“But when once they have got to their destination, the successful men are silent. And they who are still on the way get tired of the daily toil, knowing not that they who have arrived, have had the very same experience.”
Les Désenchantées
From a sketch by Auguste Rodin.
Many beautiful works attracted our attention that afternoon, the most striking being Mary Magdalene, in repentant anguish at the feet of her Master, Jesus; the Prodigal Son with his hands clasped in useless regret towards a wasted and ill-spent life. Then there was a nude (I forget the name by which she will be immortalised), her wonderful arms in a movement of supplication, so grand, that the Eastern woman and I together stretched out our hands towards it in appreciation.
The sculptor saw our movement, understood and thanked us; a few moments later, conscious of our action, we blushed. What had we done?
I, the Scotch puritan, had actually admired one of those beautiful nudes before which we, as children, shut our eyes. But the Oriental?
“In my country these marble figures are not seen,” she explained, “‘the face and form created by God must not be copied by man,’ said our Prophet, and for centuries all good Moslems have obeyed this command.”
“Do you know the legend of the Prophet’s son-in-law Osman?” she said.
“No,” I answered, “please tell me.”