ARGENTEUIL · CLAUDE MONET
Paris, “la ville luminaire,” the birthplace of so many revolutions, both artistic and political, has almost invariably been hostile to any new spirit in Art. From memory one can cite many instances. In 1833, Parisians assembled that they might jeer and throw mud at Baryes’s Le Lion, a masterpiece now in the Jardin d’Acclimatation. Rude’s great bas-relief, Départ des Volontaires de la République, decorating one of the pillars of the Arc de Triomphe, met with a similar reception. In 1844, the exquisite paintings of Eugene Delacroix, now in the Louvre, were greeted with a storm of ridicule. Carpeaux’s group of sculpture La Danse, ornamenting the façade of the Opera, was bombarded nightly with ink-pots, and the sculptor was broken-hearted when compelled to polish the figures of his magnificent Fontaine des Heures facing the Observatory. Millet and the Barbizon group had small thanks to return for their reception. The frescoes of Puvis de Chavannes in the Panthéon, the Sorbonne, and the Luxembourg had to be guarded against the risk of damage from an ignorant and exasperated public. The vituperation which assailed Rodin upon the completion of his statue of Balzac is quite recent, and cannot be forgotten.
Claude Monet has passed through like storms. Edouard Manet fell a victim to the fury of the attack. His physique was not strong enough to resist the continual warfare. But Monet is of stouter calibre, and has lived to see the triumph of his principles, although he has learnt to value much of the praise, nowadays lavished upon him, at its true worth.
Monet is seen in his most genial moods when, with cigar for company, he strolls through his “propriété” at Giverny, discussing the grafting of plants and other agricultural mysteries with his numerous blue-bloused and sabotted gardeners. He settled with his family at Giverny in 1883; and Stephen Mallarmé, his old friend the poet, has given us the address for his letters:
“Monsieur Monet, que l’hiver ni
L’été sa vision ne leurre,
Habite en peignant, Giverny,
Sis auprès de Vernon, dans l’Eure.”
He is now sixty-two years of age, in the prime of his powers, active and dauntless as ever. Each line of his sturdy figure, each flash from his keen blue eyes, betokens the giant within. He is one of those men who, through dogged perseverance and strength, would succeed in any branch of activity. Dressed in a soft khaki felt hat and jacket, lavender-coloured silk shirt open at the neck, drab trousers tapering to the ankles and there secured by big horn buttons, a short pair of cowhide boots, his appearance is at once practical and quaint, with a decided sense of smartness pervading the whole.
Monet has the reputation of being surly and reserved with strangers. If true, this manner must have been assumed to repel those unwelcome visitors who, out of thoughtless curiosity, invade his privacy to the waste of valuable time and the gradual irritation of a most sensitive nature.