And in order to give these representations a still greater intensity of horror, to weigh them down with the burden of even greater affliction, he cast them in the midst of peaceful, smiling surroundings of surpassing clearness, among pink and blue landscapes with softened vistas, amidst glorious sunshine, with the radiant sea in the background. All around them nature was resplendent with all the magic of her delicate and changing colors.
When for the first time he consented to place his works on a free exhibit, together with a group of friends, the critics and the mob, which influences the critics, shouted with indignation. But the anger did not last very long—for there is a sort of nobility, or generosity in anger—and they merely contented themselves with laughing. Then the humbug which is always represented by mediocre opinion with its foul spittle, this humbug came to replace the menace of raised fists. And viewing the superb artistry of Lirat, they were convulsed with laughter, holding their sides with both hands. Clever, merry-making people deposited pennies on the edge of the frames as one does for a Jack-in-the-box, and this was considered excellent sport—for it actually became a sport for people of the better sort, with purses.
In the magazines, in the studios, in the salons, in the clubs and the cafés the name of Lirat served as a term of comparison, as an indispensable standard whenever one wanted to designate something devoid of sense or some sort of obscenity; it even seemed as if women—and girls too—could not pronounce that reprobate name without blushing. The year-end reviews dragged it into their revolting lampoons, people sang it at the cabarets. Then from these "centres of Parisian culture" it spread to the street—where one saw it blossom forth again into a vulgar bud, upon the sloppy lips of drivers, in the shriveled mouths of street boys, "It's a go, eh! Lirat!" For a few years poor Lirat really enjoyed an uproarious popularity. … But one gets tired of everything, even of abusing a person. Paris abandons its puppets which it raises to the throne as quickly as it does its martyrs whom it hoists on the gibbet; in its perpetual hunger for new playthings, it never gets itself excited overly much before the statues of its heroes or at the sight of the blood of its victims.
Now there was only silence for Lirat's portion. It was very seldom indeed that in some of the magazines there was again heard an echo of the past, in the form of some annoying anecdote. Besides, he decided not to exhibit any more, saying:
"Leave me alone in peace! … Is painting done to be seen … tell me … painting … do you understand? … One works for himself, for two or three living friends and for others whom one has never known and who are dead … Poe, Baudelaire, Dostoiewsky, Shakespeare. … Shakespeare! … do you understand? … And the rest? … The rest don't amount to anything."
Having reduced his needs to a minimum, he lived on little with admirable and touching dignity. Provided he earned enough with which to buy his brushes, paints, canvas, pay his models and his landlord, make a studying trip each year, he did not wish for more. Money did not tempt him at all, and I am sure that he never sought success. But if success had come to him, I am also sure that Lirat would not have resisted the joy, so human, of relishing factitious delights. Though he did not want to admit it, though he affected to defy injustice gayly, he felt it more keenly than anyone else, and at heart suffered from it cruelly. He suffered from the present neglect shown to him as much as he had suffered from the former insults. Only once did a young critic publish an enthusiastic and high-sounding article about him in a magazine. The article was well-meant but full of banalities and errors; one could see that its author was not sufficiently familiar with art and that he did not understand anything about the talent of the great artist.
"Have you read it?" Lirat shouted, "have you read it, eh, tell me? … What idiots these critics are! … If they keep on talking about me, they will finally force me to paint in a cave, understand? … What do they take me for anyway—a vulgarizer? … And then what business is it of this fellow here—whether I make paintings, boots or slippers? … That's my private affair!"
Nevertheless he had put it away in a drawer as a thing of great value, and several times I surprised him reading it. It was very well for him to say with supreme detachment, when we were inveighing against the stupidity of the public: "Well, what would you want them to do? … Do you expect the people to start a revolution because I paint my canvases plainly?" But in reality this contempt for notoriety, this apparent resignation concealed deep but secret sentiment. Deep in his very sensitive and very generous soul there accumulated profound aversions, which were vented with terrible and malignant fervor on the whole world. If, on the one hand, his talent had gained in strength and ruggedness on account of this, his character, on the other hand, had lost something of its inherent nobility, and his critical spirit had been deprived of some of its penetrating quality and brilliance.
He ended by giving himself over entirely to decrying everybody and everything, the excess of which threatened to render him odious; at times it bore evidence of nothing but a childishness which made him ridiculous. Great souls nearly always have petty weaknesses—that is a mysterious law of nature, and Lirat did not escape the effects of this law. Above everything else, he held fast to his well-established reputation of an ill-natured man. He bore very well with the opinion which denied him talent, but what he could not tolerate was that they called in question the propriety of his insulting humanity with his sarcastic jibes.
To avenge the scouring words with which he characterized them, some of the enemies of Lirat attributed to him unnatural vices; others simply called him an epileptic, and these coarse and cowardly calumnies, strengthened every day by ingenious comments, based on "certain" stories which made the rounds of the studios—these calumnies found ready listeners willing, some owing to his actual malice, others prompted solely by the intemperance of the painter's tongue, to receive and spread them.
"You know Lirat? … He had another attack yesterday, this time on the street."
And names of important personages were mentioned who had assisted in the scene and who had seen him rolling in the mud, lying, with foam at his mouth.
I must confess that I myself at the beginning of our friendship was greatly troubled by these stories. I could not think of Lirat without at the same time picturing to myself horrible fits in which, I was told, he was writhing. Victim of a delusion born of an obsession with this idea, I seemed to discover in him symptoms of horrible diseases; I often imagined that he suddenly became livid, that his mouth was distorted, that his body was convulsed in horrible spasms, that his eyes, wild and streaked with red, were shunning the light and seeking the shadow of deep vacuous space, like the eyes of trapped beasts that are about to die. And I regretted that I did not see him fall, shriek, writhe here in his studio filled with his genius, under my avid glance that watched him and hoped for the worst! … Poor Lirat! … And still I loved him! …
The day was drawing to a close. All over Rodrigues place one heard the slamming of doors; the noise of steps upon the street was rapidly dying away, and in the shops voices were heard rising in song at the end of the day's work. Lirat had not uttered a word since resuming his work, except to fix my posture, which I did not keep just the way he wanted.
"The leg a little this way! … A little more now! … Your chest not quite so drawn in! … You'll excuse me, my dear Mintié, but you pose like a pig!"
He worked now feverishly, now haltingly, mumbling in his mustache, swearing from time to time. His crayon snapped at the canvas with a sort of uneasy haste of angry nervousness.
"Ah, shucks!" he cried out, pushing away the easel with a kick. … "I can do nothing but botch-work today! … The devil take me, one might think I was competing for a prize."
Moving back his chair he examined his sketch with a frigid air and muttered:
"Whenever women come here it's the same old story. … When they go away the women leave you the soul of a Boulanger in the pretty claws of a Henner. … Henner, do you understand? … Let's go out."
When
