Rodin's busts of women are perhaps the most charming part of
his work. But to say this is almost a sacrilege, an affront to the
grace of the small groups that, in this giant's work, swarm about
the superior figures. But we need not search too far into this or
yield to the pedantic mania for classifying to death. Let us rather
look at them without transforming the joy of admiration into the
labor of cataloguing, and give ourselves up wholly to the pleasure
of seeing and understanding.
Yes, these portraits of women are the graceful aspect of this
work of power. They are the achievements of a force which knows
its own strength, and here relaxes in caresses. If some among them
disturb the spirit, most of them shed upon us a calm enjoyment,
the delightful security that one breathes among all-powerful
beings that wish to be gracious. They allay the sense of unrest
aroused in us by those dramas in marble and bronze which a powerful
intellect has conceived--that mind from which sprang "The Burghers
of Calais," the two monuments to Victor Hugo, "The Tower of Labor,"
that imagination, glowing like a forge, which produced "The Gate of
Hell," the Sarmiento monument, the statue of Balzac.
Here Rodin's art extends to the utmost confines of grace. He
has contrived to discover the most delicate secrets of nature.
He models the petals of the lips just as nature curls the frail
substance of the rose-leaf. By imperceptible gradations he
attaches the delicate membranes of the eyelids to the angle of
the temples just as nature in springtime attaches the leaves to the
rough bark of trees.
[Illustration: THE BROKEN LILY.]
Great thinkers never cease to be moved by the charm of
weakness. The "eternal feminine" is just that, the power of grace
over the manly soul. The strongest feel this attraction most, are
most possessed with the desire of expressing it. I am thinking of
Homer, Leonardo da Vinci, Shakspere, Balzac, Wagner, and Rodin in
saying this. They have created a feminine world, the figures of
which, lovingly copied from living models, become models in turn.
They haunt thousands of souls, fashion them in their image. In her
complicated ways, Nature avails herself of the artist to modify the
human type.
We have some terra-cotta figures of Rodin, modeled when he was
between twenty-five and thirty, while working at the manufactory
at Sèvres, in the studio of Carrier-Belleuse, that accomplished
sculptor. They are charming little busts, with the perfume of
the eighteenth century breathing from them, treated a little in
the manner of Carpeaux, with the velvety shadow of their black
eyes on their sparkling faces. One of them, now in a private
gallery in New York, has a hat on its head, coquettish, tender,
innocently provocative; it is full of Parisian allurement because
it is characteristically French. One can find its kindred among
certain Renaissance figures, and even among the mischievous faces
of Gothic angels. With all this there is that ephemeral prettiness
which is called "fashion," that caprice of styles which does for
the adornment of cities what the flowers of the field do for the
country.
If Rodin had pursued his path in this direction, he would have
been a portrait-sculptor of great taste, and would doubtless have
attained celebrity sooner, but a celebrity which is not glory. At
that time he was chiefly concerned with copying the features of his
models with all the sensitiveness of his admiration; he did not yet
attempt those large effects of light and shade which were to become
the object of his whole career, and are so still. He has made the
religion of progress his own by reflective study. Progress is for
him the chief condition of happiness. Present-day philosophies
commonly put it in doubt; but if happiness exists, it is surely
in the soul of the artist. But it is recognized with difficulty
because it is called by an equivocal name, the ideal.
Let us look at the "Portrait of the Artist's Wife." Here, in
this noble effigy, this severe image with its lowered eyelids, the
artist passes beyond the promise of his first period. The face,
rather wide at the cheek-bones, lengthens toward the chin, where
the sorrowful mouth reigns. It expresses melancholy, gravity,
dignity, Christian charity. It is rather masculine, and seems less
youthful than the original was at the time. It is as if the artist
had sought to bring out the character by conscientious modeling,
without any softening; all the features are underlined, as on
a face that has attained a ripe age. He had not yet discovered
the art of softening his surfaces, of blending them in a general
tonality, and of obtaining that softness, that flesh quality, with
all the shades of youth, which touches the heart in his more recent
busts.
