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.
 The Kiss

By Rodin

“That bust of a woman at the Musée du Luxembourg, perhaps the

most beautiful that you have carved, bows and vacillates as if the soul
were seized with giddiness upon plunging into the abyss of dreams.
“To sum it up, your busts often recall Rembrandt’s portraits, for
the Dutch master has also made plain this call of the infinite, by
lighting the brow of his personages by a light which falls from
above.”
“To compare me with Rembrandt, what sacrilege!” Rodin cried
quickly. “To Rembrandt, the Colossus of art! Think of it, my friend!
Let us bow before Rembrandt, and never set any one beside him!
“But you have concluded justly in observing in my works the
stirrings of the soul towards that kingdom, perhaps chimerical, of
unlimited truth and liberty. There, indeed, is the mystery that moves
me.” A moment later he asked: “Are you convinced now that art is a
kind of religion?”
 “Yes,” I answered.
Then he added, with some malice: “It is very necessary to
remember, however, that the first commandment of this religion, for
those who wish to practise it, is to know how to model a torso, an
arm, or a leg!”
Bust of Madame Morla Vicuna

By Rodin
 CHAPTER X
PHIDIAS AND MICHAEL ANGELO

O ne Saturday evening Rodin said to me, “Come and see me to-

morrow morning at Meudon. We will talk of Phidias and of
Michael Angelo, and I will model statuettes for you on the principles
of both. In that way you will quickly grasp the essential differences of
the two inspirations, or, to express it better, the opposed
characteristics which divide them.”
Phidias and Michael Angelo judged and commented upon by
Rodin! It is easy to imagine that I was exact to the hour of our
meeting.
The Master sat down before a marble table and clay was brought to
him. It was winter, and as the great atelier was unheated, I was afraid
that he might take cold. But the attendant to whom I suggested this
smiled as he answered, “Never, when he works.”
And my disquietude vanished when I saw the fever which seized
the Master when he began to knead the clay. He had asked me to sit
down beside him. Rolling balls of clay on the table, he began rapidly
to model a figure, talking at the same time.
“This first figure,” he said, “will be founded on the conception of
Phidias. When I pronounce that name I am really thinking of all
Greek sculpture, which found its highest expression in the genius of
Phidias.”
The clay figure was taking shape. Rodin’s hands came and went,
adding bits of clay; gathering it in his large palms, with swift,
accurate movements; then the thumb and the fingers took part,
turning a leg with a single pressure, rounding a hip, sloping a
shoulder, turning the head, and all with incredible swiftness, almost
as if he were performing a conjuring trick. Occasionally the Master
stopped a moment to study his work, reflected, decided, and then
rapidly executed his idea.
I have never seen any one work so fast: evidently sureness of mind
and eye ends by giving an ease to the hand of a great artist which can
only be compared to the adroitness of a juggler, or, to make a
comparison with a more honored profession, to the skill of a great
surgeon. And this facility, far from excluding precision and vigor,
involves them, and has, consequently, nothing whatever to do with a
superficial virtuosity.
While I drew these conclusions, Rodin’s statuette grew into life. It
was full of rhythm, one hand on the hip, the other arm falling
gracefully at her side and the head bent.
“I am not fatuous enough to believe that this quick sketch is as
beautiful as an antique,” the Master said, laughing, “but don’t you
find that it gives you a dim idea of it?”
“I could swear that it was the copy of a Greek marble,” I answered.
“Well, then, let us examine it and see from what this resemblance
arises. My statuette offers, from head to feet, four planes which are
alternatively opposed.
“The plane of the shoulders and chest leads towards the left
shoulder—the plane of the lower half of the body leads towards the
right side—the plane of the knees leads again towards the left knee,
for the knee of the right leg, which is bent, comes ahead of the other
