Last week, an exhibition of the paintings of Toulouse-Lautrec was held in the Wildenstein Galleries, Manhattan. Between the years 1880 and 1890, this artist was often pointed out by habitues of the Moulin Rouge Cafe, Paris, to friends from out of town; a whisper passed from Parisian mouth to Provincial ear. Amazement, incredulity, re-assertion.
"What? A nobleman? That dwarf?"
"But yes, I assure you, and a painter also."
Toulouse-Lautrec, hiding his spindle legs under a square table, would sit with his glass between his fingers, blowing his...