Even then he did know, however, how to gather under the
boldly molded superciliary arch of the brows the diffused shadows
which, in the future, were to lend mystery and distance to most
of his portraits. This mask is all that remains of a standing
figure dressed in the manner of Gothic figures. Rodin was then
living in Brussels, still young, poor, and unknown, but happy.
He tasted the perfect happiness of long days of absorbing labor,
of that enthusiasm for work which nothing disturbs. To-day he
sometimes yearns for those years free from the never-ceasing bustle
of a celebrated man's existence, a giant assailed by a thousand
pin-pricks. Yet his poverty was excessive, for the beautiful
statue, modeled during successive months with much love, fell to
pieces. For want of money, the sculptor had not been able to have
it cast.
Among his women's busts, one of the most famous and one which
remains among the most beautiful is that of Madame Morla Vicuñha.
It dates back about twenty-five years, but it is resplendent in
eternal youth. Since then Rodin has added to his knowledge and
experience. He has made personal discoveries in the plastic art.
He has become the master of color in sculpture. Nevertheless, this
portrait, as it stands, remains an adorable masterpiece. Who that
has looked at its softly gleaming marble in the Luxembourg has not
been overcome by a long dream of tenderness, of uneasy curiosity?
Who has not hoped to make this woman speak, to press her heart in
order to draw from her a confession of her desires, the secret of
her happiness and her melancholy?
It is more than a bust, it is woman herself. Because the
beautiful shoulder slips tremulously from the heavy mouth, which
lies against the smooth, polished flesh; because this shoulder
rises again toward the head, slightly bent and inclined, as if to
draw toward it some loved one; because the neck swells like that of
a dove, and the head is stretched forward to offer a kiss, we seem
to catch a glimpse of the whole body and its delicate curves. It is
a beautiful bust. I should like to see it alone in a room hung with
dim tapestries, drawing forth its charm like a long sigh, which
nothing should disturb. This masterpiece demands the distinction of
solitude.
How beautifully modeled the head is in its firm delicacy!
The framework of the narrow skull appears under the texture of
hair fastened over it like a rich handkerchief. We can almost see
the impatient hand, trembling with feeling, that has twisted the
firm knot under the nape of the neck. Everywhere, level with the
temples, at the bridge of the nose,--the aquiline nose marking the
Spaniard of race,--this bony framework stands out. The face catches
a feverish character from it, tortured by the longing for intimate
expression, and reveals a being with whom happiness borders closely
upon sorrow. The nostrils tremble as if to the perfume of the
flowers pressed voluptuously against the warm bosom. The mouth
is at once mobile and firm, and all the curves of the features
converge toward it--toward the kiss which causes it to swell softly.
The light steals gently into every line and fold of the face.
It borders the eyelids, glides under the brows, outlines the bridge
of the nose and the nostrils, emphasizes the opposed arches of
the lips. It spreads like a spring, separating into a thousand
streams. It is a network, like the tracery of the woman's nerves
made visible. It is as if the sculptor and the light had begun a
dialogue--a dialogue kept up with endless graces and coquetries.
He contradicts it, refutes it; it escapes, returns. He gathers it
up, as if to force it into the sinuous folds of the figure. Again
it flees, and then, summoned back, it returns cautiously, and at
last bathes the statue in generous caresses.
This bust will live. In its enigmatic grace it will become
more and more the expression of the woman who loves, just as "La
Gioconda" ("Mona Lisa") is the expression of the woman who is
loved. The one is all instinct, the other all spirit. The one
offers herself; the other promises herself. The one is tenderness
directed toward the past; the other smiles toward the future.
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF MADAME MORIA VICUÑHA.]
In the same gallery of the Luxembourg, there is that other
famous head called "La Pensée." What a contrast! It is strangely
bound within a block of marble, placed like a living head on a
block. And yet it tells only of the slightly resigned calm of
meditation, or of melancholy, without bitterness, of long autumn
days, with their diffused brilliancy. The outlines are firm,
regular, placid, of remarkable moderation in their distinction. The
head leans forward, because thought is a weighty matter. The brow
and the eyes are the dominant features. On them the sculptor has
focused all the light not only in the high lights, but in the still
surface as well.
