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We remember how the stiff-necked Ingres, the greatest Raphaelesque of this century, hurled at Delacroix's head the famous dictum, "Le dessin c'est la probité de l'art," and how his illustrious rival, the chief of a romanticism which he would hardly acknowledge, vindicated by works rather than by words his contention that, if design was indeed art's conscience, colour was its life-blood, its very being.
"Fixe-t-elle sur moi sa bizarre inconstance, Mon concur lui saura gre' du bien qu'elle me fait Veut'elle en d'autres lieux marquer sa bienvellance, Je lui remets ses dons sans chagrin, sans regret. Plein d'une vertu plus forte J'epouse la pauvrete' Si pour dot elle m'apporte L'honneur et la probite'" "It is not necessary to make ourselves uneasy about the future."
Well, wait till you see her ... H'm that shoulder won't do!" Doris had just placed a preliminary sketch of one of her "subjects" under his eyes "and that bit of perspective in the corner wants a lot of seeing to. Look here!" The old Academician, brought up in the spirit of Ingres "le dessin, c'est la probité! le dessin, c'est l'honneur!" fell eagerly to work on the sketch, and Doris watched.
An expression of deep emotion rested upon his countenance, which, in spite of his fifty years, could still be called handsome as he repeated in a low, trembling voice: "J'epouse la pauvrete, Si pour dot elle m'apporte L'honneur et la probite."
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