WHEN Claude found himself once more on the pavement of Paris he was
seized with a feverish longing for hubbub and motion, a desire to gad
about, scour the whole city, and see his chums. He was off the moment
he awoke, leaving Christine to get things shipshape by herself in the
studio which they had taken in the Rue de Douai, near the Boulevard de
Clichy. In this way, on the second day of his arrival, he dropped in at
Mahoudeau’s at eight o’clock in the morning, in the chill, grey November
dawn which had barely risen.
However, the shop in the Rue du Cherche-Midi, which the sculptor still
occupied, was open, and Mahoudeau himself, half asleep, with a white
face, was shivering as he took down the shutters.
Ah! it’s you. The devil! you’ve got into early habits in the country. So
it’s settled--you are back for good?’
‘Yes; since the day before yesterday.’
‘That’s all right. Then we shall see something of each other. Come in;
it’s sharp this morning.’
But Claude felt colder in the shop than outside. He kept the collar
of his coat turned up, and plunged his hands deep into his pockets;
shivering before the dripping moisture of the bare walls, the muddy
heaps of clay, and the pools of water soddening the floor. A blast of
poverty had swept into the place, emptying the shelves of the casts
from the antique, and smashing stands and buckets, which were now held
together with bits of rope. It was an abode of dirt and disorder,
a mason’s cellar going to rack and ruin. On the window of the door,
besmeared with whitewash, there appeared in mockery, as it were, a large
beaming sun, roughly drawn with thumb-strokes, and ornamented in the
centre with a face, the mouth of which, describing a semicircle, seemed
likely to burst with laughter.
‘Just wait,’ said Mahoudeau, ‘a fire’s being lighted. These confounded
workshops get chilly directly, with the water from the covering cloths.’
At that moment, Claude, on turning round, noticed Chaîne on his knees
near the stove, pulling the straw from the seat of an old stool to light
the coals with. He bade him good-morning, but only elicited a muttered
growl, without succeeding in making him look up.
‘And what are you doing just now, old man?’ he asked the sculptor.
‘Oh! nothing of much account. It’s been a bad year--worse than the last
one, which wasn’t worth a rap. There’s a crisis in the church-statue
business. Yes, the market for holy wares is bad, and, dash it, I’ve had
to tighten my belt! Look, in the meanwhile, I’m reduced to this.’
He thereupon took the linen wraps off a bust, showing a long face still
further elongated by whiskers, a face full of conceit and infinite
imbecility.
‘It’s an advocate who lives near by. Doesn’t he look repugnant, eh? And
the way he worries me about being very careful with his mouth. However,
a fellow must eat, mustn’t he?’
He certainly had an idea for the Salon; an upright figure, a girl about
to bathe, dipping her foot in the water, and shivering at its freshness
with that slight shiver that renders a woman so adorable. He showed
Claude a little model of it, which was already cracking, and the painter
looked at it in silence, surprised and displeased at certain concessions
he noticed in it: a sprouting of prettiness from beneath a persistent
exaggeration of form, a natural desire to please, blended with a
lingering tendency to the colossal. However, Mahoudeau began lamenting;
an upright figure was no end of a job. He would want iron braces that
cost money, and a modelling frame, which he had not got; in fact, a lot
of appliances. So he would, no doubt, decide to model the figure in a
recumbent attitude beside the water.
‘Well, what do you say--what do you think of it?’ he asked.
‘Not bad,’ answered the painter at last. ‘A little bit sentimental, in
spite of the strapping limbs; but it’ll all depend upon the execution.
And put her upright, old man; upright, for there would be nothing in it
otherwise.’
The stove was roaring, and Chaîne, still mute, rose up. He prowled about
for a minute, entered the dark back shop, where stood the bed that he
shared with Mahoudeau, and then reappeared, his hat on his head, but
more silent, it seemed, than ever. With his awkward peasant fingers he
leisurely took up a stick of charcoal and then wrote on the wall: ‘I
am going to buy some tobacco; put some more coals in the stove.’ And
forthwith he went out.
Claude, who had watched him writing, turned to the other in amazement.
‘What’s up?’
‘We no longer speak to one another; we write,’ said the sculptor,
quietly.
‘Since when?’
‘Since three months ago.’
‘And you sleep together?’
‘Yes.’
Claude burst out laughing. Ah! dash it all! they must have hard nuts.
But what was the reason of this falling-out? Then Mahoudeau vented his
rage against that brute of a Chaîne! Hadn’t he, one night on coming home
unexpectedly, found him treating Mathilde, the herbalist woman, to a
pot of jam? No, he would never forgive him for treating himself in that
dirty fashion to delicacies on the sly, while he, Mahoudeau, was half
starving, and eating dry bread. The deuce! one ought to share and share
alike.
And the grudge had now lasted for nearly three months without a break,
without an explanation. They had arranged their lives accordingly; they
had reduced their strictly necessary intercourse to a series of short
phrases charcoaled on the walls. As for the rest, they lived as before,
sharing the same bed in the back shop. After all, there was no need for
so much talk in life, people managed to understand one another all the
same.
