"Any other, but not that one."
"And why not this one?"
"Because I have been told so often that it is bad that I have taken an affection for it, as a mother loves her poor, weakly, sickly deformed child. In my studio, poor pariah that it is! it stands for me to look it in the face when people look askance at it; to comfort it when people humiliate it; to defend it when it is attacked. With you, it would have at all events a guardian, if not a father; for, if you were to buy it, it would be because you love it, as you are not a rich man. In the case of the prince, in place of sincere praise there would be that of courtiers: 'The painting is good, because Monseigneur has bought it. Monseigneur is too much of an artist and a connoisseur to make a mistake. Criticism must be at fault, the old witch! Detestable old Sibyl!' But in the hands of a stranger, an indifferent person, whom it cost nothing and who had no reason for taking its part, no, no, no. My poor Marino Faliero, do not be anxious, thou shalt not go!"
And it was in vain that I begged and prayed and urged him; Delacroix stuck to his word. Certain that the Duc d'Orléans should not think my action wrong, I went as far as eight thousand francs. Delacroix obstinately refused. The picture is still in his studio. That was just like the man, or, rather, the artist!
At the Salon of 1826, which lasted six months, and was three times replenished, Delacroix exhibited a Justinien and Christ au jardin des Oliviers, wonderful for their pain and sadness; they can now be seen in the rue Saint-Antoine and the Church of St. Paul on the right as you enter. I never miss going into the church when I pass that way, to make my oblation as a Christian and an artist should before the picture. All these subjects were wisely chosen; and as they were beautiful and not bizarre they did not raise a stir. People indeed said that Justinien looked like a bird, and the Christ, like.... some thing or other; but they were harking back more to the past than the present. But, suddenly, at the final replenishing, arrived ... what? Guess ... Do you not remember?—No—The Sardanapale. Ah! so it did! This time there was a general hue-and-cry.
The King of Assyria, his head wrapped round with a turban, clad in royal robes, sitting surrounded with silver vases and golden water-jugs, pearl collars and diamond bracelets, bronze tripods with his favourite, the beautiful Mirrha, upon a pile of faggots, which seemed like slipping down and falling on the public. All round the pile, the wives of the Oriental monarch were killing themselves, whilst the slaves were leading away and killing his horses. The attack was so violent, criticism had so many things to find fault with in that enormous canvas—one of the largest if not the largest in the Salon—that the attack drowned defence: his fanatical admirers tried indeed to rally in square of battle about their chief; but the Academy itself, the Old Guard of Classicism, charged determinedly; the unlucky partizans of Sardanapale were routed, scattered and cut to pieces! They disappeared like a water-spout, vanished like smoke, and, like Augustus, Delacroix called in vain for his legions! Thiers had hidden himself, nobody knew where. The creator of Sardanapale,—it goes without saying that Delacroix was no longer remembered as the painter of Dante, of the Massacre de Scio or of Grèce sur les ruines de Missolonghi, or of Christ au jardin des Oliviers, no, he was the creator of Sardanapale and of no other work whatever!—was for five years without an order. Finally, in 1831, as we have already said, he exhibited his Tigres, his Liberté and his Assassinat de l'Évêque de Liège, and, round these three most remarkable works, those who had survived the last defeat began to rally. The Duc d'Orléans bought the Assassinat de l'Évêque de Liège, and the government, the Liberté. The Tigres remained with its creator.