—and finally, the foot of this same right leg is back of the left foot. So,
I repeat, you can note four directions in my figure which produce a
very gentle undulation through the whole body.
“This impression of tranquil charm is equally given by the balance
of the figure. A plumb-line through the middle of the neck would fall
on the inner ankle bone of the left foot, which bears all the weight of
the body. The other leg, on the contrary, is free—only its toes touch
the ground and so only furnish a supplementary support; it could be
lifted without disturbing the equilibrium. The pose is full of abandon
and of grace.
“There is another thing to notice. The upper part of the torso leans
to the side of the leg which supports the body. The left shoulder is,
thus, at a lower level than the other. But, as opposed to it, the left
hip, which supports the whole pose, is raised and salient. So, on this
side of the body the shoulder is nearer the hip, while on the other
side the right shoulder, which is raised, is separated from the right
hip, which is lowered. This recalls the movement of an accordion,
which closes on one side and opens on the other.
“This double balance of the shoulders and of the hips contributes
still more to the calm elegance of the whole.
“Now look at my statuette in profile.
“It is bent backwards; the back is hollowed and the chest slightly
expanded. In a word, the figure is convex and has the form of the
letter C.
“This form helps it to catch the light, which is distributed softly
over the torso and limbs and so adds to the general charm. Now the
different peculiarities which we see in this statuette may be noted in
nearly all antiques. Without doubt, there are numerous variations,
doubtless there are some derogations from these fundamental
principles; but in the Greek works you will always find most of the
characteristics which I have indicated.
“Now translate this technical system into spiritual terms; you will
then recognize that antique art signifies contentment, calm, grace,
balance, reason.” Rodin cast a glance at his figure. “I could carry it
further,” he said, “but it would be only to amuse us, because, as it
stands, it has sufficed me for my demonstration. The details,
moreover, would add very little to it. And now, by the way, an
important truth. When the planes of a figure are well placed, with
decision and intelligence, all is done, so to speak; the whole effect is
obtained; the refinements which come after might please the
spectator, but they are almost superfluous. This science of planes is
common to all great epochs; it is almost ignored to-day.”
Pushing aside the clay figure, he went on: “Now I will do you
another after Michael Angelo.”
He did not proceed at all in the same way as for the first. He
turned the two legs of the figure to the same side and the torso to the
opposite side. He bent the body forward; he folded one arm close
against the body and placed the other behind the head. The attitude
thus evoked offered a strange appearance of effort and of torture.
Rodin had fashioned this sketch as quickly as the preceding one, only
crushing his balls of clay with more vigor and putting almost frenzy
into the strokes of his thumb.
“There!” he cried. “What do you think of it?”
“I should take it for a copy of a Michael Angelo—or rather for a
replica of one of his works. What vigor, what tension of the muscles!”
“Now! Follow my explanation. Here, instead of four planes, you
have only two; one for the upper half of the statuette and the other,
opposed, for the lower half. This gives at once a sense of violence and
of constraint—and the result is a striking contrast to the calm of the
antiques.
“Both legs are bent, and consequently the weight of the body is
divided between the two instead of being borne exclusively by one.
So there is no repose here, but work for both the lower limbs.
“Besides, the hip corresponding to the leg which bears the lesser
weight is the one which is the more raised, which indicates that the
body is pushing this way.
“Nor is the torso less animated. Instead of resting quietly, as in the
antique, on the most prominent hip, it, on the contrary, raises the
shoulder on the same side so as to continue the movement of the hip.
 A Captive

