In a word, all his men were
petits maitres, and all his women coquettes. The drapery of his
figures was extremely well suited to his faces, and was made up of
all the glaring colours that could be mixed together; every part of
the dress was in a flutter, and endeavoured to distinguish itself
above the rest.
On the left hand of Vanity stood a laborious workman, who I found
was his humble admirer, and copied after him. He was dressed like a
German, and had a very hard name that sounded something like
Stupidity.
The third artist that I looked over was Fantasque, dressed like a
Venetian scaramouch. He had an excellent hand at chimera, and dealt
very much in distortions and grimaces. He would sometimes affright
himself with the phantoms that flowed from his pencil. In short,
the most elaborate of his pieces was at best but a terrifying dream:
and one could say nothing more of his finest figures than that they
were agreeable monsters.
The fourth person I examined was very remarkable for his hasty hand,
which left his pictures so unfinished that the beauty in the
picture, which was designed to continue as a monument of it to
posterity, faded sooner than in the person after whom it was drawn.
He made so much haste to despatch his business that he neither gave
himself time to clean his pencils nor mix his colours.
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