Meissonier and those who were against him. Cafes echoed with the sounds
of wordy warfare; the columns of all magazines and newspapers bulged with
heated argument; newsboys cried extras on the street, and bands of
students paraded the boulevards singing songs in praise of Mrs. Mackay
and in dishonor of Meissonier, "the pretender." The assertion was made
again and again that Meissonier had fed sham art upon the public, and by
means of preposterous prices and noisy puffing had hypnotized a world.
They called him the artist of the Infinitely Little, King of Lilliput,
and challenged any one to show where he had thrown heart and high emotion
into his work. Studies of coachmen, smokers, readers, soldiers,
housemaids, chess-players, cavaliers and serenaders were not enough upon
which to base an art reputation--the man must show that he had moved men
to high endeavor, said the detractors. A fund was started to purchase the
Mackay portrait, so as to do the very thing that Meissonier had
threatened to do, but dare not: place the picture on exhibition. To show
the picture, the enemy said, would be to prove the artist's commonplace
quality, and not only this, but it would prove the man a rogue. They
declared he was incapable of perceiving the good qualities in a sitter,
and had consented for a price to portray a person whom he disliked; and
as a result, of course, had produced a caricature; and then had
blackmailed his patron into paying an outrageous sum to keep the picture
from the public.

The argument sounded plausible. And so the battle raged, just as it has
since in reference to Zola.

The tide of Meissonier's prosperity began to ebb: prospective buyers kept
away; those who had given commissions canceled them.

Meissonier's friends saw that something must be done. They inaugurated a