The caprice of the artist has covered this head with a light
peasant-cap. This hides the details of the hair, and concentrates
the glance on the face. "Caprice" expresses the idea badly, for
it is taste and the will of the artist that have directed all.
These dreamy features express the practical mysticism of women,
the effort of intelligent devotion. It makes one think of St.
Geneviève, of Jeanne d'Arc, of the overwhelming courage of a weak
being carried beyond and out of herself by a great purpose.
"La Pensée" has the striking character that almost all the
busts of Rodin assume in the future, and which they owe on the
one hand to their intense lifelikeness, and on the other to the
atmosphere with which the sculptor surrounds them. There are no
hard-and-fast limits which separate them from the circumambient
air; on the contrary, they are bathed in it. The "blacks," which
give a hard, dry look when used to excess, are handled marvelously.
The women's busts, especially, almost start up before us with this
slightly fantastic look of life increased tenfold, with the charm
of phantoms of marble, monumental, and yet as light as beautiful
mists.
These effects of light and shadow perhaps harmonize best with
the softness and delicacy of the feminine flesh. They convey to us
naturally the mystery of an inner life more secret, more intimate
than that of man.
Even with works that are similar, the public does not
recognize their common origin. It sees the result of an
extraordinary amount of observation and intelligence, yet it does
not reflect more than a child. For the public the sculptor, whoever
he may be, is a creature of instinct, with a trained eye and hand,
but without mind and culture. He is a sculptor, that is all. A
common proverb strengthens the belief in this lasting folly. It
may be told, then, that the master with whom we are here dealing
studies his models not only as a sculptor, but as a writer studies;
that often his hand drops the chisel for the pencil, in order to
set down his observation more exactly, to search even further into
nature.
Perhaps the public will at last grasp the fact that the true
artist, under penalty of ceasing to be one, must, above all, expend
an amount of attention of which other men are incapable, and that
it is by this power of attention that the strength of intelligence
is measured. For example, Rodin is facing his model, a young
woman stretched out in an attitude of repose. He writes, and in
his style we find all the power of the great draftsman. He marks
the outlines, he specifies the details, slowly, patiently, with
pertinacity. He never confuses the impression, always so ready to
elude one--the impression, the divine reward of the artist.
* * * * *
The dazzling splendor revealed to the artist by the model that divests
herself of her clothes has the effect of the sun piercing the clouds.
Venus, Eve, these are feeble terms to express the beauty of women.
The head leans to one side, the torso to the other, both inclining
indolently, gracefully. This body has been glorified. The contours
flow, descend, repose, like immortality personified. The breasts follow
the same curve. The flowing lines are all in the same direction.
Unchangeable, heaving above the half-opened screen of the dress, the
breath scarcely lifts them. It does not stir or agitate them.
The beautiful human monument is balanced in repose. It is unassailable.
It is the gradation of contours.
I do not draw them, but I see them in place, and my spirit is content,
accustoms itself to the impression. In memory I still make drawings of
this model, and these moving lines are repetitions, done over again a
hundred times; for I repeat the drawing constantly, like a caress.
This torso resigns itself, like an Ariadne whose contours melt away in
the evening, in the dark. But the lightning of day has flashed there.
It is there always. It is now the pale gleam of flesh. My mind, carried
along, takes this form as its model.
The hand, the arm, support the head, the sidelong glance from which
is so full of sweetness. One might call it a "Mona Lisa" reposing.
This head feels the need of resting on the supporting hand, a delicate
support like the handle of a vase. Like an urn about to pour out its
water, its thought, it inclines.
Lying back on the cushion, the head is in high relief. The features are
placed according to their due regard, which is the very soul of balance.
It has made the eyes symmetrical; the eyebrows straight; the nose, where
beauty and symmetry meet, expressive of a wholesome conformity.
When a woman is very beautiful, she has the head of a lion. From the
lion is copied that splendid regularity of the eyes, which the oval of
the face accentuates. The tawny mane is also lion-like in its regularity
and majesty, without any other expression.
Arches are formed without effort of all the parts of the eye. The hinges
of the eyes open and close. The open mouth keeps back neither the
thoughts nor the words that have been spoken. There is no need for her
to speak. Her age, her thoughts, all is a confession here--the features,
the arch of the frank, noble mouth, as well as the form of the nose and
the sensitive nostrils.
