But one gets tired of everything, even of abusing a
person. Paris abandons its puppets which it raises to
the throne as quickly as it does its martyrs whom it
hoists on the gibbet; in its perpetual hunger for newplaythings,
it never gets itself excited overly much before the statues of its heroes or at the sight of the
blood of its victims.
Now there was only silence for Lirat's portion. It was very seldom indeed that in some of the magazines there was again heard an echo of the past, in the form of some annoying anecdote. Besides, he decided not to exhibit any more, saying:
"Leave me alone in peace! . . Is painting done to be seen . . tell me . . painting . . do you understand? . . . One works for himself, for two or three living friends and for others whom one has never known and who are dead. . . Poe, Baudelaire, Dostoiewsky, Shakespeare. . . . Shakespeare! . . do you understand? . . . And the rest? . . . The rest don't amount to anything."
Having reduced his needs to a minimum, he lived on little with admirable and touching dignity. Provided he earned enough with which to buy his brushes, paints, canvas, pay his models and his landlord, make a studying trip each year, he did not wish for more. Money did not tempt him at all, and I am sure that he never sought success. But if success had come to him, I am also sure that Lirat would not have resisted the joy, so human, of relishing factitious delights. Though he did not want to admit it, though he affected to defy injustice gayly, he felt it more keenly than anyone else, and at heart suffered from it cruelly. He suffered from the present neglect shown to him as much as he had suffered from the former insults. Only once did a young critic publish an enthusiastic and high-sounding article about him in a magazine.
