In the magazines, in the studios, in the salons, in the clubs and the cafés the name of Lirat served as a term of comparison, as an indispensable standard whenever one wanted to designate something devoid of sense or some sort of obscenity; it even seemed as if women--and girls too--could not pronounce that reprobate name without blushing. The year-end reviews dragged it into their revolting lampoons, people sang it at the cabarets. Then from these "centres of Parisian culture" it spread to the street--where one saw it blossom forth again into a vulgar bud, upon the sloppy lips of drivers, in the shriveled mouths of street boys, "It's a go, eh! Lirat!" For a few years poor Lirat really enjoyed an uproarious popularity.... But one gets tired of everything, even of abusing a person. Paris abandons its puppets which it raises to the throne as quickly as it does its martyrs whom it hoists on the gibbet; in its perpetual hunger for new playthings, it never gets itself excited overly much before the statues of its heroes or at the sight of the blood of its victims.
Now there was only silence for Lirat's portion. It was very seldom indeed that in some of the magazines there was again heard an echo of the past, in the form of some annoying anecdote. Besides, he decided not to exhibit any more, saying:
"Leave me alone in peace!... Is painting done to be seen ... tell me ... painting ... do you understand?... One works for himself, for two or three living friends and for others whom one has never known and who are dead ... Poe, Baudelaire, Dostoiewsky, Shakespeare.... Shakespeare! ... do you understand?.... And the rest?... The rest don't amount to anything."
Having reduced his needs to a minimum, he lived on little with admirable and touching dignity. Provided he earned enough with which to buy his brushes, paints, canvas, pay his models and his landlord, make a studying trip each year, he did not wish for more. Money did not tempt him at all, and I am sure that he never sought success. But if success had come to him, I am also sure that Lirat would not have resisted the joy, so human, of relishing factitious delights. Though he did not want to admit it, though he affected to defy injustice gayly, he felt it more keenly than anyone else, and at heart suffered from it cruelly. He suffered from the present neglect shown to him as much as he had suffered from the former insults. Only once did a young critic publish an enthusiastic and high-sounding article about him in a magazine. The article was well-meant but full of banalities and errors; one could see that its author was not sufficiently familiar with art and that he did not understand anything about the talent of the great artist.