Ingres often talked to me about Mozart, Gluck, and all the other great masters of music.  When I was six years old, I composed an Adagio which I dedicated to him in all seriousness.  Fortunately this masterpiece has been lost.  As I already played, and rather nicely for my years, some of Mozart’s sonatas, Ingres, in return for my dedication, presented me with a small medallion with the portrait of the author of Don Juan on one side, and this inscription on the other:  “To M. Saint-Saens, the charming interpreter of the divine artist.”

He carelessly omitted to add the date of this dedication, which would have increased its interest, for the idea of calling a knee-high youngster of six “M.  Saint-Saens” was certainly unusual.

[Illustration:  Ingres, the painter famous for his violin]

In addition to the calls I paid him, when I was older I often met the great painter at the house of Frederic Reiset, one of his most ardent admirers.  They made much of music in that household and we often heard there Delsarte, the singer without a voice, whom Ingres admired very much.  Delsarte and Henri Reber were, in fact, his musical mentors, and, in spite of his pretence of being a great connoisseur, he was in reality their echo.  He affected, for example, the most profound contempt for all modern music, and would not even listen to it.  In this respect he reflected Reber.  Reber used to say quietly in his far-away nasal voice, “You’ve got to imitate somebody, so the best thing to do is to imitate the ancients, for they are the best.”  However, he undertook to prove the contrary by writing some particularly individual music, when he thought he was imitating Haydn and Mozart.  Some of his works, in their perfection of line, their regard for details, their purity and their moderation remind one of Ingres’s drawings which express so much in such a simple way.  And Ingres, as well, although he tried to imitate Raphael, could only be himself.  Reber would have been worthy of comparison with the painter, if he had had the power and productiveness which distinguish genius.

What about Ingres’s violin?  Well, I saw this famous violin for the first time in the Montaubon Museum.  Ingres never even spoke to me about it.  He is said to have played it in his youth, but I could never persuade him to play even the slightest sonata with me.  “I used to play,” he replied to my entreaties, “the second violin in a quartet, but that is all.”

So I think I must be dreaming when I read, from time to time, that Ingres was more appreciative of compliments about his violin-playing than those about his painting.  That is merely a legend, but it is impossible to destroy a legend.  As the good La Fontaine said: 

    “Man is like ice toward truth;
    He is like fire to untruth.”

I do not know whether Ingres showed talent for the violin in his youth or not.  But I can state positively that in his maturity he showed none.