“It is true,” Rodin added, “when a literary subject is so well known the artist can treat it and yet expect to be understood. Yet it is better, in my opinion, that the works of painters and sculptors should contain all their interest in themselves. Art can offer thought and imagination without recourse to literature. Instead of illustrating scenes from poems, it need only use plain symbols which do not require any written text. Such has generally been my own method.” What my host indicated, his sculptures gathered around us proclaimed in their mute language. There I saw the casts of several of his works which are most full of ideas. I began to study them one by one. I admired the reproduction of the _Pensée_, which is at the Musée du Luxembourg. Who does not recall this singular work? It is the head of a woman, very young, very fine, with features of miraculous subtlety and delicacy. Her head is bent and aureoled with a reverie which makes it appear almost immaterial. The edges of a light coif which shadow her forehead seem the wings of her dreams. But her neck and even her chin are still held in the heavy, massive block of marble from which they cannot get free. The symbol is easily understood. Thought expands within the breast of inert matter, and illumines it with the reflection of her splendor—but she vainly endeavors to escape from the heavy shackles of reality. Next I turned to _Illusion, daughter of Icarus_ (_l’Illusion, fille d’Icare_). It is the figure of a youthful angel. As she flew with her great wings through space, a rude blast of wind dashed her to earth, and her charming face was crushed against a rock. But her wings, unbroken, still beat the air, and, immortal, she will rise again, take flight again, fall again to earth, and this to the end of time. Untiring hopes, eternal disappointments of illusion! [Illustration: ILLUSION, THE DAUGHTER OF ICARUS By Rodin ] Now my attention was attracted by a third sculpture, the _Centauress_. The human bust of the fabulous creature yearns despairingly towards an end which her longing arms can never attain; but the hind hoofs, grappling the soil, are fast there, and the heavy horse’s flanks, almost crouched in the mud, cannot kick free. It is the frightful opposition of the poor monster’s two natures—an image of the soul, whose heavenly impulses rest miserably captive to the bodily clay. “In themes of this kind,” Rodin said, “the thought, I believe, is easily read. They awaken the imagination of the spectators without any outside help. And yet, far from confining it in narrow limits, they give it rein to roam at will. That is, according to me, the rôle of art. The form which it creates ought only to furnish a pretext for the unlimited development of emotion.” At this instant I found myself before a group in marble representing Pygmalion and his statue. The sculptor passionately embraces his work, which awakes to life within his arms.