“Would our eyes be magnified too?” said Gazonal, looking at his two friends significantly.
“Man will return to what he was before he became degenerate; our six-feet men will then be dwarfs.”
“Is your picture finished?” asked Leon.
“Entirely finished,” replied Dubourdieu. “I have tried to see Hiclar, and get him to compose a symphony for it; I wish that while viewing my picture the public should hear music a la Beethoven to develop its ideas and bring them within range of the intellect by two arts. Ah! if the government would only lend me one of the galleries of the Louvre!”
“I’ll mention it, if you want me to do so; you should never neglect an opportunity to strike minds.”
“Ah! my friends are preparing articles; but I am afraid they’ll go too far.”
“Pooh!” said Bixiou, “they can’t go as far as the future.”
Dubourdieu looked askance at Bixiou, and continued his way.
“Why, he’s mad,” said Gazonal; “he is following the moon in her courses.”
“His skill is masterly,” said Leon, “and he knows his art, but Fourierism has killed him. You have just seen, cousin, one of the effects of ambition upon artists. Too often, in Paris, from a desire to reach more rapidly than by natural ways the celebrity which to them is fortune, artists borrow the wings of circumstance, they think they make themselves of more importance as men of a specialty, the supporters of some ‘system’; and they fancy they can transform a clique into the public. One is a republican, another Saint-Simonian; this one aristocrat, that one Catholic, others juste-milieu, middle ages, or German, as they choose for their purpose. Now, though opinions do not give talent, they always spoil what talent there is; and the poor fellow whom you have just seen is a proof thereof. An artist’s opinion ought to be: Faith in his art, in his work; and his only way of success is toil when nature has given him the sacred fire.”