To Mademoiselle Jacques
“MY DEAR THÉRÈSE:
“Since you permit me not to call you mademoiselle, let me tell you an important piece of news in the world of art, as our friend Bernard says. Ah! there’s a rhyme;1 but what I am going to tell you has neither rhyme nor reason.
“Fancy that yesterday, after boring you with my visit, I found, on returning to my rooms, an English milord (by the way, perhaps he isn’t a milord; but he surely is an Englishman), who said to me in his dialect:
“‘Are you a painter?’
“‘Yes, milord.’
“‘You paint faces?’
“‘Yes, milord.’
“‘And the hands?’
“‘Yes, milord; also the feet.’
“‘Good!’
“‘Very good!’
“‘Oh! I am sure of it! well, would you like to paint my portrait?’
“‘Yours?’
“‘Why not?’
“The why not was said with so much good humor, that I ceased to take him for an idiot, especially as this son of Albion is a magnificent man. He has the head of an Antinous on the shoulders of—well, of an Englishman; he is a Greek type of the best epoch on the bust, somewhat strangely dressed and cravatted, of a perfect specimen of Britannic fashion.
“‘Faith!’ said I, ‘you are a fine model, that is sure, and I should like to make a study of you for my own benefit; but I cannot paint your portrait.’
“‘Why not, pray?’
“‘Because I am not a portrait-painter.’
“‘Oh! Do you pay here in France for a license to practise this or that specialty in art?’
“‘No; but the public doesn’t permit us to follow more than one branch. They insist upon knowing what to expect, especially when we are young; and if I who am speaking, and who am very young, should have the ill-luck to paint a good portrait of you, I should find it very difficult to succeed at the next Exposition with anything but portraits; and, in like manner, if I made only a moderately good one, I should be forbidden ever to try another: the public would pass judgment to the effect that I had not the essential qualities of a portrait-painter, and that I was a presumptuous fellow to make the attempt.’
“I told my Englishman much more nonsense, which I spare you, and which made him open his eyes; after which he began to laugh, and I saw clearly that my arguments inspired in him the most profound contempt for France, if not for your humble servant.
“‘Let us say the word,’ he said. ‘You do not like portrait-painting.’
“‘What! what sort of a clown do you take me for? Say, rather, that I do not as yet dare to paint portraits, and that I could not do it, since it must be one of two things: either a specialty, which admits no rivals, or perfection, and, as one might say, the crown of talent. Certain painters, incapable of inventing anything, are able to copy faithfully and agreeably the living model. These are sure of success, provided that they have the knack of presenting the model in its most favorable aspect, and of costuming it becomingly while costuming it according to the fashion; but, when one is only a poor historical painter, very much of a novice, and of disputed talent, as I have the honor to be, one cannot contend against the people who make it a business. I confess that I have never studied conscientiously the folds of a black coat and the peculiar idiosyncrasies of a given face. I am unfortunate as an inventor of attitudes, types, and expressions. All these must yield to my subject, my idea, my dream, if you choose. If you would permit me to costume you to suit myself, and to place you in a picture of my own invention—— But no, that would be good for nothing, it wouldn’t be you. It would not be a portrait to give your mistress—much less your lawful wife. Neither of them would recognize you. So do not ask me now to do what I may perhaps be able to do some day, if I ever happen to become a Rubens or a Titian, because then I can remain a poet and creator, while grasping, without effort and without fear, the potent and majestic reality. Unfortunately, it is not likely that I shall ever become anything more than a madman or a fool. Read Messieurs So-and-So and So-and-So, who have said as much in their criticisms.’
“You can imagine, Thérèse, that I did not say to my Englishman a word of what I have said to you; one can always arrange one’s thoughts better when talking to one’s self; but of all that I could say to excuse myself for not painting his portrait, nothing had any effect but these few words: ‘Why the devil don’t you apply to Mademoiselle Jacques?’
“He said Oh! three times, after which he asked me for your address, and off he went without the slightest comment, leaving me exceedingly confused and irritated because I could not finish my dissertation on portrait-painting; for, after all, my dear Thérèse, if that handsome brute of an Englishman comes to see you to-day, as I believe he is capable of doing, and repeats to you all I have written you, that is to say, all that I did not say to him, about the faiseurs and the great masters, what will you think of your ungrateful friend? May he place you among the first, and judge you incapable of painting anything else than pretty portraits which please everybody! Ah! my dear friend, if you had heard all that I said to him about you—after he had gone! You know what it was; you know that in my eyes you are not Mademoiselle Jacques, who paints excellent portraits that are much in vogue, but a superior man disguised as a woman, who, although he has never made the Academy, divines and has the art of making others divine a whole body and a whole soul from a bust, after the manner of the great sculptors of antiquity and the great painters of the Renaissance. But I say no more; you are not fond of having people tell you what they think of you. You pretend to take such talk for mere compliments. You are very proud, Thérèse.
“I am altogether down in the mouth to-day, I don’t know why. I breakfasted so poorly this morning—I have never eaten with so little satisfaction since I have had a cook. And then one cannot get any good tobacco nowadays. The government monopoly poisons you. And then I have a pair of new boots which don’t fit at all. And then it rains. And then—and then—I don’t know what. The days have been as long as days without bread, for some time past, don’t you find them so? No, you don’t, of course. You know nothing of this feeling of gloom, the pleasure that bores, the boredom that intoxicates, the nameless disease of which I spoke to you the other evening in the little lilac salon where I would like to be now; for I have a horrible light for painting, and not being able to paint, it would please me to bore you to death by my conversation.
“So I shall not see you to-day! You have an insupportable family who steal you from your most delightful friends! In that case I shall be driven to do some foolish thing this evening! Such is the effect of your kindness to me, my dear, tall comrade. It makes me so stupid and so good for nothing when I do not see you, that I absolutely must divert myself at the risk of shocking you. But never fear, I will not tell you how I employ my evening.
“Your friend and servant,
“LAURENT.
“May 11, 183—.”
Notes
1Dans le monde des arts, comme dit our friend Bernard.