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| Henri Evenepoel Au Square 1899 lithograph Art Gallery of Ontario, Toronto |
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| Félix Vallotton The Red Room, Etretat 1899 oil on board Art Institute of Chicago |
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| Émile Claus Sunny Day 1899 oil on canvas Museum of Fine Arts, Ghent |
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| Rose Clark and Elizabeth Flint Wade Miss M. of Washington 1899 photogravure Art Institute of Chicago |
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| Wilhelm Leibl Portrait Study of Young Woman 1899 drawing Wallraf-Richartz Museum, Cologne |
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| Edward John Poynter The Hon. Violet Monckton 1899 oil on canvas Art Gallery of New South Wales, Sydney |
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| Georges Jeanniot La Folle 1899 oil on canvas Musée Petiet de Limoux |
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| Odilon Redon The Yellow Shawl (Portrait of Camille Redon) 1899 pastel on paper Kröller-Müller Museum, Otterlo, Netherlands |
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| James Shannon Portrait of Lady Ulrica Duncombe 1899 oil on canvas Art Gallery of New South Wales, Sydney |
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| Édouard Vuillard La Partie de Dames 1899 lithograph National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
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| Ignacio Pinazo Camarlench Self Portrait 1899 oil on canvas Museo de Bellas Artes de Valencia |
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| Edvard Munch Bather 1899 color woodblock print Art Institute of Chicago |
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| Carl Vinnen Early Spring Landscape 1899 oil on canvas Galerie Neue Meister (Albertinum), Dresden |
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| Laurits Andersen Ring Bench of artist Johan Thomas Lundbye (died at age 29) 1899 oil on canvas Ordrupgaard Art Museum, Copenhagen |
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| Théo van Rysselberghe Boulogne-sur-Mer 1899 oil on canvas Kröller-Müller Museum, Otterlo, Netherlands |
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| William H. Bradley The Inland Printer - Christmas Number 1899 lithograph (poster) Delaware Art Museum, Wilmington |
from Letter to Lord Byron
In certain quarters I had heard a rumour
(For all I know the rumour's only silly)
That Icelanders have little sense of humour.
I knew the country was extremely hilly,
The climate unreliable and chilly;
So looking round for something light and easy
I pounced on you as warm and civilisé.
There is one other author in my pack:
For some time I debated which to write to.
Which would least likely send my letter back?
But I decided that I'd give a fright to
Jane Austen if I wrote when I'd no right to,
And share in her contempt the dreadful fates
Of Crawford, Musgrove, and of Mr. Yates.
Then she's a novelist. I don't know whether
You will agree, but novel writing is
A higher art than poetry altogether
In my opinion, and success implies
Both finer character and faculties.
Perhaps that's why real novels are as rare
As winter thunder or a polar bear.
The average poet by comparison
Is unobservant, immature, and lazy.
You must admit, when all is said and done,
His sense of other people's very hazy,
His moral judgements are too often crazy,
A slick and easy generalisation
Appeals too well to his imagination.
I must remember, though, that you were dead
Before the four great Russians lived, who brought
The art of novel writing to a head;
The Book Society had not been bought.
But now the art for which Jane Austen fought,
Under the right persuasion bravely warms
And is the most prodigious of the forms.
– W.H. Auden (1936)