Divers Sentiments

Looking through old manuscripts, I find the following, from a little known Journal de M. Laubiès written upon the occasion of his arrival in Paris.

Ils me chargeoient incessament de mille brocards & de mille injures; je me suis veu en tel estat, que pour ne les aigrir, je passois les jours entiers sans ouvrir la bouche . . .

Hence, perhaps, the kindness of Laubiès to critics, even to myself. Painting these days is the discharge of a rare duty, and the public has of course its usual right of comment—to wit: La Nature n'a pas les bras assez longs, etc.

This was the death of romanticism, or better, of those poor painters at the turn of the century, with their eaux d'essences , and their hope of competition with appearance—which any woman might have undeceived them concerning. What followed led finally to that peculiar situation:

1. C'est le naturel des artisans de se plaindre et de gronder .

2. La diversité des gages les fait murmurer, etc.

And/or the jungle of Paris. Against that any man stands a little, at least, helpless. And Laubiès' work has been judged accordingly. I heard recently that his paintings had been much influenced by a visit to Mallorca. The colors, of course, became those of that delightful retreat—although the truth of the matter was, very simply,

that he found himself running low on everything but red, brown, and death's head (purple?), and so he made out the best he could. There was also an old lady ("Ils me répétaient sans cesse: Nous te brûlerons; nous te mangerons; je te mangerai un pied; et moi, une main, etc. ") who wished to hang her tomatoes in the studio in which he was working, and one morning arrived at a little before seven to throw both paintings and Laubiès out.

May I suggest, then, that painting is one thing to a public—and quite another to a man so engaged? I don't think there is any reason to take it much beyond that. It is neither the business of the one nor of the other, to think very much about what each, in turn, thinks. I am tired, as I suppose many others are, of reading of deep, deep symbolism and mutterings of a soul, and so on. These are all, at last, much too far from that very thing we might otherwise notice—the work itself.

At least some such attention might be reasonable. As it is, and no matter "true or false," some sufferings merit acknowledgment:

 . . . ny le froid, ny le chaud, ny l'incommodité des chiens, ny coucher à l'air, ny dormir sur un lit de terre, ny la posture qu'il faut toujours tenir dans leurs cabanes, se rammassan en peloton, ou se couchans, ou s'asseans sans siège & sans mattelas, ny la faim, ny la soif, ny la pauvreté & saleté de leur boucan, ny la maladie  . . .

Much that we see, we forget.