico bathed in sunlight and shadow, no form of ornament has been slurred; but we are fain of some personal sense of beauty, we miss that rare delicacy of perception which delights us in Mr.
Why, for centuries it saw horses jumping a fence with all their legs extended, and by Heaven, sir, they were extended. It saw shadows black until Monet discovered they were coloured, and by Heaven, sir, they were black.
At the end of an hour, my anxiety brings me back to Rochet's bedside. The candle is burning away with a steady flame. Monet is reading in a little book with a clasp. The profile of the wounded man has still the pitiful austerity of a tortured saint. "Is he quieter now?" Monet lifts his fine dark eyes to my face, and drops his book. "Yes. He is dead."
Thus, in sculpture we have imitations, conscious or unconscious, of the Greek, of Michael Angelo, Donatello, Rodin, Barye, Meunier, Saint Gaudens; in painting, of Besnard, Merson, Monet, et cetera, as well as some more complex personal notes, more difficult to relate, although they too are related in the main, adding only another variation of character to the great mass of human ideality.
Ermentrude's heart was in her throat, not because of the splendour, to which she was accustomed; but it was to be her first meeting with a noble dame, whose name was historic, at whose feet the poets of the Second Empire had prostrated themselves, passionately plucking their lyres; the friend of Liszt, Wagner, Berlioz, of Manet, Degas, Monet; the new school this wonderful old woman knew them all, from Goncourt and Flaubert to Daudet and Maupassant.
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