By Michael Angelo

“Now note that the concentration of the effort places the two limbs
one against the other, and the two arms, one against the body and
the other against the head. In this way there is no space left between
the limbs and the body. You see none of those openings which,
resulting from the freedom with which the arms and legs were
placed, gave lightness to Greek sculpture. The art of Michael Angelo
created statues all of a size, in a block. He said himself that only
those statues were good which could be rolled from the top of a
mountain without breaking; and in his opinion all that was broken
off in such a fall was superfluous.
“His figures surely seem carved to meet this test; but it is certain
that not a single antique could have stood it; the greatest works of
Phidias, of Praxiteles, of Polycletus, of Scopas and of Lysippus would
have reached the foot of the hill in pieces.
“And that proves how a formula which may be profoundly true for
one artistic school may be false for another.
 “A last important characteristic of my statuette is that it is in the
form of a console; the knees constitute the lower protuberance; the
retreating chest represents the concavity, the bent head the upper
jutment of the console. The torso is thus arched forward instead of
backward as in antique art. It is that which produces here such deep
shadows in the hollow of the chest and beneath the legs.
“To sum it up, the greatest genius of modern times has celebrated
the epic of shadow, while the ancients celebrated that of light. And if
we now seek the spiritual significance of the technique of Michael
Angelo, as we did that of the Greeks, we shall find that his sculpture
expressed restless energy, the will to act without the hope of success
—in fine, the martyrdom of the creature tormented by unrealizable
aspirations.
 The Three Graces

By Raphael

“You know that Raphael, during one period of his life, tried to
imitate Michael Angelo. He did not succeed. He could not discover
the secret of the condensed passion of his rival. It was because he
was formed by the Greek school, as is proved by that divine trio of
the Graces at Chantilly, in which he copied an adorable antique
group at Siena. Without knowing it, he constantly returned to the
principles of the masters he preferred. Those of his figures in which
he wished to put most strength always kept the rhythm and gracious
balance of the Hellenic masterpieces.
“When I went to Italy myself, with my head full of the Greek
models which I had so passionately studied at the Louvre, I found
myself completely disconcerted before the Michael Angelos. They
constantly contradicted all those truths which I believed that I had
definitely acquired. ‘Look here,’ I said to myself, ‘why this
incurvation of the body, this raised hip, this lowered shoulder?’ I was
very much upset.
“And yet Michael Angelo could not have been mistaken! I had to
understand. I kept at it and I succeeded.
“To tell the truth, Michael Angelo does not, as is often contended,
hold a unique place in art. He is the culmination of all Gothic
thought. It is generally said that the Renaissance was the
resurrection of pagan rationalism and its victory over the mysticism
of the Middle Ages. This is only half true. The Christian spirit
continued to inspire a number of the artists of the Renaissance,
among others, Donatello, the painter Ghirlandajo, who was the
master of Michael Angelo, and Buonarotti himself.
“He is manifestly the descendant of the image-makers of the
thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. You constantly find in the
sculpture of the Middle Ages this form of the console to which I
called your attention. There you find this same restriction of the
chest, these limbs glued to the body, and this attitude of effort. There
you find above all a melancholy which regards life as a transitory
thing to which we must not cling.”
As I thanked my host for his precious instruction, he said: “We
must complete it one of these days by a visit to the Louvre. Don’t
forget to remind me.” At this moment a servant announced Anatole
France, whom Rodin was expecting. The master sculptor had invited
the great writer to come and admire his collection of antiques.
They formed a great contrast to each other. Anatole France is tall
and thin. His face is long and fine; his black eyes are set deep in their
sockets; his hands are delicate and slender; his gestures are vivacious
and emphasize all the play of his irony. Rodin is thick-set, he has
strong shoulders, his face is broad; his dreamy eyes, often half-
closed, open wide at times and disclose pupils of clear blue. His
beard gives him the look of one of Michael Angelo’s prophets. His
movements are slow and dignified. His large hands, with short
fingers, are strongly supple.
The one is the personification of deep and witty analysis, the other
of passion and strength.
The sculptor led us to his antiques, and the conversation naturally
returned to the subject which we had just been discussing.
 A Greek stele roused the admiration of Anatole France. It
represented a young woman seated. A man is gazing at her lovingly,
and behind her, bending over her shoulders, stands a serving-maid.
“How the Greeks loved life!” cried the author of Thaïs. “See!
Nothing on this funeral stone recalls death. The dead woman is here
amid the living, and seems still to take part in their existence. Only
she has become very weak, and as she can no longer stand she must
remain seated. It is one of the characteristics which designate the
dead on these antique monuments: their limbs being without
strength, they must lean upon a staff, or against a wall, or else sit
down.
“There is also another detail which frequently distinguishes them.
While the living who are figured around them all regard them with
tenderness, their own eyes wander far and rest on no one. They no
longer see those who see them. Yet they continue to live like beloved
invalids among those who cherish them. And this half-presence, this
half-absence, is the most touching expression of the regret which,
according to the ancients, the light of day inspired in the dead.”
Rodin’s collection of antiques is large and well chosen. He is
especially proud of a Hercules, whose vigorous slimness filled us
with enthusiasm. It is a statue which does not in the least resemble
the huge Farnese Hercules. It is marvellously graceful. The demi-
god, in all his proud youth, has a body and limbs of extreme
slenderness.
“This is indeed,” said our host, “the hero who outran the Arcadian
stag with the brazen hooves. The heavy athlete of Lysippus would not
have been capable of such a feat of prowess. Strength is often allied
to grace, and true grace is strong; a double truth of which this
Hercules is a proof. As you see, the son of Alcmene seems even more
robust because his body is harmoniously proportioned.”
Anatole France stopped before a charming little torso of a goddess.
“This,” he said, “is one of the numberless chaste Aphrodites which
were more or less free reproductions of Praxiteles’ masterpiece, the
Cnidian Venus. The Venus of the Capitol and the Venus di Medici
are, among others, only variations of this much-copied model.
“Among the Greeks, many excellent sculptors spent their skill in
imitating the work of some master who had preceded them. They
modified the general idea but slightly, and only showed their own
personality in the science of the execution. It would seem, besides,
that devotional zeal, becoming fond of a sculptural image, forbade
artists afterwards to change it. Religion fixes once and for all the
divine types that it adopts. We are astonished to find so many chaste
Venuses, so many crouching Venuses. We forget that these statues
were sacred. In a thousand or two thousand years they will exhume
in the same way numbers of statues of the Virgin of Lourdes, all
much alike, with a white robe, a rosary, and a blue girdle.”
“What a kindly religion this of the Greeks must have been,” I cried,
“which offered such charming forms to the adoration of its
worshippers!”
“It was beautiful,” Anatole France replied, “since it has left us these
Venuses; but do not believe that it was kindly. It was intolerant and
tyrannical, like all forms of pious fervor. In the name of these
Aphrodites of quivering flesh many noble souls were tortured. In the
name of Olympus the Athenians offered the cup of hemlock to
Socrates. And do you recall that verse of Lucretius:—
‘Tantum religio potuit suadere malorum!’

