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And these great interests that are to continue to the end of time began two years ago, when your pictures were not praised in the Figaro as much as you thought they should be.

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Marriage—­what an abomination!  Love—­yes, but not marriage.  Love cannot exist in marriage, because love is an ideal; that is to say, something not quite understood—­transparencies, colour, light, a sense of the unreal.  But a wife—­you know all about her—­who her father was, who her mother was, what she thinks of you and her opinion of the neighbours over the way.  Where, then, is the dream, the au dela?  There is none.  I say in marriage an au dela is impossible ... the endless duet of the marble and the water, the enervation of burning odours, the baptismal whiteness of women, light, ideal tissues, eyes strangely dark with kohl, names that evoke palm trees and ruins, Spanish moonlight or maybe Persepolis.  The monosyllable which epitomises the ennui and the prose of our lives is heard not, thought not there—­only the nightingale-harmony of an eternal yes.  Freedom limitless; the Mahometan stands on the verge of the abyss, and the spaces of perfume and colour extend and invite him with the whisper of a sweet unending yes.  The unknown, the unreal....  Thus love is possible, there is a delusion, an au dela.

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Good heavens! and the world still believes in education, in teaching people the “grammar of art.”  Education is fatal to any one with a spark of artistic feeling.  Education should be confined to clerks, and even them it drives to drink.  Will the world learn that we never learn anything that we did not know before?  The artist, the poet, painter, musician, and novelist go straight to the food they want, guided by an unerring and ineffable instinct; to teach them is to destroy the nerve of the artistic instinct, it is fatal.  But above all in painting ... “correct drawing,” “solid painting.”  Is it impossible to teach people, to force it into their heads that there is no such thing as correct drawing, and that if drawing were correct it would be wrong?  Solid painting; good heavens!  Do they suppose that there is one sort of painting that is better than all others, and that there is a receipt for making it as for making chocolate!  Art is not mathematics, it is individuality.  It does not matter how badly you paint, so long as you don’t paint badly like other people.  Education destroys individuality.  That great studio of Julien’s is a sphinx, and all the poor folk that go there for artistic education are devoured.  After two years they all paint and draw alike, every one; that vile execution,—­they call it execution,—­la paet, la peinture au premier coup.  I was over in England last year, and I saw some portraits by a man called Richmond.  They were horrible, but I liked them because they weren’t like painting.