Thus the painter of nature, as much of a reality as man, but a reality
in its own way, if he desires to make nature understood and loved, must
give it the stamp of his own ideas, his own feelings, his own
impressions.
Why should I care to be shown trees and waters, valleys and mountains,
if the tree does not tell me of the coolness of its shade, if the water
does not reveal the peace of the deep lake, if I cannot divine the
rippling of the brook, if the valley does not make me long to plunge
into its depths! Why recall to me the mountain, if its curves do not
rouse in my mind any ideas of grace, elegance and majesty,--if its peaks
do not make me dream of the Infinite!
However skilful the artist may be in the reproduction of form and the
handling of color, he will always be far inferior to nature if his soul
has never heard the inner murmur of all those mysteries of the
sensitive, and I will venture to say, spiritual life, contained in
forests, waterfalls and ravines. Lacking this initiation, he will play
the cold and flavorless part of one who tells a twice-told tale; for it
is in landscape especially, that talent consists in revealing the
painter's own feeling.
The charm of things felt is not produced merely by a grand way of
looking at things: the mind, the soul, occupy but little space; but
where they figure, the canvas is well filled, and the brush betrays
their presence.
I remember, in support of my thesis, that at one of the annual
expositions at the Salon--which then represented the aristocracy of
painting,--there was a tiny picture: a hut half hidden in moss and
flowers.
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