“You see, if the gods of antiquity are sympathetic to us to-day it is

because, fallen, they can no longer harm us.”
 CHAPTER XI
AT THE LOUVRE

S everal days later, Rodin, putting his promise into execution,

asked me to accompany him to the Musée du Louvre.
We were no sooner before the antiques than he showed by his
happy air that he was among old friends.
“How many times,” he said, “have I come here when I was not
more than fifteen years old! I had a violent longing at first to be a
painter. Color attracted me. I often went upstairs to admire the
Titians and Rembrandts. But, alas! I hadn’t enough money to buy
canvases and tubes of color. To copy the antiques, on the contrary, I
needed only paper and pencils. So I was forced to work in the lower
rooms, and there such a passion for sculpture seized me that I could
think of nothing else.”
As I listened to Rodin while he told of his long study of the
antique, I thought of the injustice done him by those false classicists
who have accused him of being an insurgent against tradition.
Tradition! It is this pretended revolutionary who, in our own day, has
known it best and respected it most!
He led me to the room full of casts and, pointing out the
Diadumenes by Polycletus, the original of which is in the British
Museum, he said: “You can observe here the four directions that I
indicated the other day in my clay statuette. Just examine the left
side of this statue: the shoulder is slightly forward, the hip is back;
again the knee is forward, the foot is back; and thence a gentle
undulation of the whole results.
 Diadumenes

