The residence of Rodin, the Hôtel Biron, is situated at the
extreme end of the rue de Varenne, in the Faubourg St. Germain.
The long straight street is lined on both sides with old mansions
that lend a distinctive nobility to this district of Paris. The
street is solemn, the quiet austere. Only rarely a carriage rumbles
by. Like the tide of a river, the air sweeps down this street from
the Boulevard des Invalides, which at its other end opens upon the
Esplanade des Invalides, like a great lake.
Now and then one catches glimpses of the spacious courts, the
steps, the peristyles, and the ornate, but at the same time simple,
pediments. Most of these mansions were, and many of them still are,
inhabited by families associated with the history of France.
The northern façade of the Hôtel Biron and the courtyard
through which one enters are hidden behind a high convent wall, for
in the nineteenth century the old residence of the Duc de Biron
was transformed into a religious school of the Sacred Heart. There
the daughters of the aristocracy were educated. In consequence of
the law of 1904 relating to the religious orders, the mansion was
vacated, and taken possession of by the state, which rented it in
apartments. Rodin, ever in search of old buildings, in which alone
he can think and work in comfort, soon became the main tenant.
To ring the bell one must reach high. With difficulty one
turns the handle of the door, which swings slowly. It is a portal
made for coaches to pass through. Under its monumental arch one
seems as insignificant as an insect. To the right of the court is
the old chapel of the religious community. Its somber character
stands out against the neighboring secular buildings. The cold
style of Charles X, in which it is built, forms a strange contrast
to the charming structure of Jacques Gabriel, the celebrated artist
who in the eighteenth century endowed Paris with many works of art,
among others this pavilion of the rue de Varenne, the Hôtel Biron.
Nevertheless, had it not been for Rodin, this building would have
been torn down.
It is a vast mansion, extremely simple, and built on the
lines of an elongated square. Its great charm is due wholly to its
correct proportions and to the grace and variety of its beautiful,
tall windows, some straight, others rounded, and surmounted by an
inconspicuous ornament, the signature of the artist. All of them
are enlivened by little squares of glass, which are to a window
what the facets are to a diamond.
The spacious vestibule is paved with black and white marble,
its ceiling supported by six strong columns. A charming stone
staircase rises here. All is in the style of Louis XV, a style that
is dignified when it is not delightfully elegant and coquettish.
The house was to be torn down, and sold as junk; but Rodin
was on guard. Ever since he had learned that this masterpiece was
condemned his heart had bled, and for the first and only time in
the course of his long existence an outside interest took him
from his work. He wrote letters, took legal steps, called to
his assistance artists, people of culture, and men in politics.
M. Clémenceau, then president of the cabinet; M. Briand, who
succeeded him; M. Gabriel Hanotaux, one of his great friends;
M. Dujardin-Beaumetz, under-secretary of state of fine arts,
all listened to his indefatigable pleading. Finally his plea was
heard, and the Hôtel Biron was classified as a historical monument,
henceforth inviolate. Then the speculators had to abandon their
idea of filling the park with hideous modern structures, and of
disfiguring in six months this unique Quartier des Invalides, to
construct which the architects had given years of work and all
their intelligence.
Rodin's admirers soon conceived the idea of converting the
Hôtel Biron into a museum for the master's works, which they
pledged themselves to defend with a tenacity equal to that which
Rodin had just displayed.
* * * * *
I knock at the door of the studio and rapidly pass through
two large rooms containing no furniture, only busts of bronze and
groups of marble. When I enter the study, Rodin is not here; I
glance about. All the details of this room are familiar to me, but
they always seem new, because everything is in harmony here, with a
harmony which varies according to the day and the hour.
It is a morning in spring. The bright light sheds its rays
on the various antiquities that the master has assembled here:
Empire chairs, with faded velvet coverings; a Louis XIV arm-chair
of gilded wood and cherry-colored silk, in which one might fancy
Molière seating himself to chat with Rodin, who, ever ready as he
is with a bit of raillery, would surely not have failed in repartee.
On a round table there is a Persian material, and some
Japanese vases filled with tulips and anemones. On the mantelpiece
are bronzes from the far East and a statuette of porcelain in
marvelous blues that Rodin calls his "Chinese Virgin." On the
walls, close together like the stones in a mosaic, are many of the
master's water-colors. Their well-chosen tones harmonize with and
intensify those of the flowers, the fabrics, and the ceramics of
bygone days.
