of view of these makers and buyers of dolls and mannequins, the deed of a crazy man, of an eccentric radical.
One of Marbol's paintings, destined for a foreign international exposition, and submited before being sent to the approval of his fellow townsmen, sent them all into shrieks of laughter, and made him the object of ironic condolence and bitter and distrustful silence. This picture was "Dockers Resting."
At noon, upon an unharnessed truck close to the docks, three workmen were lying down. One lay on his back, his legs spread slightly apart, his head resting between his bent arms, in his hands clasped beneath his neck. His face was swarthy, rough, but handsome, half asleep, his eyelids slightly parted and showing the velvety black of the pupils. The two other dockers had thrown themselves down flat on their stomachs; the bottom of their leathery, smoky coats tightened across their well-developed haunches; their chests were slightly lifted; their chins rested in their calloused hands; leaning upon their elbows, they turned their backs to the spectators, showing their curly heads, their ears, the powerful muscles of their necks and their broad backs as they gaped at a corner of the roadstead that glistened amidst the forest of masts.
In Paris this audacious canvas drew forth a studio war and ferocious polemics; for years past such a hue and cry had not been raised. Marbol made as many friends as he did enemies; a goodly number of each. One of the big dealers of the chausée d'Antin, having bought the scandalous composition, the dealers of Antwerp shuddered with rage and astonishment. What honest man could have consented to hang this
