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Occasionally, a visitor from abroad appeared Felix Buhot every Thursday that one winter, or, more rarely Paul Renouard, in London for the Graphic, his appearance an event for the illustrators who already reverenced him as a veteran.
We admire Meryon and Helleu's drypoints, Bracquemond, Jacquemart; Félix Buhot has a following; Lalanne and Daubigny too; but in comparison with the demand for Rembrandt, Whistler, Seymour Haden, or Zorn the Paris men are not in the lead. There is Rops, for example, whose etchings may be compared to Meryon's; yet who except a few amateurs seeks Rops?
"But, M. Buhot, this news is like March in Lent, it was quite unnecessary; my brother was going in the course of a week." "All the better. If the minister had been aware of that he would not have troubled himself about it." "Is the reason known?" "I have heard something about a proposal to kick a gentleman, who though young, is too exalted a person to be spoken to in such a manner."
"But, M. Buhot, this news is like March in Lent, it was quite unnecessary; my brother was going in the course of a week." "All the better. If the minister had been aware of that he would not have troubled himself about it." "Is the reason known?" "I have heard something about a proposal to kick a gentleman, who though young, is too exalted a person to be spoken to in such a manner."
"Why, chevalier," said I, "the phrase is a mere formality like the twenty-four hours for if the impudent young rascal had come out he would have met me, and his sword should have been sufficient to ward off any kicks." I then told the whole story, and Buhot agreed that I was in the right throughout; adding that the police were also in the right to prevent any encounter between us.
Everybody had to be in revolt, though it might not always have been easy to say against just what. I remember once, at the show of a group of young painters who fancied themselves fiery Independents, running across Felix Buhot, the most inflammable man in the world, and his telling me, with his wild eyes more aflame than usual, that he could smell the powder.
Their campaign, as they ran it, required less talk than most, for they were chiefly men of the New English Art Club the men who gave the shows where Felix Buhot smelt the powder the men who were considered apostles of defiance when the inner group held their once-famous exhibition as "London Impressionists" the men about whom the critics for a while did nothing save talk but men who had the reputation of talking so little themselves that, when a man came up for election in their Club, his talent for silence was said to be as important a consideration with them as his talent for art.
As to the engraver Félix Buhot, he was a rather delicate colourist in black and white; his Paris scenes will always be considered charming works. In spite of his Spanish origin, the painter, aquarelliste, and draughtsman Daniel Vierge, should be added to the list of the men connected with Impressionism.
"Why, chevalier," said I, "the phrase is a mere formality like the twenty-four hours for if the impudent young rascal had come out he would have met me, and his sword should have been sufficient to ward off any kicks." I then told the whole story, and Buhot agreed that I was in the right throughout; adding that the police were also in the right to prevent any encounter between us.
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