A lesson from Rodin

A. Zweig

Zweig (1881 -- 1942) was an Austrian German-language writer born in Vienna to a wealthy Jewish factory owner's family. There are many novellas such as The Story of Chess and biographies of famous people such as The Three Masters.

I was about twenty-five years old, researching and writing in Paris. Many people have praised my published articles, some of which I like myself. But I had a deep feeling in my heart that I could have written better, though I could not tell what the problem was.

So, a great man gave me a great revelation. Something that seemed so small became the key to my life.

One night at the home of the famous Belgian writer Verhalen, an elderly painter lamented the decline of sculpture. I was young and chatty, and passionately opposed his ideas. "In this very city," said I, "does not there live a sculptor as good as Michelangelo? Are not Rodin's 'The Contemplator' and 'Balzac' as immortal as the marble in which he sculpted them?"

When I finished, Verhallen pointed happily at my back. 'I'm going to see Rodin tomorrow,' he said. 'Come along. All who praise him like you should go and meet him."

I was filled with joy, but the next day when Verhallen took me to the sculptor, I could not say a word. I felt as if I were an unwanted intruder while my old friends chatted.

But the greatest are the kindest. Rodin turned to me as we said goodbye. 'I thought you might like to see my carvings,' he said. 'I'm afraid there's hardly anything here. But come to Maidon on Sunday and dine with me."

In Rodin's modest villa, we sat down at a small table to eat a simple meal. Soon the encouraging gaze of his gentle eyes, and his own simplicity, relieved my uneasiness.

In his studio, the simple room with the big Windows, there were finished statues, lots and lots of little figurines -- an arm, a hand, some just a finger or knuckle; The statue he laid down, the table stacked with sketches, the place where he pursued and worked all his life.

Rodin put on a rough work shirt and seemed to become a worker. He stopped at a stand.

"This is my latest work," he said, pulling back the wet cloth to reveal a statue of a woman, beautifully moulded out of clay. "This is finished." I want to.

He stood back and looked closely at the large, broad-shouldered, white-bearded old man.

But after examining it for a moment, he whispered, "The lines are still too thick to fit right on this shoulder..."

He took the scraper, the wooden blade, and slid it gently over the soft clay, giving the muscles a softer sheen. He was strong with his hands; His eyes sparkled. "And there... And there..." He revised it again. He walked back. He turned the bench around and mumbled a strange guttural sound. Sometimes his eyes gleamed with pleasure; Sometimes his brows frowned in distress. He pinched small pieces of clay, stuck them on the figure, and scraped some off.

And so half an hour went by, one o 'clock... He never said another word to me. He forgot everything except the image of the higher form he wanted to create. He is focused on his work, just as God was in the beginning of creation. Finally, with a sigh of relief, he drew down his scraper and wrapped the wet cloth over the woman's body with the warm and caring manner of a man putting his shawl on the shoulders of his lover. Then he turned to go again, the great old man.

Before he reached the door, he saw me. He stared, and it was only then that he remembered, visibly alarmed at his discourtesy. "I'm sorry, Sir, I forgot all about you, but you know..." I took his hand and squeezed it suggestively. Perhaps he understood what I felt, for as we left the room he smiled and put his hand on my shoulder.

I learned more that afternoon in Maidong than I had in all my time at school. Henceforth I know what the work of man must be, if it be good and worthwhile.

Nothing moves me so much as seeing someone who has completely forgotten time, place and the world. At that time, I understood the secret of all arts and great undertakings -- the ability to concentrate, to accomplish a task large or small with all one's strength, to put a will that is easy to relax into one thing.

Then I perceived what I had hitherto lacked in my own work -- that zeal which makes one forget all but the will to be whole. One must be able to immerse himself completely in his work. No -- I know now -- other secrets.