kind and gentle, was always disputed, while Degas, acrid and disagreeable, intractable to a degree, was hailed by every one from the very first—by the general public, the revolutionaries, and the Institute."
"They feared him!"
"Yes, that was it. I kept his friendship for a long time, turning myself inside out to please him. One day he said to me, 'Renoir, I have an implacable enemy, one not to be vanquished.' 'Who is he?' I asked. 'If you must know,' the old beast replied, thumping his breast, 'this enemy is myself.'"
I asked Renoir if he would let me have one of his canvases; but he was most reluctant, saying, "For the present I am accumulating them. I have not enough to leave my children. In a year perhaps it will be different. Perhaps then, but I will not sell them cheaply, because of the dealers in Modern Art. I will not hinder their commerce, and, furthermore, I have an old debt of gratitude toward Durand-Ruel, who was the only one to come to my rescue when I was hungry."
I spoke to him of a canvas I had remarked particularly: some washer-women beside a stream. "That canvas," I said, "is surely the country-side between St. Raphaele and Monte Carlo. I admire with what truth you have painted the soil about the olive tree, the trunk of which is raised so curiously from the little hillock of earth."
"That olive tree," replied Renoir, "was beastly. If you only knew how it harassed me. A tree full of colour, not at all grey. Its little leaves made me sweat. A sudden gust of wind came, and my tree changed all its tonalities. The colour was not on the leaves, but in the open spaces. I know I am not a painter of Nature, but to come to grips with her amuses me. Yet a painter is not great until he knows Nature. Landscapist! that was at one time a term of contempt, especially in the Eighteenth Century. Yet that period which I adore produced the greatest landscapists. I am a painter of the Eighteenth Century. I consider myself not only a descendant of Watteau, Fragonard, and Hubert Robert in my art, but actually of that group. Watteau! Raphael! Giants cut off in the very flower of their youth and genius. I tell you, Monsieur, those who die young are gifted with an intelligence that doubles their efforts."