Scattered pedestals support huge bronze busts, which call to
mind warriors of the Middle Ages, and some unfinished pieces. They
consist of small groups that, under the eye of the master, seem to
grow out of the white marble, and in the golden sunlight look as
soft as snow.
On this table, where Rodin takes his meals and writes, is a
Greek marble, a little torso without arms or legs; I know it well,
for he showed it to me while murmuring words of admiration. This is
his latest passion.
I enter the garden, where he is enjoying a moment of rest, for
he has been working a long while. Owing to his habits as a good
workman, he rises at five every morning.
I pass through one of the big doors which open upon the park.
The beautiful view always captivates me anew. The light, the air,
the expanse of sky, the magnificent groups of trees, this rustic
solitude in the heart of Paris, take one by surprise, inspire and
elevate the spirit. Rodin is here, smiling and in good humor.
We are on the terrace that overlooks the expanse of green
and forms a sort of slanting pedestal for the pavilion. Below
stretches a broad alley, almost an avenue, overgrown with a rich
carpet of grass and moss, which loses itself in the distant wood.
Fruit-trees, growing wild, form impenetrable screens on both sides
of this alley.
The grandeur of this park is largely due to the age of the
trees. Stepping to the edge of the balustrade, I can see toward the
right the dome of the Invalides, standing alone, outlined against
the sky, like a burgrave on guard under a helmet of gold.
[Illustration: RODIN PHOTOGRAPHED IN THE COURT OF THE HOTEL BIRON.]
The northern façade of the pavilion has a severe character.
It is the façade which visitors and passers-by see, and for this
an elegant simplicity suffices. But this other side, bathed in
the midday sun, is meant for friends. All the delicate splendor
that the architect conceived is expressed in these stones. This
sculptured pediment, this balcony with its console of flowers, and
the graceful windows, with their semicircular transoms, are models
of elegance. The Hôtel Biron is not large, but it is imposing. The
blockheads who inhabited it during the last century, blind to its
beauty, deaf to its appeal, demolished and sold the wrought-iron
balustrades of the windows, balconies, and staircases, but they
were not able, thank Heaven! to destroy its innate beauty.
"Let us go to work," said Rodin. I go back to the statues;
Rodin begins to draw. In a little while he will model. During his
hasty luncheon he has the little Greek torso placed before him, and
he makes notes all the while.
True genius is as changeable as nature. It finds as many ways
of expressing its ideals as it finds subjects. But what always
remains the same is the desire to be sincere. Yet the artist, with
the best of intentions, is often the victim of his own sincerity.
Rodin is no exception to this rule, for even he has had his
portraits rejected. "There is no resemblance!" people declare,
while, on the contrary, the resemblance is too true. With his keen
insight he penetrates too far beyond the mere flesh of the model.
People are frightened at seeing their hidden personality brought
to the light of day, are taken aback at being compelled to know
themselves. They consider the sculptor indiscreet and dangerous.
If, in his portraits of men, he pries to their very souls,
if he reveals without pity those of his own sex, his equals, his
companions in life's struggle, in his portraits of women he is
discreet and respectful. With delicacy he unfolds their delicate
mystery. He does not say anything which is not true, but frequently
he does not express the whole truth. Genius is ever in quiet
complicity with womanhood, and leaves it in that half-obscurity
which is its greatest power.
In the bust before us of Mrs. X---- , one wonders what he
refrained from expressing. Surely neither the unusual beauty of the
woman nor her air as of an archduchess.
I remember the day when I saw this bust for the first time.
It was in the Salon, placed at the head of a high staircase. The
marble was brilliant. Something regal and also lovable attracted
those who came toward it. Resplendent in beauty, the shoulders
emerge from the folds of a wrap with the proud grace of one who is
to the manor born. The small, well-shaped head, supported by the
plump, though delicate, neck, is half turned to the slightly raised
left shoulder. The hair is drawn up high to form a crown, throwing
forward some light strands that shed their soft shadows over the
forehead, like a thatching of moss. The beautiful eyebrows, too,
lend mystery to the glance of the eyes, so full of sweetness and
understanding. The small ear is partly hidden under the waves of
the well-groomed hair. The lines of delicate symmetry which run
from the chin to the ear, and from the ear to the shoulder, and the
coronet of hair, give the bust its distinguished look of race.
