OF YESTERDAY AND OF TO-DAY
A few days ago I accompanied Auguste Rodin, who was on his way to the
Louvre, to see once again the busts by Houdon.
We were no sooner in front of the bust of Voltaire than the Master
cried:
“What a marvel it is! It is the personification of malice. See! his
sidelong glance seems watching some adversary. He has the pointed nose
of a fox; it seems smelling out from side to side for abuses and
follies. You can see it quiver! And the mouth—what a triumph! It is
framed by two furrows of irony. It seems to mumble sarcasms.
“A cunning old gossip—that is the impression produced by this Voltaire,
at once so lively, so sickly, and so little masculine.”
After a moment of contemplation he continued:
“The eyes! I always come back to them. They are transparent. They are
luminous.
“But you can say as much of all busts by Houdon. This sculptor
understood how to render the transparency of the pupils better than any
painter or pastellist. He perforated them, bored them, cut them out; he
cleverly raised a certain unevenness in them which, catching or losing
the light, gives a singular effect and imitates the sparkle of life in
the pupil. And what diversity in the expression of the eyes of all these
faces! Cunning in Voltaire, good fellowship in Franklin, authority in
Mirabeau, gravity in Washington, joyous tenderness in Madame Houdon,
roguishness in his daughter and in the two charming little Brongniart
children. To this sculptor the glance is more than half the expression.
Through the eyes he read souls. They kept no secrets from him. So there
is no need to ask if his busts were good likenesses.”
At that word I stopped Rodin. “You consider, then, that resemblance is a
very important quality?”
“Certainly; indispensable.”
“Yet many artists say that busts and portraits can be very fine without
being good likenesses. I remember a remark on this subject attributed to
Henner. A lady complained to him that the portrait which he had painted
of her did not look like her.
“‘Hé! Matame,’ he replied in his Alsatian jargon, ‘when you are dead
your heirs will think themselves fortunate to possess a fine portrait by
Henner and will trouble themselves very little to know if it was like
you or not.’”
“It is possible that the painter said that,” Rodin answered, “but it was
doubtless a sally which did not represent his real thought, for I do not
believe that he had such false ideas in an art in which he showed great
talent.
“But first let us understand the kind of resemblance demanded in a bust
or portrait.
“If the artist only reproduces superficial features as photography does,
if he copies the lineaments of a face exactly, without reference to
character, he deserves no admiration. The resemblance which he ought to
obtain is that of the soul; that alone matters; it is that which the
sculptor or painter should seek beneath the mask of features.
“In a word, all the features must be expressive—that is to say, of use
in the revelation of a conscience.”
“But doesn’t it sometimes happen that the face contradicts the soul?”
“Never.”
“Have you forgotten the precept of La Fontaine, ‘Il ne faut point juger
les gens sur l’apparence’?”
[Illustration:
EGYPTIAN SPARROW-HAWK
_See page 180_
]
[Illustration:
MLLE. BRONGNIART
By Houdon
]
“That maxim is only addressed to superficial observers. For appearances
may deceive their hasty examination. La Fontaine writes that the little
mouse took the cat for the kindest of creatures, but he speaks of a
little mouse—that is to say, of a scatterbrain who lacked critical
faculty. The appearance of a cat would warn whoever studied it
attentively that there was cruelty hidden under that sleepiness. A
physiognomist can easily distinguish between a cajoling air and one of
real kindness, and it is precisely the rôle of the artist to show the
truth, even beneath dissimulation.
“To tell the truth, there is no artistic work which requires as much
penetration as the bust and the portrait. It is sometimes said the
artist’s profession demands more manual skill than intelligence. You
have only to study a good bust to correct this error. Such a work is
worth a whole biography. Houdon’s busts, for example, are like chapters
of written memoirs. Period, race, profession, personal character—all are
indicated there.
