“As for the client who, though discontented, accepts a successful work, his bad humor is only temporary; for soon the connoisseurs compliment him on the bust and he ends by admiring it. Then he declares quite naturally that he has always liked it. “Moreover, it should be noticed that the busts which are executed gratuitously for friends or relations are the best. It is not only because the artist knows his models better from seeing them constantly and loving them. It is, above all, because the gratuitousness of his work confers on him the liberty of working as he pleases. “Nevertheless, the best busts are often refused, even when offered as gifts. Though masterpieces, they are considered insulting by those for whom they are intended. The sculptor must go his own way and find all his pleasure, all his reward, in doing his best.” I was much interested in this psychology of the public with which the artist has to deal; but it must be said that a good deal of bitterness entered into Rodin’s irony. “Master,” I said, “among the trials of your profession, there is one that you seem to have omitted. That is, to do the bust of a client whose head is without expression or betrays obvious stupidity.” Rodin laughed. “That cannot count among the trials,” he replied. “You must not forget my favorite maxim: _Nature is always beautiful_. We need only to understand what she shows us. You speak of a face without expression. There is no such face to an artist. To him every head is interesting. Let a sculptor note the insipidity of a face, let him show us a fool absorbed by his care of worldly parade, and there we have a fine bust. “Besides, what is called shallowness is often only a conscience which has not developed owing to a lack of education, and in that case, the face offers the mysterious and fascinating spectacle of an intellect which seems enveloped in a veil. “Finally—how shall I put it?—even the most insignificant head is the dwelling-place of life, that magnificent force, and so offers inexhaustible matter for the masterpiece.” Several days later I saw in Rodin’s atelier at Meudon the casts of many of his finest busts, and I seized the occasion to ask him to tell me of the memories they recalled. His _Victor Hugo_ was there, deep in meditation, the forehead strangely furrowed, volcanic, the hair wild, almost like white flames bursting from his skull. It was the very personification of modern lyricism, profound and tumultuous. “It was my friend Bazire,” said Rodin, “who presented me to Victor Hugo. Bazire was the secretary of the newspaper, _La Marseillaise_, and later of _l’Intransigeant_. He adored Victor Hugo. It was he who started the idea of a public celebration of the great man’s eightieth birthday.