“Of course.”
“Don’t you see then it’s impossible?”
“But I don’t understand, Raymonde,” I said.
“Keep me all for yourself. Don’t share me with the world. I submitted to your exhibiting my statue. Was not that enough?”
However that was not the sole reason for her protest, that sense of modesty. With unfailing intuition she fathomed too the limitations of my ability. Her love warned her not to allow me to seek that more extensive reputation which requires, besides enthusiasm, a daily perseverance and obstinacy. Later I realised better the thorough preparation and almost superhuman energy required by art, if the artist aspires to conquer time. And having realised them I gave up my art.
But now this publicity attracted and fascinated me, and I considered my wife’s susceptibility singularly retrograde, absurd even. Should one not obey the conventions? Nowadays fashion has its laws and its rites. A politician, a writer, an artist belongs to the public, which is no longer content with dancers and actresses. And not only do the notabilities of to-day belong to the public in their official capacity; in their private life also, together with their wives and children, cats and dogs, country homes too if they have any, are they public property. They are seen spread out in magazines, in all forms, alone and with their families. Their poses are accompanied with captions for which a new style has been created, a style uniformly conventional. Their privacy is taken by assault. They consent to it willingly when they do not hunt for it from vanity or self-advertisement. They even appear regularly on commercial posters destined to advertise one or another of our modern industrial products.
I was now to have an opportunity for free advertisement, and should I give it up for the fancy of a too scrupulous woman? Was it reasonable? Who would do it in my place? I reserved my reply, and a day or two later reopened the subject.
“The magazines insist on having that photograph. Are you still so opposed to my giving it?” I began.
As a matter of fact I did not need her consent, and yet I asked her for it. Was it for the purpose of giving her proof of my affection and condescension? Or was it, rather, to oblige her to give in? She gave in, and fifty thousand copies of “The Young Girl at the Fountain” were printed. I distributed some of them myself. Mme. de Saunois had one, and so did Mme. de H— whose opinion, of course in lyric form, created much talk.
I had made that statue for Raymonde and for her alone. How many times, while she gently encouraged me, during its execution, had I told her so? And yet I did not know how to resist the first temptation to make it public.