By Polyclitus

“Now notice the balance of the levels—the level of the shoulders

lower towards the right, the level of the hips lower towards the left.
Note that the plumb-line passing through the neck falls on the inner
ankle bone of the right foot; note the free poise of the left leg. Finally,
view in profile the convexity of the back of the statue, in form like a
C.”
Rodin repeated this demonstration with a number of other
antiques. Leaving the casts, he led me to the wonderful torso of
Periboëtos by Praxiteles.
“Here the direction of the shoulders is towards the left, direction of
the hips towards the right—level of the right shoulder higher, level of
the left hip higher.” Then, passing to less theoretic impressions:
“How charming!” he cried. “This young torso, without a head, seems
to smile at the light and at the spring, better than eyes and lips could
do.” Then we reached the Venus of Milo.
 “Behold the marvel of marvels! Here you find an exquisite rhythm
very like that in the statue which we have been admiring; but
something of thought as well; for here we no longer find the form of
the C; on the contrary, the body of this goddess bends slightly
forward as in Christian sculpture. Yet there is nothing restless or
tormented here. This work is the expression of the greatest antique
inspiration; it is voluptuousness regulated by restraint; it is the joy of
life cadenced, moderated by reason.
“Such masterpieces affect me strangely. They bring vividly before
my mind the atmosphere and the country where they had birth. I see
the young Greeks, their brown hair crowned with violets and the
maidens with floating tunics as they pass to offer sacrifice to the gods
in those temples whose lines were pure and majestic, whose marble
had the warm transparency of flesh. I imagine the philosophers
walking in the outskirts of the town, conversing upon beauty, close to
some old altar which recalls to them the earthly adventure of some
god. The birds sing amidst the ivy, in the great plane-trees, in the
bushes of laurel and of myrtle, and the brooks shine beneath the
serene blue sky, which domes this sensuous and peaceful land.”
 Venus of Milo

An instant later we were before the Victory of Samothrace.

“Place it, in your mind, upon a golden shore, whence, beneath the
olive branches, you may see the blue and shining sea cradling its
white islands! Antique marbles need the full light of day. In our
museums they are deadened by too heavy shadows. The reflection of
the sun-bathed earth and of the Mediterranean aureoled them with
dazzling splendor. Their Victory—it was their Liberty—how it differs
from ours! She did not gather back her robe to leap barriers; she was
clothed in fine linen, not in coarse cloth; her marvellous body in its
beauty was not formed for daily tasks; her movements, though
vigorous, were always harmoniously balanced.
“In truth she was the Liberty not of the whole world, but only of
the intellectually elect. The philosophers contemplated her with
delight. But the conquered, the slaves who were beaten in her name,
had no love for her.
“That was the fault of the Hellenic ideal. The Beauty conceived by
the Greeks was the order dreamed of by intelligence, but she only
appealed to the cultivated mind; she disdained the humble; she had
no tenderness for the broken; she did not know that in every heart
there is a ray of heaven.
“She was tyrannous to all who were not capable of high thought;
she inspired Aristotle to an apology for slavery; she admitted only the
perfection of form and she did not know that the expression of the
most abject creature may be sublime. She destroyed the malformed
children.
 The Victory of Samothrace

