Camera Work: A Photographic Quarterly (1911 (Heft 34-35))

but like all men of importance he must pay the penalty of his greatness, for
few approach him unselfishly. Experience, however, has taught him to be care-
ful and an instinctive sympathy for truth in others helps to keep him from imposi-
tions, while it admits to his real existence all those who pass the period
of trial.
When first I met Rodin I felt him reading my soul. Nothing seemed
hidden from his occasional but searching scrutiny. It was an overwhelming
experience to be faced with his most famous, or again with his most subtle
creations, and asked point blank what I thought of them and what they meant
to me—overwhelming because I knew that the question sought a judgment
of me rather than of the marble. This testing attitude continued until one
Sunday morning at Meudon, while the master was showing us his works, one
of the concealing canvases, when removed, revealed the smooth outlines of
“Le Printemps Eternal,” the one thing of Rodin’s for which I had for various
reasons conceived a dislike. As if he felt my attitude of criticism, he turned
toward me and the question came. I yearned for escape. An evasion suggested
itself, but Rodin’s personality somehow made evasion seem an insult. There
was no other way, and with the fear of offending, perhaps with the greater fear
of talking nonsense, I blurted out the criticism I felt and the reason for it. A
meditative silence ensued at first, then Rodin excused himself—he wished to
go into the house, for a while to warm up, for it was a day of winter’s cold, most
of which seemed to have concentrated in the big glass studio. Soon he
returned and, coming over to me, gave me a little package, explaining : “Un
petit souvenir de votre visite.” It was a little plaster copy of the big bronze
“St. George,” and on the back of it was a dedication signed by “Votre ami,
A. Rodin.” I looked my thanks as we shook hands. Truth had made us
friends.
Once this feeling of mutual trust has been established, Rodin’s frankness
is the simplest, the most deeply touching, that could possibly exist, and though
with some of his friends separation and the lapse of time may allow doubt to
creep in once more, the association must always remain one of the dearest
memories in the lives of those to whom it has come. It recalls mornings of
earnest conversation in the festive little garden at Meudon, where the Greek
gods, the beautiful old Buddha, and more modern pieces of statuary, Rodin’s
own as a rule, suggest to the master rambling, illuminating discourses on arts
of bygone ages and the lessons which they ought to bring to the artist of today.
Or an elaborate bit of Gothic fretwork may set him off on the merits of the
great French cathedrals, and with the sun shining on the morsel in his hand,
he points out the secret of their mystery and charm, the marvellous handling
of light and shadow. Nothing is forced. Everything comes as the natural
ebullition of a constantly active mind. Nor is his attitude towards us one of
teacher toward disciples, but through a mysterious charm of manner, probably
also through the sincere modesty of Rodin’s personality, the relationship is
made that of a great man with his equals. By the implicit demands of his ego,
by the influence he tacitly exerts, we are raised beyond our real value and
become his worthy associates.
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