While filling the stove, Mahoudeau continued to relieve his mind.
‘Well, you may believe me if you like, but when a fellow’s almost
starving it isn’t disagreeable to keep quiet. Yes, one gets numb amidst
silence; it’s like an inside coating that stills the gnawing of the
stomach a bit. Ah, that Chaîne! You haven’t a notion of his peasant
nature. When he had spent his last copper without earning the fortune
he expected by painting, he went into trade, a petty trade, which was to
enable him to finish his studies. Isn’t the fellow a sharp ‘un, eh?
And just listen to his plan. He had some olive oil sent to him from
Saint-Firmin, his village, and then he tramped the streets and found
a market for the oil among well-to-do families from Provence living in
Paris. Unfortunately, it did not last. He is such a clod-hopper that
they showed him the door on all sides. And as there was a jar of oil
left which nobody would buy, well, old man, we live upon it. Yes, on the
days when we happen to have some bread we dip our bread into it.’
Thereupon he pointed to the jar standing in a corner of the shop. Some
of the oil having been spilt, the wall and the floor were darkened by
large greasy stains.
Claude left off laughing. Ah! misery, how discouraging it was! how
could he show himself hard on those whom it crushed? He walked about
the studio, no longer vexed at finding models weakened by concessions
to middle-class taste; he even felt tolerant with regard to that hideous
bust. But, all at once, he came across a copy that Chaîne had made at
the Louvre, a Mantegna, which was marvellously exact in its dryness.
‘Oh, the brute,’ he muttered, ‘it’s almost the original; he’s never done
anything better than that. Perhaps his only fault is that he was born
four centuries too late.’
Then, as the heat became too great, he took off his over-coat, adding:
‘He’s a long while fetching his tobacco.’
‘Oh! his tobacco! I know what that means,’ said Mahoudeau, who had set
to work at his bust, finishing the whiskers; ‘he has simply gone next
door.’
‘Oh! so you still see the herbalist?’
‘Yes, she comes in and out.’
He spoke of Mathilde and Chaîne without the least show of anger, simply
saying that he thought the woman crazy. Since little Jabouille’s death
she had become devout again, though this did not prevent her from
scandalising the neighbourhood. Her business was going to wreck, and
bankruptcy seemed impending. One night, the gas company having cut off
the gas in default of payment, she had come to borrow some of their
olive oil, which, after all, would not burn in the lamps. In short, it
was quite a disaster; that mysterious shop, with its fleeting shadows of
priests’ gowns, its discreet confessional-like whispers, and its odour
of sacristy incense, was gliding to the abandonment of ruin. And the
wretchedness had reached such a point that the dried herbs suspended
from the ceiling swarmed with spiders, while defunct leeches, which had
already turned green, floated on the tops of the glass jars.
‘Hallo, here he comes!’ resumed the sculptor. ‘You’ll see her arrive at
his heels.’
In fact, Chaîne came in. He made a great show of drawing a screw of
tobacco from his pocket, then filled his pipe, and began to smoke in
front of the stove, remaining obstinately silent, as if there were
nobody present. And immediately afterwards Mathilde made her appearance
like a neighbour who comes in to say ‘Good morning.’ Claude thought that
she had grown still thinner, but her eyes were all afire, and her mouth
was seemingly enlarged by the loss of two more teeth. The smell of
aromatic herbs which she always carried in her uncombed hair seemed to
have become rancid. There was no longer the sweetness of camomile,
the freshness of aniseed; she filled the place with a horrid odour of
peppermint that seemed to be her very breath.
‘Already at work!’ she exclaimed. ‘Good morning.’ And, without minding
Claude, she kissed Mahoudeau. Then, after going to shake hands with the
painter in her brazen way, she continued:
‘What do you think? I’ve found a box of mallow root, and we will treat
ourselves to it for breakfast. Isn’t that nice of me now! We’ll share.’
‘Thanks,’ said the sculptor, ‘it makes my mouth sticky. I prefer to
smoke a pipe.’
And, seeing that Claude was putting on his overcoat again, he asked:
‘Are you going?’
‘Yes. I want to get the rust off, and breathe the air of Paris a bit.’
All the same, he stopped for another few minutes watching Chaîne and
Mathilde, who stuffed themselves with mallow root, each taking a piece
by turns. And though he had been warned, he was again amazed when he saw
Mahoudeau take up the stick of charcoal and write on the wall: ‘Give me
the tobacco you have shoved into your pocket.’
Without a word, Chaîne took out the screw and handed it to the sculptor,
who filled his pipe.
‘Well, I’ll see you again soon,’ said Claude.
‘Yes, soon--at any rate, next Thursday, at Sandoz’s.’
Outside, Claude gave an exclamation of surprise on jostling a gentleman,
who stood in front of the herbalist’s peering into the shop.
