The Tailor-Made Girl/In an Art Gallery
IN AN ART GALLERY.
Mr. Clubman (who knows all about it).—This Verboeckhoven is simply atrocious!
Mr. Knobstick (who wishes he did know all about it).—It does seem rather-er-well, really, not quite up to the mark, you know.
Mr. Clubman.—Why, it is vile, my dear fellow; positively vile. The veriest tyro in art ought to see that!
Mr. Knobstick.—Oh, yes, indeed!
Mr. Clubman. —Now, this little canvas is not so bad!
Mr. Knobstick.—So very natural, you know.
Mr. Clubman (patronizingly).—Natural, my dear boy, but not nature.
Mr. Knobstick.—Oh, possibly, possibly!
Mr. Clubman.—You never really saw grass and sky look like that grass and sky.
Mr. Knobstick.—Now that you speak of it, I am not sure that I have, you know.
Mr. Clubman.—Of course you haven't; the picture has delicacy and finish, but fidelity to nature—Bah!
Mr. Knobstick.—I quite agree with you. This is a rather odd bit.
Mr. Clubman.—Very odd! the lights, though, are managed very well—yes, really, very well.
Mr. Knobstick.—It quite takes my fancy.
Mr. Clubman.—Oh, it is a very faulty canvas otherwise—full of glaring errors.
Mr. Knobstick.—Oh, here is a Gérôme!
Mr. Clubman.—Yes, not at his best; a fairish composition only. I tell you, my dear boy, the majority of paintings are overrated—there is nothing in them.
***
Miss Facetious.—What's this?—"After the Ball!" She looks as if she were sorry she went.
Young Mr. Funnyman (her escort).—Oh, no; she's sorry she came home so soon.
Miss Facetious.—What an uncomfortable attitude—and she's rumpling her dress awfully!
Young Mr. Funnyman.—Oh, well, she doesn't mind that, you know; it's the end of the season.
Miss Facetious.—Here's "A Misty Morning in Rome!"
Young Mr. Funnyman.—I call that a regular London fog.
Miss Facetious.—Yes, indeed! Do let us go on; it will take the curl out of my feathers.
***
Miss Penelope (a young woman with catalogue and magnifying glass "doing" the collection).—Look at the detail of that woman's dress. Isn't it wonderful?
Admiring Female Friend.—Wonderful!
Miss Penelope (after a few moments' absorbing contemplation).—Kæemmerer paints deliciously! Admiring Female Friend.—Exquisitely!
Miss Penelope.—Will you look at this perspective—the depth of it?—why, it is superb!
Admiring Female Friend.—Oh, isn't it?
Miss Penelope.—Marvelous! marvelous!! The picture as a whole, though, lacks sentiment.
Admiring Female Friend.—Yes, I think so.
Miss Penelope (pettishly).—Look at those stupid people standing so close to that Fortuny!
Admiring Female Friend.—Such ignorance!
Miss Penelope.—Why, it's a perfect daub near by!
Admiring Female Friend.—Of course!
Miss Penelope.—Oh, here's another Bierstadt!
Admiring Female Friend.—Oh, yes; how very fine!
Miss Penelope.—Ye-es; but his pictures are so very similar—all painted from the same recipe.
Admiring Female Friend.—That may be so.
***
Mrs. Hopeless (before a Detaille).—This is quite pretty, Mabel; a sort of battle-scene, isn't it?
Mabel (her daughter).—It seems to be, Mama.
Mrs. Hopeless.—Who did it?
Mabel (reading name on frame).—It's some unpronounceable name—French, I think, Mama.
Mrs. Hopeless.—Oh, never mind, my dear. I really don't care. I don't like so many figures in a picture, anyhow; it's too confusing.
***
First Artist (who manufactures pictures by the dozen for dealers).—Good gracious, man; look at those flesh tints!
Second Artist (who does the same).—Frightful—mixed with putty, I should say!
First Artist.—Horrible, horrible! I can't see how a painter can let such work leave his easel.
Second Artist.—Nor I. But the so-called great artist is not apt to be the conscientious one.
First Artist.—True, indeed! This Troyon here lacks detail.
Second Artist.—Oh, yes—and breadth!
First Artist.—Do look at the gaping crowd before that huge canvas over there!
Second Artist.—I see. That's what discourages true art—the utter want of discrimination in the public.
First Artist.—Oh, give it size and color and it is satisfied.
Second Artist.—Look at this landscape—the critics laud it to the skies.
First Artist.—Where it ought to be—it is a mass of faults.
Second Artist.—A wretched composition throughout.
First Artist.—And here—this outrageous chaos of color.
Second Artist.—My dear fellow, that was intended to hang in an unlighted gallery.
First Artist.—Altogether a miserable collection.
Second Artist.—Yes—let's go; why didn't the fellow, with his money, buy something worth showing?
