man in Paris like the monied man in London
admires pictures in proportion as they re-
semble other pictures ; those who like pictures
in proportion as they differ from others are
rare.
After Manet’s death his friends made some
little stir, there was a sale, and then the prices
sank again, sank almost to nothing, and it
seemed as if the world would never appreciate
Manet. There was a time, fifteen or sixteen
years ago, when Manet’s pictures could have
been bought for twenty, thirty, forty or fifty
pounds a piece. I remember saying to Albert
Wolff some years after Manet’s death—it was
at Tortoni’s, the celebrated cafe is now gone :
“How is it,” I said, “that Degas and
Whistler and Monet have come into their
inheritance, but there is no sign of recognition
of Manet’s art!” Wolff was the art critic of
the Figaro, and understood painting as well as
another. He answered: “Put that hope
aside ; the time will never come when people
will care for Manet’s painting.” I can recall
the feeling of depression that this pronounce-
ment caused me, and how I went away asking
myself if the most beautiful painting the world
had ever seen was destined to remain the most
unpopular. That was fifteen years ago. We
are impatient for the triumph of the things we
love, and it took fifteen years for the light of
Manet’s genius to reach Ireland.
I have been asked which of the two pictures
hanging in this room it would be better to
i 8