“Here is Rousseau opposite Voltaire. Great shrewdness in his glance. It
is the quality common to all the personages of the eighteenth century;
they are critics; they question all the principles which were
unquestioningly accepted before; they have searching eyes.
“Now for his origin. He is the Swiss plebeian. Rousseau is as
unpolished, almost vulgar, as Voltaire is aristocratic and
distinguished. Prominent cheekbones, short nose, square chin—you
recognize the son of the watchmaker and the whilom domestic.
“Profession now: he is the philosopher; sloping, thoughtful forehead,
antique type accentuated by the classic band about his head. Appearance
purposely wild, hair neglected, a certain resemblance to some Diogenes
or Menippus; this is the preacher of the return to nature and to the
primitive life.
“Individual character: a general contraction of the face; this is the
misanthrope. Eyebrows contracted, forehead lined with care; this is the
man who complains, often with reason, of persecution.
“I ask you if this is not a better commentary on the man than his
_Confessions_?
[Illustration:
MIRABEAU
By Houdon
]
[Illustration:
VOLTAIRE
By Houdon
]
“Now Mirabeau. Period; challenging attitude, wig disarranged, dress
careless; a breath of the revolutionary tempest passes over this wild
beast, who is ready to roar an answer.
“Origin; dominating aspect, fine arched eyebrows, haughty forehead; this
is the former aristocrat. But the democratic heaviness of the pockmarked
cheeks and of the neck sunk between the shoulders betrays the Count de
Riquetti to the sympathies of Thiers, whose interpreter he has become.
“Profession: the tribune. The mouth protrudes like a speaking-trumpet
ready to fling his voice abroad. He lifts his head because, like most
orators, he was short. In this type of man nature develops the chest,
the barrel, at the expense of height. The eyes are not fixed on any one;
they rove over a great assembly. It is a glance at once vague and
superb. Tell me, is it not a marvellous achievement to evoke in this one
head a whole crowd—more, a whole listening country?
“Finally, the individual character. Observe the sensuous lips, the
double chin, the quivering nostrils; you will recognize the faults—habit
of debauch and demand for enjoyment. All is there, I tell you.
“It would be easy to sketch the same character outline from all the
busts of Houdon.
“Here, again, is Franklin. A ponderous air, heavy falling cheeks; this
is the former artisan. The long hair of the apostle, a kindly
benevolence; this is the popular moralizer, good-natured Richard.
“A stubborn high forehead inclined forward, indicative of the obstinacy
of which Franklin gave proof in winning an education, in rising, in
becoming an eminent scholar, finally in freeing his country. Astuteness
in the eyes and in the corners of the mouth; Houdon was not duped by the
general massiveness, and he divined the prudent materialism of the
calculator who made a fortune, and the cunning of the diplomat who
wormed out the secrets of English politics. Here, living, is one of the
ancestors of modern America!
“Well! Here, in these remarkable busts, do we not find the fragmentary
chronicle of half a century? And, as in the finest written narratives,
what pleases most in these memoirs in terra-cotta, in marble and in
bronze, is the brilliant grace of the style, the lightness of the hand
that wrote them, the generosity of this charming personality, so
essentially French, who created them. Houdon is Saint-Simon without his
aristocratic prejudices; is Saint-Simon as witty but more magnanimous.
Ah! what a divine artist!”
“It must be very difficult,” I said, verifying in the busts before us
the interpretation of my companion, “to penetrate so profoundly into the
consciousness of others.”
“Yes, doubtless.” Then, with a shade of irony, “But the greatest
difficulties for the artist who models a bust or who paints a portrait
do not come from the work which he executes. They come from the client
for whom he works. By a strange and fatal law, the one who orders his
own likeness is the one who always desperately combats the talent of the
artist he has chosen. It is very seldom that a man sees himself as he
is, and even if he knows himself, he does not wish the artist to
represent him as he is. He asks to be represented under the most banal
and neutral aspect. He wishes to be an official or worldly marionette.
It pleases him to have the function he exercises, the rank he holds in
society, completely efface the man that is in him. The magistrate wishes
his robe, the general his gold-laced tunic. They care very little
whether one can read their characters.
“This explains the success of so many mediocre painters and sculptors
who are satisfied to give the impersonal appearance of their clients:
their gold lace and their official attitude. These are the artists who
are generally highest in favor because they lend their models a mask of
riches and importance. The more bombastic a portrait is, the more it
resembles a stiff, pretentious doll, the better the client is satisfied.
[Illustration:
FRANCIS I
By Titian
]
“Perhaps it was not always so.
“Certain seigneurs of the fifteenth century, for example, seem to have
been pleased to see themselves portrayed as hyenas or vultures on the
medals of Pisanello. They were doubtless proud of their individuality.
Or, better still, they loved and venerated art, and they accepted the
rude frankness of the artist, as though it were a penance imposed by a
spiritual director.
“Titian did not hesitate to give Pope Paul III. a marten’s snout, nor to
emphasize the domineering hardness of Charles V., or the salaciousness
of Francis I., and it does not appear to have damaged his reputation
with them. Velasquez, who portrayed King Philip IV. as a nonentity,
though an elegant man, and who unflatteringly reproduced his hanging
jaw, nevertheless kept his favor. And the Spanish monarch has acquired
from posterity the great glory of having been the protector of genius.
“But the men of to-day are so made that they fear truth and love a lie.
They seem to be displeased to appear in their busts as they are. They
all want to have the air of hairdressers.
“And even the most beautiful women, that is to say, those whose lines
have most style, are horrified at their own beauty when a sculptor of
talent is its interpreter. They beseech him to make them ugly by giving
them an insignificant and doll-like physiognomy.
“So, to execute a bust is to fight a long battle. The one thing that
matters is not to weaken and to rest honest with one’s self. If the work
is refused, so much the worse. So much the better perhaps; for often, it
proves that it is full of merit.
“As for the client who, though discontented, accepts a successful work,
his bad humor is only temporary; for soon the connoisseurs compliment
him on the bust and he ends by admiring it. Then he declares quite
naturally that he has always liked it.
“Moreover, it should be noticed that the busts which are executed
gratuitously for friends or relations are the best. It is not only
because the artist knows his models better from seeing them constantly
and loving them. It is, above all, because the gratuitousness of his
work confers on him the liberty of working as he pleases.
“Nevertheless, the best busts are often refused, even when offered as
gifts. Though masterpieces, they are considered insulting by those for
whom they are intended. The sculptor must go his own way and find all
his pleasure, all his reward, in doing his best.”
I was much interested in this psychology of the public with which the
artist has to deal; but it must be said that a good deal of bitterness
entered into Rodin’s irony.
“Master,” I said, “among the trials of your profession, there is one
that you seem to have omitted. That is, to do the bust of a client whose
head is without expression or betrays obvious stupidity.”
Rodin laughed. “That cannot count among the trials,” he replied. “You
must not forget my favorite maxim: _Nature is always beautiful_. We need
only to understand what she shows us. You speak of a face without
expression. There is no such face to an artist. To him every head is
interesting. Let a sculptor note the insipidity of a face, let him show
us a fool absorbed by his care of worldly parade, and there we have a
fine bust.
“Besides, what is called shallowness is often only a conscience which
has not developed owing to a lack of education, and in that case, the
face offers the mysterious and fascinating spectacle of an intellect
which seems enveloped in a veil.
“Finally—how shall I put it?—even the most insignificant head is the
dwelling-place of life, that magnificent force, and so offers
inexhaustible matter for the masterpiece.”
Several days later I saw in Rodin’s atelier at Meudon the casts of many
of his finest busts, and I seized the occasion to ask him to tell me of
the memories they recalled.
His _Victor Hugo_ was there, deep in meditation, the forehead strangely
furrowed, volcanic, the hair wild, almost like white flames bursting
from his skull. It was the very personification of modern lyricism,
profound and tumultuous.
“It was my friend Bazire,” said Rodin, “who presented me to Victor Hugo.
Bazire was the secretary of the newspaper, _La Marseillaise_, and later
of _l’Intransigeant_. He adored Victor Hugo. It was he who started the
idea of a public celebration of the great man’s eightieth birthday.
“The celebration, as you know, was both solemn and touching. The poet
from his balcony saluted an immense crowd who had come before his house
to acclaim him; he seemed a patriarch blessing his family. Because of
that day, he kept a tender gratitude for the man who had arranged it.
And that was how Bazire introduced me to his presence without
difficulty.
“Unfortunately, Victor Hugo had just been martyred by a mediocre
sculptor named Villain, who, to make a bad bust, had insisted on
thirty-eight sittings. So when I timidly expressed my desire to
reproduce the features of the author of _Contemplation_, he knit his
Olympian brows.
“‘I cannot prevent your working,’ he said, ‘but I warn you that I will
not pose. I will not change one of my habits on your account. Make what
arrangements you like.’
“So I came and I made a great number of flying pencil notes to
facilitate my work of modelling later. Then I brought my stand and some
clay. But naturally I could only install this untidy paraphernalia in
the veranda, and as Victor Hugo was generally in the drawing-room with
his friends, you may imagine the difficulty of my task. I would study
the great poet attentively, and endeavor to impress his image on my
memory; then suddenly with a run I would reach the veranda to fix in
clay the memory of what I had just seen. But often, on the way, my
impression had weakened so that when I arrived before my stand I dared
not touch the clay, and I had to resolve to return to my model again.
“When I had nearly finished my work, Dalou asked me to introduce him to
Victor Hugo, and I willingly rendered him this service, but the glorious
old man died soon after, and Dalou could only do his best from a cast
taken after death.”
Rodin led me as he spoke to a glass case which enclosed a singular block
of stone. It was the keystone of an arch, the stone which the architect
sets in the centre to sustain the curve. On the face of this stone was
carved a mask, squared along the cheeks and temples, following the shape
of the block. I recognized the face of Victor Hugo.
“I always imagine this the keystone at the entrance of a building
dedicated to poetry,” said the master sculptor.
I could easily fancy it. The brow of Victor Hugo thus supporting the
weight of a monumental arch would symbolize the genius on which all the
thought and all the activity of an epoch had rested.
“I give this idea to any architect who will put it into execution,”
Rodin added.
Close by stood the cast of the bust of Henri Rochefort. It is well
known; the head of an insurgent, the forehead as full of bumps as that
of a pugnacious child who is always fighting his companions, the wild
tuft of hair which seems to wave like a signal for mutiny, the mouth
twisted by irony, the mad beard; a continual revolt, the very spirit of
criticism and combativeness. Admirable work it is, in which one sees one
side of our contemporary mentality reflected.
“It was also through Bazire,” said Rodin, “that I made the acquaintance
of Henri Rochefort, who was editor-in-chief of his newspaper. The
celebrated polemic consented to pose to me. He had such a joyous spirit
that it was an enchantment to listen to him, but he could not keep still
for a single instant. He reproached me pleasantly for having too much
professional conscience. He said laughingly that I spent one sitting in
adding a lump of clay to the model and the next in taking it away.
[Illustration:
HENRI ROCHEFORT
By Rodin
]
“When, some time after, his bust received the approbation of men of
taste, he joined unreservedly in their praises, but he would never
believe that my work had remained exactly as it was when I took it away
from his house. ‘You have retouched it very much,’ he would repeat. In
reality, I had not even touched it with my nail.”
Rodin, placing one of his hands over the tuft of hair and the other over
the beard, then asked me, “What impression does it make now?”
“You would say it was a Roman emperor.”
“That is just what I wanted to make you say. I have never found the
Latin classic type as pure as in Rochefort.”
If this ancient enemy of the Empire does not yet know this paradoxical
resemblance of his profile to that of the Cæsars, I wager that it will
make him smile.
When Rodin, a moment before, had spoken of Dalou, I had seen in thought
his bust of this sculptor which is at the Luxembourg. It is a proud,
challenging head, with the thin, sinewy neck of a child of the
faubourgs, the bristly beard of an artisan, a contracted forehead, the
wild eyebrows of an ancient communist, and the feverish and haughty air
of the irreducible democrat. For the rest, the large fine eyes and the
delicate incurvation of the temples reveal the passionate lover of
beauty.
In answer to a question, Rodin replied that he had modelled this bust at
a moment when Dalou, profiting by the amnesty, had returned from
England.
“He never took it away,” he said, “for our relations ended just after I
had introduced him to Victor Hugo.
“Dalou was a great artist, and many of his works have a superb
decorative value which allies them to the most beautiful groups of our
seventeenth century.
[Illustration:
JEAN-PAUL LAURENS
By Rodin
]
[Illustration:
JULES DALOU
By Rodin
]
“If he had not had the weakness to desire an official position he would
never have produced anything but masterpieces. But he aspired to become
the Le Brun of our Republic and the leader of all our contemporary
artists. He died before he succeeded in his ambition.
“It is impossible to exercise two professions at once. All the activity
that is expended in acquiring useful relations and in playing a rôle is
lost to art. Intriguers are not fools; when an artist wishes to compete
with them he must expend as much effort as they do, and he will have
hardly any time left for work.
“Who knows? If Dalou had always stayed in his atelier peacefully
pursuing his calling, he would have without doubt brought forth marvels
whose beauty would have astonished all eyes, and common consent would
have perhaps awarded him that artistic sovereignty to whose conquest he
unsuccessfully used all his skill.
“His ambition, however, was not entirely vain for his influence at the
Hôtel de Ville gave us one of the great masterpieces of our time. It was
he who, in spite of the undisguised hostility of the administrative
committee, gave the order to Puvis de Chavannes for the decoration of
the stairway at the Hôtel de Ville. And you know with what heavenly
poetry the great painter illuminated the walls of the municipal
building.”
These words called attention to the bust of Puvis de Chavannes.
“He carried his head high,” Rodin said. “His skull, solid and round,
seemed made to wear a helmet. His arched chest seemed accustomed to
carry the breastplate. It was easy to imagine him at Pavia fighting for
his honor by the side of Francis I.”
In the bust you recognize the aristocracy of an old race. The high
forehead and eyebrows reveal the philosopher, and the calm glance,
embracing a wide outlook, betrays the great decorator, the sublime
landscapist. There is no modern artist for whom Rodin professes more
admiration, more profound respect, than for the painter of
_Sainte-Geneviève_.
[Illustration:
PUVIS DE CHAVANNES
By Rodin
]
“To think that he has lived among us,” he cries; “to think that this
genius, worthy of the most radiant epochs of art, has spoken to us! That
I have seen him, have pressed his hand! It seems as if I had pressed the
hand of Nicolas Poussin!”
What a charming remark! To put the figure of a contemporary back into
the past, in order to range it there by one of those who shine
brightest, and then to be so moved at the very thought of physical
contact with this demi-god—could any homage be more touching?
Rodin continued: “Puvis de Chavannes did not like my bust of him, and it
was one of the bitter things of my career. He thought that I had
caricatured him. And yet I am certain that I have expressed in my
sculpture all the enthusiasm and veneration that I felt for him.”
The bust of Puvis made me think of that of Jean-Paul Laurens, which is
also in the Luxembourg.
A round head, the face mobile, enthusiastic, almost breathless—this is a
Southerner—something archaic and rude in the expression—eyes which seem
haunted by distant visions—it is the painter of half-savage epochs, when
men were robust and impetuous.
Rodin said: “Laurens is one of my oldest friends. I posed for one of the
Merovingian warriors who, in the decoration of the Pantheon, assist at
the death of Sainte-Geneviève. His affection for me has always been
faithful. It was he who got me the order for the _Bourgeois de Calais_.
Though it did not bring me much, because I delivered six figures in
bronze for the price they offered me for one, yet I owe him profound
gratitude for having spurred me to the creation of one of my best works.
[Illustration:
THE SCULPTOR FALGUIÈRE
By Rodin
]
“It was a great pleasure to me to do his bust. He reproached me in a
friendly way for having done him with his mouth open. I replied that,
from the design of his skull, he was probably descended from the ancient
Visigoths of Spain, and that this type was characterized by the
prominence of the lower jaw. But I do not know whether he agreed to the
justice of this ethnographical observation.”
At this moment I perceived a bust of Falguière. Fiery, eruptive
character, his face sown with wrinkles and bumps like a land ravaged by
storms, the moustaches of a grumbler, hair thick and short.
“He was a little bull,” said Rodin.
I noted the thickness of the neck, where the folds of skin almost formed
a dewlap, the square of forehead, the head bent and obstinate, ready for
a forward plunge. A little bull! Rodin often makes these comparisons
with the animal kingdom. Such a one, with his long neck and automatic
gestures, is a bird which pilfers right and left; such another, too
amiable, too coquettish is a King Charles spaniel, and so on. These
comparisons evidently facilitate the work of the mind which seeks to
class all physiognomies in general categories.
Rodin told me under what circumstances he knew Falguière.
“It was,” he said, “when the Société des Gens de Lettres refused my
Balzac. Falguière, to whom the order was then given, insisted on showing
me, by his friendship, that he did not at all agree with my detractors.
Actuated by sympathy I offered to do his bust. He considered it a great
success when it was finished—he even defended it, I know, against those
who criticised it in his presence; and, in his turn, he did my bust,
which is very fine.”
[Illustration:
STUDY HEAD, FOR THE STATUE OF BALZAC
By Rodin
Photograph reproduced by permission of the Metropolitan Museum of Art
]
[Illustration:
STUDY FOR A HEAD, PRESUMABLY MADAME R.
By Rodin
Photograph reproduced by permission of the Metropolitan Museum of Art
]
As I was turning away I caught sight of a copy in bronze of the bust of
Berthelot. Rodin made it only a year before the death of the great
chemist. The great scholar rests in the knowledge of his work
accomplished. He meditates. He is alone, face to face with himself;
alone, face to face with the crumbling of ancient faiths; alone before
nature, some of whose secrets he has penetrated, but which remains so
immensely mysterious; alone at the edge of the infinite abyss of the
skies; and his tormented brow, his lowered eyes, are filled with
melancholy. This fine head is like the emblem of modern intelligence,
which, satiated with knowledge, weary of thought, ends by demanding
“What is the use?”
All the busts which I had been admiring and about which my host had been
talking now grouped themselves in my mind, and they appeared to me as a
rich treasure of documents upon our epoch.
“If Houdon,” I said, “has written memoirs of the eighteenth century, you
have written those of the end of the nineteenth. Your style is more
harsh, more violent than that of your predecessor, your expressions are
less elegant, but more natural and more dramatic, if I may say so.
“The scepticism which in the eighteenth century was distinguished and
full of raillery has become, in you, rough and sharp. Houdon’s people
were more sociable, yours are more self-centred. Those of Houdon
criticised the abuses of a _régime_, yours seem to question the value of
human life itself and to feel the anguish of unrealized desires.”
Rodin answered, “I have done my best. I have not lied; I have never
flattered my contemporaries. My busts have often displeased because they
were always very sincere. They certainly have one merit—veracity. Let it
serve them for beauty!”