“And besides, my dear fellow, you have a consolation which few artists possess; the future is yours,” said Bixiou. “When the world is converted to our doctrine, you will be at the head of your art; for you are putting into it ideas which people will understand--_when_ they are generalized! In fifty years from now you’ll be to all the world what you are to a few of us at this moment,--a great man. The only question is how to get along till then.” “I have just finished,” resumed the great artist, his face expanding like that of a man whose hobby is stroked, “an allegorical figure of Harmony; and if you will come and see it, you will understand why it should have taken me two years to paint it. Everything is in it! At the first glance one divines the destiny of the globe. A queen holds a shepherd’s crook in her hand,--symbolical of the advancement of the races useful to mankind; she wears on her head the cap of Liberty; her breasts are sixfold, as the Egyptians carved them--for the Egyptians foresaw Fourier; her feet are resting on two clasped hands which embrace a globe,--symbol of the brotherhood of all human races; she tramples cannon under foot to signify the abolition of war; and I have tried to make her face express the serenity of triumphant agriculture. I have also placed beside her an enormous curled cabbage, which, according to our master, is an image of Harmony. Ah! it is not the least among Fourier’s titles to veneration that he has restored the gift of thought to plants; he has bound all creation in one by the signification of things to one another, and by their special language. A hundred years hence this earth will be much larger than it is now.” “And how will that, monsieur, come to pass?” said Gazonal, stupefied at hearing a man outside of a lunatic asylum talk in this way. “Through the extending of production. If men will apply The System, it will not be impossible to act upon the stars.” “What would become of painting in that case?” asked Gazonal. “It would be magnified.” “Would our eyes be magnified too?” said Gazonal, looking at his two friends significantly. “Man will return to what he was before he became degenerate; our six-feet men will then be dwarfs.” “Is your picture finished?” asked Leon. “Entirely finished,” replied Dubourdieu. “I have tried to see Hiclar, and get him to compose a symphony for it; I wish that while viewing my picture the public should hear music a la Beethoven to develop its ideas and bring them within range of the intellect by two arts. Ah! if the government would only lend me one of the galleries of the Louvre!” “I’ll mention it, if you want me to do so; you should never neglect an opportunity to strike minds.” “Ah! my friends are preparing articles; but I am afraid they’ll go too far.” “Pooh!” said Bixiou, “they can’t go as far as the future.” Dubourdieu looked askance at Bixiou, and continued his way. “Why, he’s mad,” said Gazonal; “he is following the moon in her courses.”