And here is what happens in your absence on your wall:

The idealist painter rolls up his sleeves and immediately daubs for you this picture: a rocky pinnacle of a mountain; on that rocky pinnacle, a horse with the heroic proportions of the Phidias horse, reared; on that horse, squeezing his flanks, Napoleon, bare-armed and bare-legged like a Roman Caesar, with a crown of laurels on his head. Around it: clouds. At the bottom: the signature.

You will tell me: 'this is false!' —How false? That picture was, and I think still is, one of the jewels of the Luxembourg Museum.

Meanwhile, the realist painter, having read History, consulted the contemporary chronicles, studied the landscapes of the Alps, the uniforms of the time, etc., left on your wall the following painting: under a sad sky, a rugged mountain path; on the path, easing its weight and tensing its muscles, climbs a mule; on the mule, wrapped in furs, wearing an otter cap and blue spectacles on account of the reverberation of snow, travels Bonaparte, sick and worn-out.

Which of these pictures do you choose, my dear fellow-citizen? The first one, that invented the story, or the second one, that painted it for you? The idealist gave you a falsification, the naturalist a verification. All the difference between idealism and naturalism is there. One falsifies, the other verifies.

You tell me: This is but a matter of accessory, of decoration! But when it comes to painting the soul, the interior being…

—Perfect. Here is another example: