SCULPTURE’S FORBIDDEN JOY—M. RODIN AT HOME
Zeyneb and Melek left Fontainebleau and travelled to Switzerland by
short stages; their first halting-place was Paris.
They stayed for a week in the gay capital, and during that time Melek
and I visited some of the principal churches and monuments.
“Sight-seeing” was what the Hanoums[6] then called “freedom.” To them
it meant being out of the cage; tasting those pleasures which for so
many years had been forbidden. Their lesson was yet to be learnt.
We went one afternoon to see M. Rodin. Rising, summer and winter, at a
very early hour, the sculptor had finished the greater part of his work
for the day when we arrived; the model was resting, and he was talking
with the students, who had come to discuss their difficulties with him.
To me this opportunity given to young talent of actually seeing a
master at work was such a happy idea, I made the remark to M. Rodin.
“If only those who succeed,” he said, “be it in the difficult
accomplishment of their daily task, or in the pursuit of some glorious
end, had the courage to speak of their continual efforts, their
struggles, and their suffering, what a glorious lesson in energy it
would be for those who were striving for a place amongst the workers.
“Those who have arrived should say to those who are starting: At each
corner, there is suffering; at each turning some fresh struggle begins,
and there is sorrow all the time. We who have conquered have passed by
that road, you can go no other way.
“But when once they have got to their destination, the successful men
are silent. And they who are still on the way get tired of the daily
toil, knowing not that they who have arrived, have had the very same
experience.”
[Illustration: LES DÉSENCHANTÉES
From a sketch by Auguste Rodin.]
Many beautiful works attracted our attention that afternoon, the most
striking being Mary Magdalene, in repentant anguish at the feet of
her Master, Jesus; the Prodigal Son with his hands clasped in useless
regret towards a wasted and ill-spent life. Then there was a nude (I
forget the name by which she will be immortalised), her wonderful arms
in a movement of supplication, so grand, that the Eastern woman and I
together stretched out our hands towards it in appreciation.
The sculptor saw our movement, understood and thanked us; a few moments
later, conscious of our action, we blushed. What had we done?
I, the Scotch puritan, had actually admired one of those beautiful
nudes before which we, as children, shut our eyes. But the Oriental?
“In my country these marble figures are not seen,” she explained, “‘the
face and form created by God must not be copied by man,’ said our
Prophet, and for centuries all good Moslems have obeyed this command.”
“Do you know the legend of the Prophet’s son-in-law Osman?” she said.
“No,” I answered, “please tell me.”
“One day, long, long ago,” related Melek, “when the followers of Christ
had left their church, Osman entered and broke all the sacred images
except one. Then when he had finished his work of destruction, he
placed his axe at the foot of the figure he had left intact.
“The next day, the Christians discovering what had happened, tried to
find the guilty person. Osman’s air of calm triumph betrayed him.
“‘What have you done?’ they cried, rushing towards him.
“‘Nothing,’ he answered, ‘I am innocent; it is your Divinity who has
destroyed everything.’
“‘Our Divinity cannot move.’
“‘If your Divinity is lifeless,’ answered Osman, ‘why do you pray to a
God of stone?’[7]
* * * * *
“In the Meandre valley in Asia,” went on Melek, “the sculptured heads
on the tombs are cursed. At Ephesus and Herapolis the Turcomans turn
away in horror from the faces that are engraven in marble; and never
are to be seen these Western pictures in stone, and statues erected to
the immortal memory of heroes.”
* * * * *
The two Hanoums left for Switzerland.