“But this very order which the philosophers extolled was too
limited. They had imagined it according to their desires and not as it
exists in the vast universe. They had arranged it according to their
human geometry. They figured the world as limited by a great crystal
sphere; they feared the unlimited. They also feared progress.
According to them creation had never been as beautiful as, at its
birth, when nothing had yet troubled its primitive balance. Since
then all had continually grown worse; each day a little more
confusion had made its way into the universal order. The age of gold
which we glimpse on the horizon of the future they placed behind
them in the remoteness of time.
“So this passion for order betrayed them. Order reigns without
doubt in the immensity of nature, but it is much more complex than
man in the first efforts of his reason can represent it—and besides, it
is eternally changing.
“Yet sculpture was never more radiant than when it was inspired
by this narrow order. It was because that calm beauty could find
entire expression in the serenity of transparent marbles; it was
because there was perfect accord between the thought and the matter
that it animated. The modern spirit, on the contrary, upsets and
breaks all forms in which it takes body.
“No; no artist will ever surpass Phidias—for progress exists in the
world, but not in art. The greatest of sculptors who appeared at a
time when the whole human dream could blossom in the pediment
of a temple will remain for ever without an equal.”
We passed on to the room which holds the work of Michael
Angelo. To reach it we crossed that of Jean Goujon and of Germain
Pilon.
“Your elder brothers,” I said.
“I should like to think so,” Rodin answered with a sigh. We were
now before the Captives, by Michael Angelo. We first looked at the
one on the right, which is seen in profile. “Look! only two great
planes. The legs to one side, the body to the opposite side. This gives
great strength to the attitude. No balance of levels. The right hip is
the higher, and the right shoulder is also higher. So the movement
acquires amplitude. Observe the line of plumb—it falls not on one
foot, but between the two; so both legs bear the body and seem to
make an effort.
 A Captive

By Michael Angelo

“Let us consider, finally, the general aspect. It is that of a console;

the bent legs project, the retreating chest forms a hollow. It is the
confirmation of what I demonstrated in my studio with the clay
model.”
Then, turning towards the other captive: “Here again the form of
the console is designed, not by the retreating chest, but by the raised
elbow, which hangs forward. As I have already told you, this
particular silhouette is that of all the statuary of the Middle Ages.
“You find this form of the console in the Virgin seated leaning over
her child; in the Christ nailed on the cross, the legs bent, the body
bowed towards the men whom His suffering would redeem; in the
Mater Dolorosa who bends above the body of her Son.
“Michael Angelo, I repeat, is only the last and greatest of the
Gothics.
“The soul thrown back upon itself, suffering, disgust of life,
contention against the bonds of matter—such are the elements of his
inspiration.
“The captives are held by bonds so weak that it seems easy to break
them. But the sculptor wished to show that their bondage is, above
all, a moral one. For, although he has represented in these figures the
provinces conquered by Pope Julius II., he has given them a
symbolic value. Each one of his prisoners is the human soul which
would burst the bounds of its corporeal envelope in order to possess
unlimited liberty. Look at the captive on the right. He has the face of
Beethoven. Michael Angelo has divined the features of that most
unhappy of great musicians.
“His whole existence proved that he was himself frightfully
tortured by melancholy. ‘Why do we hope for more of life and of
pleasure?’ he said in one of his most beautiful sonnets. ‘Earthly joy
harms us even more than it delights.’ And in another verse, ‘He who
dies soon after birth enjoys the happiest fate!’
“All his statues are so constrained by agony that they seem to wish
to break themselves. They all seem ready to succumb to the pressure
of despair which fills them. When Michael Angelo was old he actually
broke them. Art did not content him. He wanted infinity. ‘Neither
painting nor sculpture,’ he writes, ‘can charm the soul turned
towards that divine love which, upon the cross, opens its arms to
receive us.’ These are also the exact words of the great mystic who
wrote the Imitation of Jesus Christ: ‘The highest wisdom is to reach
the kingdom of heaven through contempt of the world. It is vanity to
cling to what is but passing and not to hasten towards that joy which
is without end.’”
There was silence for a time, then Rodin spoke his thought: “I
remember being in the Duomo at Florence and regarding with
profound emotion that Pietà by Michael Angelo. The masterpiece,
which is ordinarily in shadow, was lighted at the moment by a candle
in a silver candlestick. And a beautiful child, a chorister, approached
the candlestick, which was as tall as himself, drew it towards him,
and blew out the light. I could no longer see the marvellous
sculpture. And this child appeared to figure to me the genius of
Death, which puts an end to life. I have kept that precious picture in
my heart.”
He paused, then went on: “If I may speak of myself a little, I will
tell you that I have oscillated all my life between the two great
tendencies of sculpture, between the conception of Phidias and that
of Michael Angelo.
“I began by following the antique, but when I went to Italy I was
carried away by the great Florentine master, and my work has
certainly felt the effects of this passion.
“Since then, especially more of late years, I have returned to the
antique.
 La Pietà