Here we see, too, the firmness of beautiful flesh, hardened by
exercise, radiating that spirit of joyous life that springs from
a thoroughly healthy body, as we feel it in some of the Tanagra
figurines. The quiet reserve which stamps the refined Anglo-Saxon
is revealed, but not overaccentuated. The nose is straight and
slightly raised at the tip, the mouth frank and regular. Those
same changing shadows which beautify flowers, when the sun strikes
them through the leaves of a tree, play over this countenance, and
bathe it in a variety of delicate tones from the eyes to the chin.
But beneath this placid beauty there is a restless soul eager to
act, to express its goodness. The chin and the throat retain their
look of youth, even of something childlike for those whom she
loves; but the thoughtful brow is slightly wrinkled, as if from the
intelligent search for happiness.
This bust, almost Greek in its simplicity, is one of the most
purely beautiful that has come from Rodin's hands.
When we note the facility with which these works are produced,
seemingly a natural growth, like vintage and harvest; when we
contemplate these fruits of knowledge, we are too apt to overlook
the laborious efforts involved, and to forget that a life has
been given, drop by drop, to achieve this result in small steps
of progress. Even when we know all this, we often prefer to give
the credit to external causes, which appeal more strongly to our
superficial minds, rather than to that endless patience that is,
and always will be, the secret of genius.
I watched Rodin model the head of Hanako, the Japanese
actress. He rapidly modeled the whole in the rough, as he does
all his busts. His keen eye and his experienced thumb enable him
to establish the exact dimensions at the first sitting. Then the
detailed work of modeling begins. The sculptor is not satisfied to
mold the mass in its apparent outlines only. With absolute accuracy
he slices off some clay, cuts off the head of the bust, and lays it
upside down on a cushion. He then makes his model lie on a couch.
Bent like a vivisector over his subject, he studies the
structure of the skull seen from above, the jaws viewed from below,
and the lines which join the head to the throat, and the nape of
the neck to the spine. Then he chisels the features with the point
of a pen-knife, bringing out the recesses of the eyelids, the
nostrils, the curves of the mouth. Yet for forty years Rodin was
accused of not knowing how to "finish"!
With great joy he said one day, "I achieved a thing to-day
which I had not previously attained so perfectly--the commissure of
the lips."
In making a bust Rodin takes numerous clay impressions,
according to the rate of progress. In this way he can revert to the
impression of the previous day, if the last pose was not good, or
if, in the language of the trade, "he has overworked his material."
Thus one may see five, six, or even eight similar heads in his
studio, each with a different expression.
Hanako did not pose like other people. Her features were
contracted in an expression of cold, terrible rage. She had the
look of a tiger, an expression thoroughly foreign to our Occidental
countenances. With the force of will which the Japanese display in
the face of death, Hanako was enabled to hold this look for hours.
Little by little, under the sculptor's fingers, the mask of
clay reflected all this. It cried out revenge without mercy, the
thirst, for blood. A baffling contrast this--the spirit of a wild
beast appearing on the human countenance.
I have one of these studies before me now. It has been cast
in a composition of colored glass, and the vivid flesh coloring
lends reality to the work. This mask is not disfigured by rage. The
bloodless head, with its fixed stare, lies on a white cushion, and
no one escapes its disquieting influence. Some people shudder
when they see it. "One might think it the head of a dead person,"
they say.
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF MRS. X----.]
Whenever I enter the spacious room I am irresistibly drawn
toward it. My feelings are different every time, but always there
is a feeling of uneasiness. I cannot say that it resembles death;
on the contrary, it is so lifelike that it is almost supernatural.
One might call it a condemned person, a being so terrified by the
approach of death that all the blood has rushed to the heart. It
is a spirit frozen with fear, the eyes looking toward the unknown,
the large nostrils scenting death. The bulging forehead, the high,
Mongolian cheek-bones, and the flat nose make the face still more
singular. All the lines of the face run toward the mouth, with its
remarkable expression. Obstinate, although conquered, it will draw
its last breath without a cry.
Meanwhile life seems to throb in every cell. This head, so
like a being that has been put to death, has the soft, pliant flesh
of a ripe fruit.
At night I return to look at it by the light of a candle.
It looks entirely different. The shadows vary as I move the
candle, and the features grow mobile. How gentle and touching it
seems now! It is no longer bloodthirsty and savage; that exotic
expression which repelled me has quite disappeared. These features,
expressing the innermost self under a stress of emotions, reveal a
poor creature that has loved and suffered. It is a pitiable face
that has been molded by life. I have seen that same sad, tired
expression of anguish in one whose whole strength is gone, but who
still makes an effort to understand misfortune in order to strive
against it. I have seen it on my mother's face when one of us was
ill.
* * * * *