And this infantile glance under a woman's eyelid! Our soul demands
that, by an agreement with the heavens, the feminine glance should be
celestial.
[Illustration: LA PENSÉE.]
How I bathe in the calm beauty of these eyes, with their regular
drawing! How they themselves declare their tranquil joy! Sometimes eyes
like these seem to be inhabited by spirits. They close, and I see the
horizontal lashes, the lower lid, which just rests against the upper. I
see as a whole the soft oval of these long eyes, the double circle of
the lids themselves, and the circle beneath, so modest now, but which
one calls the circle of love.
The eyeball in moving shows the clear pupil, and all about it press the
circles of the delicate lids. The soul finds a refuge in these secret
hiding-places, and throws out its circles of attraction like a lasso.
This sensuous soul is the soul of beautiful portraits.
The cheeks curve against the socket of the eye; the double arch of the
brows prolongs itself behind them. The surface of the cheeks extends to
the extremity of the nose, forms a double depression by the sinking of
the cheek, which grows hollow toward the convex lip, and surrounds the
mouth and the two lips. These facial lines and surfaces all stop at the
chin, toward which all the curves converge.
The facial expressions proceed from, spread, and move in another circle.
They all disappear in the cheeks, just as do the movements of the mouth.
One curve passes down from the ear to the mouth; a small curve draws
back the mouth and also the nose a little. A circle passes under the
nose, the chin, to the cheekbones; a deep curve, which starts back to
the cheekbone, cuts in a small hollow to the eyebrow. The features are
distinct; but when they move, they merge into one another. The smile
passes over the face by a circle defining the mouth. The edge of the
mouth is defined by a mezzotint at the point of union.
The loose hair surrounds the cheek, and the head seems like a golden
fleece on a distaff. It hangs like loosened garlands. How beautifully
these garlands of hair are arranged, with the profile in a three-quarter
view, standing out against the fine, tawny hair! The impressive harmony
between the flesh and the hair! They seem altogether in accord; they
lend each other languor and charm; they are united and separated at the
same time. These drooping clusters of chestnut-blond hair are a frame.
One might call them long flowers hanging from the edge of a vase.
The neck no longer holds erect the head, which moves in ecstasy. It
drowns itself in the wavy flow of hair, which becomes undone at the
moment. This inundation of hair, so to speak, what a generalized
expression of opulence it is! Before its beauty I feel imbued with
love. I am seized with enthusiasm, aflame with it. This gold, this dull
copper, is like a field of grain, a field of corn, where the sheaves are
of gold bound together. These sheaves, slightly disordered in their
lengthening curves, turning in all directions, imitate the tone of
subdued flesh tints.
In this veil, transparent and colored like a dead leaf, the ear is
hidden in shadow, where the hair flies back at random in strands, twists
about, and returns.
O head, beautiful ornament, drooping against the edge of the couch like
a lovely motive in architecture at the edge of a console, you express
the prolonged weakness of a lovely languor! The shoulder extends its
beautiful curve before the face, resting on its side; the line rises,
passes near the nose, descends, and shows the red line of the mouth,
just as the bees continually enter and go out of the opening of the
hive. The face turns, but the eye returns to me, passes by me, and again
gazes upon me.
In it there is the softness of the dog's eye, a spirit which becomes
motionless when the tyranny of passion has disappeared. When passion is
in control, she sucks like a vampire that delicate flesh, which is the
model of calm, the exquisite remainder of calm.
This crown of beauty is not made for one woman alone, but for all women.
They do not know it, and yet all in turn attain this beauty, as a fruit
ripens. This calm is more potent in them than in the most beautiful
statues. They are unaware of it, and the men who are near them are
unaware of it also. They have not been taught to admire. They have not
been educated in the science of admiration.
When, in the galleries of the Louvre, magnificent rooms where are
gathered the collections of antiques, day enters through the windows
and lightly touches these beautiful sculptures which are the adornment
of great palaces, do they understand any better? Do they realize the
collaboration between the sculptor and the light?
[Illustration: HOTEL BIRON. VIEW FROM THE GARDEN.]