Artists Wives | Page 2

in general marriage is an excellent thing, and that the
majority of men only begin to be of some account when the family
circle completes them or makes them greater. Often, indeed, it is
necessary to a profession. A bachelor lawyer cannot even be imagined.
He would not have the needful air of weight and gravity. But for all of
us, painters, poets, sculptors, musicians, who live outside of life, wholly
occupied in studying it, in reproducing it, holding ourselves always a

little remote from it, as one steps back from a picture the better to see it,
I say that marriage can only be the exception. To that nervous, exacting,
impressionable being, that child-man that we call an artist, a special
type of woman, almost impossible to find, is needful, and the safest
thing to do is not to look for her. Ah! how well our great Delacroix,
whom you admire so much, understood that! What a fine existence was
his, bounded by his studio wall, devoted exclusively to Art! I was
looking the other day at his cottage at Champrosay and the prim little
garden full of roses, where he sauntered alone for twenty years! It has
the calm and the narrowness of celibacy. Well now! think for a moment
of Delacroix married, father of a family, with all the preoccupations of
children to bring up, of money matters, of illnesses; do you believe his
work would have been the same?
THE POET.
You cite Delacroix, I reply Victor Hugo. Do you think that marriage
hampered him for instance, while writing so many admirable books?
THE PAINTER.
I think as a matter of fact, that marriage did not hamper him in
anything. But all husbands have not the genius that obtains pardon, nor
a halo of glory with which to dry the tears they cause to flow. It cannot
be very amusing to be the wife of a genius. There are plenty of
labourers' wives who are happier.
THE POET.
A curious thing, all the same, this special pleading against marriage,
by a married man, who is happy in being so.
THE PAINTER.
I repeat that I don't give myself as an example. My opinion is formed by
all the sad things I have seen elsewhere; all the misunderstandings so
frequent in the households of artists, and caused solely by their
abnormal life. Look at that sculptor who, in full maturity of age and

talent, has just exiled himself, leaving wife and children behind him.
Public opinion condemns him, and certainly I offer no excuse for him.
And, nevertheless, I can well understand how he arrived at such a point!
Here was a fellow who adored his art, and had a horror of the world,
and society. The wife, though amiable and intelligent, instead of
shielding him from the social obligations he loathed, condemned him
for some ten years to all the exactions they involved. Thus she induced
him to undertake a lot of official busts, horrible respectabilities in
velvet skull caps, frights of women utterly devoid of grace; she
disturbed him ten times a day with importunate visitors, and then every
evening laid out for him a dress suit and light gloves, and dragged him
from drawing-room to drawing-room. You will tell me he could have
rebelled, could have replied point-blank: "No!" But don't you know that
the very fact of our sedentary existences leaves us more than other men
dependent on domestic influence? The atmosphere of the home
envelopes us, and if some touch of the ideal does not lighten it, soon
wearies and drags us down. Moreover, the artist as a rule puts what
force and energy he has into his work, and after his solitary and patient
struggles, finds himself left with no will to oppose to the petty
importunities of life. With him, feminine tyrannies have free play. No
one is more easily conquered and subdued. Only, beware! He must not
be made to feel the yoke too heavily. If one day the invisible bonds with
which he is surreptitiously fettered are drawn too tight and arrest the
artistic effort, he will all at once tear them asunder, and, mistrusting
his own weakness, will fly like our sculptor, over the hills and far away.
The wife of this sculptor was astounded at his flight. The unhappy
creature is still wondering: "What can I have done to him?" Nothing.
She simply did not understand him. For it is not enough to be good and
intelligent to be the true helpmate of an artist, A woman must also
possess infinite tact, smiling abnegation; and all this is found only by a
miracle in a young creature, curious though ignorant as regards life.
She is pretty, she has married a well-known man, received everywhere;
why should she not