Degas is also clearly related to Corot, not only in the silvery
harmonies of his suave landscapes, but also, and particularly, in his
admirable faces whose inestimable power and moving sincerity we have
hardly commenced to understand. Degas passed slowly from classicism to
modernity. He never liked outbursts of colour; he is by no means an
Impressionist from this point of view. As a draughtsman of genius he
expresses all by the precision of the planes and values; a grey, a black
and some notes of colour suffice for him. This might establish a link
between him and Whistler, though he is much less mysterious and diffuse.
Whenever Degas plays with colour, it is with the same restraint of his
boldness; he never goes to excess in abandoning himself to its charm. He
is neither lyrical, nor voluptuous; his energy is cold; his wise spirit
affirms soberly the true character of a face or an object.

Since a long time this spirit has moved Degas to revel in the
observation of contemporary life. His nature has been that of a patient
psychologist, a minute analyst, and also of a bitter ironist. The man is
very little known. His friends say that he has an easily ruffled
delicacy, a sensibility open to poetry, but jealous of showing its
emotion. They say that Degas's satirical bitterness is the reverse side
of a soul wounded by the spectacle of modern morality. One feels this
sentiment in his work, where the sharp notation of truth is painful,
where the realism is opposed by colouring of a sober distinction, where
nothing, not even the portrait of a drab, could be vulgar. Degas has
devoted himself to the profound study of certain classes of women, in
the state of mind of a philosopher and physiologist, impartially
inclined towards life.

His work can be divided into several great series: the race-courses, the