By Michael Angelo

“The favorite themes of Michael Angelo, the depths of the human

soul, the sanctity of effort and of suffering, have an austere grandeur.
But I do not feel his contempt of life. Earthly activity, imperfect as it
may be, is still beautiful and good. Let us love life for the very effort
which it exacts.
“As for me, I ceaselessly endeavor to render my outlook on nature
ever more calm, more just. We should strive to attain serenity.
Enough of Christian anxiety, in the face of the great mystery, will
always remain in us all.”
 ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE

By Rodin

Photogravure reproduced by
permission of the Metropolitan
Museum of Art
 CHAPTER XII
ON THE USEFULNESS OF THE ARTIST
 I

T he day before the vernissage (varnishing day), I met Auguste

Rodin at the Salon de la Société Nationale in Paris. He was
accompanied by two of his pupils, themselves past-masters: the
sculptor Bourdelle, who was this year exhibiting a fierce Hercules
piercing the Stymphalian birds with his arrows, and Despiau, who
models exquisitely clever busts.
All three had stopped before a figure of the god Pan, which
Bourdelle had whimsically carved in the likeness of Rodin, and the
creator of the work was excusing himself for the two small horns
which he had set upon the master’s forehead.
“You had to do it,” Rodin replied, laughing, “because you are
representing Pan. Michael Angelo gave just such horns to his Moses.
They are the emblem of omnipotence and omniscience, and I assure
you that I am flattered to have been so favored by your attentions.”
As it was now noon, Rodin invited us all three to lunch with him
somewhere in the neighborhood.
We passed out into the Avenue des Champs Élysées, where
beneath the crude young green of the chestnut-trees the motors and
carriages slipped by in shining files, all the brilliance of Parisian life
flashing here from its brightest and most fascinating setting.
“Where are we going to lunch?” Bourdelle asked, pausing with
comical anxiety. “In the big restaurants about here we shall be waited
upon by solemn men-servants in dress-coats, which I cannot bear.
They frighten me. I advise some quiet little restaurant where the
cabbies go.”
 La France

By Rodin

Presented to the people of the

United States of America by the
French nation for the base of the
Champlain Monument at Crown
Point

“The food is really better there than in these gorgeous places,”

Despiau declared. “Here the food is too sophisticated.”
He had expressed Bourdelle’s secret thought; for Bourdelle, in
spite of his pretended modesty, is a gourmand.
Rodin agreeing, allowed them to lead him to a little eating-house
hidden in a side-street off the Champs Élysées, where we chose a
quiet corner and installed ourselves comfortably.
Despiau, who has a lively disposition, began teasing Bourdelle.
“Help yourself, Bourdelle,” he said, passing him a dish, “though you
know you don’t deserve to be fed, because you are an artist—that is to
say, of no use to any one.”
 “I pardon you this impertinence,” Bourdelle answered, “because
you take half for yourself.” He began gayly, but ended in a
momentary crisis of pessimism, as he added: “But I won’t contradict
you. It is true that we are good for nothing. When I think of my
father, who was a stonecutter, I say to myself, ‘His work was
necessary to society. He prepared the building materials for men’s
houses.’ I can see him now, good old man, conscientiously sawing his
blocks of freestone, winter and summer, in the open workshop. His
was a rugged type such as we do not see nowadays. But I—but we—
what service do we render to our kind? We are jugglers,
mountebanks, dreamers, who amuse the people in the market-place.
They scarcely deign to take an interest in our efforts. Few people are
capable of understanding them. And I do not know whether we really
deserve their good-will, for the world could very well get on without
us.”