Rodin will be perhaps always misunderstood. He is a pagan, and in his art has been so varied as to make it difficult to judge him by a standard or to compare him wisely with his forerunners or his contemporaries. The same hand that has perfectly carved the lovely woman’s head in “La Pensée,” rounded the limbs in the delicacy of “The Eternal Idol,” the same hand tears forth from clay and stone sinister, terrible conceptions, mighty symbols of desolation as on “La Porte de l’Enfer,” the inevitable misery in the retribution. From a block of{103} marble he causes a woman to blossom forth like a flower, until rough block and figure appear of different materials—the one a cold, pulseless background, a sheath for a form so instinct with life that the stone has the texture of flesh, 서면오피 and seems to bloom and glow. Take, for example, the figure of Psyche holding back the draperies of night that she may see Eros. Rodin is an absolute expression of his times, a modern with the subtlety of idea, the suggestive conception that is the distinguishing mark of nineteenth-century talent, part of the spirit that has created the schools of symbolism, that has coined the term “degenerate”; and to this trend of mind, which no civilisation hitherto could have produced, has been added robust physical strength and an order of genius akin to that of the ancients, before whose immortal works Rodin is a humble and devout worshipper, and from whom, in his modesty, he thinks himself infinitely removed, and to whom he is in reality divinely allied.