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G. Tarde, "L'Amour Morbide," Archives de l'Anthropologie Criminelle, 1890, p. 585. Lucretius, Lib. IV, vv. 1150-1163. Burton, Anatomy of Melancholy, Part III, Section II, Mem. III, Subs. Judith Cladel, Auguste Rodin Pris sur la Vie, 1903, pp. 103-104. Some slight modifications have been made in the translation of this passage on account of the conversational form of the original.
Rodin has all his life been passionately immersed in plastic art; he has never written and seldom talks; yet whenever his more intimate disciples, a Judith Cladel or a Paul Gsell, have set down the things he utters, they are found to be among the most vital, fascinating, and profound sayings in the world. Even a bad artist with the brush may be on the road to become a good artist with the pen.
True, alas, it is, that gone is the Paris of Paris's glory gone that Paris that called to Louise with the luring melody of a zithered soul. True, alas, it is, that the Paris of the Guerbois, with its crowd of other days Degas and Cladel and Astruc and the rest of them is no more.
There was one little fellow, called Petit Bleu, who was very sharp; a tall man, with a savage look, gray eyes and black hair, who was nick-named Tomahawk, the only one who never touched an oar, as he said he should upset the boat; a slender, elegant man, who was very careful about his person, and whom we called Only-One-Eye, in remembrance of a recent story about Cladel, and because he wore a single eyeglass, and, lastly, I, who had been baptized Joseph Prunier.
As was I grumbling one day to Victor Hugo that I never could have a chance of talking with him, he invited me to lunch, saying that after lunch we could talk together alone. I was delighted with this lunch, to which Paul Meurice, the poet Leon Cladel, the Communard Dupuis, a Russian lady whose name I do not remember and Gustave Dore were also invited.
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