Three men stand out from this mixed crowd of acquaintances as my faithful and trusted friends—three men wonderfully gifted and yet wonderfully modest, three men with golden hearts and lofty minds: Bonnat, the painter; Massenet, the composer; and Coppée, the poet.
I knew Bonnat for nearly twenty years. He used to sign his letters to me "your old and devoted grand-father," or, more briefly, "Your... Methuselah." The great painter to whom the world owes amongst other masterpieces a powerful "Saint Vincent de Paul," and those gems of psychology, the "Portrait of Renan," and the "Portrait of My Mother," loved classic music, and what is better, understood it. During the twenty years of our friendship only a few times did he fail to attend the concerts given at my house. Like my father he had a special weakness for classic music, and I believe he would have loved to listen to Beethoven's Septett every day of his life. It was M. B., the Attorney-General, who first introduced him to me. I called on M. Bonnat at his house, which had been built by Bernier, the architect of the Opera Comique. On the ground floor were the apartments of his sister and his mother. A monumental staircase decorated with frescoes painted by Puvis de Chavannes led to the artist's rooms, and above, to the studio crowded with old carved wood, magnificent bronzes by Barye, and a number of fine paintings—including one by his beloved Botticelli—on the walls.
Bonnat—above all a portrait painter—had a curious way of working. He hardly worked at his model—directly. He preferred to watch him, or her, in a round hand-mirror which he held in his left hand—the hand which also held the palette. At the back of the studio stood a small cheval-glass, placed in such a position that it reflected the portrait. He watched both images, and... worked. Another curious method of his was to turn the canvas when he retouched this or that detail.
Bonnat worked in silence. He did not think it necessary to make his model talk so as to get at his, or her, "psychology," but was satisfied with painting what he saw. In this, he reminded me of Rodin, the greatest sculptor since Michel-Angelo, whom I once heard say: "The artist cannot improve upon nature, and Life is Beauty."
Bonnat, energetic and wiry, believed in work, work, work—which, by the way, is also Rodin's motto—and achieved wonderful portraits, although I am aware that the pointillists, the cubists, the post-impressionists, and the post-post-impressionists hold other views!
He had "his" arm-chair in my drawing-room, and would sit there for hours, listening to the music or watching my guests, and rarely opening his lips. He was fond of Marthe, always had his pockets full of "surprises" for her, and often took her to his studio, where she loved to gaze at his beautiful collection of butterflies, with which she held long, mysterious conversations.
One day, when I came to sit for my portrait, Marthe, who had taken a long walk with me in the Bois, and whose cheeks, rosy from the outside air, threw into relief her dark brown eyes, sat down on the blue satin gown which I wore in the picture, and which my maid had just brought. Bonnat saw Marthe, and said to her, "Don't move, little one, I must paint you just as you are." In a few seconds, there was a canvas on his easel, his hand held the usual mirror, and—he was at work. In less than an hour, he had painted Marthe, and the likeness was so perfect and speaking, that I cried: "Stop! Don't touch your work. Don't alter or add anything! Not a stroke more!"
Alas, Bonnat persisted in perfecting his work. Then he found that the canvas was not large enough.... Marthe was "cut" across the middle of her skirt.... There was too much "air" above the head, and too little at the sides.... He would have the canvas enlarged.
But when it was returned to him, he did not like the seams, and precipitately painted out the picture.