‘What, Jory! What are you doing there?’
Jory’s big pink nose gave a sniff.
‘I? Nothing. I was passing and looked in,’ said he in dismay.
Then he decided to laugh, and, as if there were any one to overhear him,
lowered his voice to ask:
‘She is next door with our friends, isn’t she? All right; let’s be off,
quick!’
And he took the painter with him, telling him all manner of strange
stories of that creature Mathilde.
‘But you used to say that she was frightful,’ said Claude, laughing.
Jory made a careless gesture. Frightful? No, he had not gone as far as
that. Besides, there might be something attractive about a woman even
though she had a plain face. Then he expressed his surprise at seeing
Claude in Paris, and, when he had been fully posted, and learned that
the painter meant to remain there for good, he all at once exclaimed:
‘Listen, I am going to take you with me. You must come to lunch with me
at Irma’s.’
The painter, taken aback, refused energetically, and gave as a reason
that he wasn’t even wearing a frock-coat.
‘What does that matter? On the contrary, it makes it more droll. She’ll
be delighted. I believe she has a secret partiality for you. She is
always talking about you to us. Come, don’t be a fool. I tell you she
expects me this morning, and we shall be received like princes.’
He did not relax his hold on Claude’s arm, and they both continued their
way towards the Madeleine, talking all the while. As a rule, Jory kept
silent about his many love adventures, just as a drunkard keeps silent
about his potations. But that morning he brimmed over with revelations,
chaffed himself and owned to all sorts of scandalous things. After all
he was delighted with existence, his affairs went apace. His miserly
father had certainly cut off the supplies once more, cursing him for
obstinately pursuing a scandalous career, but he did not care a rap for
that now; he earned between seven and eight thousand francs a year by
journalism, in which he was making his way as a gossipy leader writer
and art critic. The noisy days of ‘The Drummer,’ the articles at a louis
apiece, had been left far behind. He was getting steady, wrote for two
widely circulated papers, and although, in his inmost heart he remained
a sceptical voluptuary, a worshipper of success at any price, he was
acquiring importance, and readers began to look upon his opinions as
fiats. Swayed by hereditary meanness, he already invested money every
month in petty speculations, which were only known to himself, for never
had his vices cost him less than nowadays.
As he and Claude reached the Rue de Moscou, he told the painter that
it was there that Irma Bécot now lived. ‘Oh! she is rolling in wealth,’
said he, ‘paying twenty thousand francs a year rent and talking of
building a house which would cost half a million.’ Then suddenly pulling
up he exclaimed: ‘Come, here we are! In with you, quick!’
But Claude still objected. His wife was waiting for him to lunch; he
really couldn’t. And Jory was obliged to ring the bell, and then push
him inside the hall, repeating that his excuse would not do; for they
would send the valet to the Rue de Douai to tell his wife. A door opened
and they found themselves face to face with Irma Bécot, who uttered a
cry of surprise as soon as she perceived the painter.
‘What! is it you, savage?’ she said.
She made him feel at home at once by treating him like an old chum,
and, in fact, he saw well enough that she did not even notice his old
clothes. He himself was astonished, for he barely recognised her. In
the course of four years she had become a different being; her head was
‘made up’ with all an actress’s skill, her brow hidden beneath a mass of
curly hair, and her face elongated, by a sheer effort of will, no doubt.
And from a pale blonde she had become flaringly carrotty; so that a
Titianesque creature seemed to have sprung from the little urchin-like
girl of former days. Her house, with all its show of luxury, still had
its bald spots. What struck the painter were some good pictures on the
walls, a Courbet, and, above all, an unfinished study by Delacroix. So
this wild, wilful creature was not altogether a fool, although there
was a frightful cat in coloured _biscuit_ standing on a console in the
drawing-room.
When Jory spoke of sending the valet to his friend’s place, she
exclaimed in great surprise:
‘What! you are married?’
‘Why, yes,’ said Claude, simply.
She glanced at Jory, who smiled; then she understood, and added:
‘Ah! But why did people tell me that you were a woman-hater? I’m awfully
vexed, you know. I frightened you, don’t you remember, eh? You still
think me very ugly, don’t you? Well, well, we’ll talk about it all some
other day.’
It was the coachman who went to the Rue de Douai with a note from
Claude, for the valet had opened the door of the dining-room, to
announce that lunch was served. The repast, a very delicate one, was
partaken of in all propriety, under the icy stare of the servant. They
talked about the great building works that were revolutionising Paris;
and then discussed the price of land, like middle-class people with
money to invest. But at dessert, when they were all three alone with the
coffee and liqueurs, which they had decided upon taking there, without
leaving the table, they gradually became animated, and dropped into
their old familiar ways, as if they had met each other at the Café
Baudequin.
‘Ah, my lads,’ said Irma, ‘this is the only real enjoyment, to be jolly
together and to snap one’s fingers at other people.’
She was twisting cigarettes; she had just placed the bottle of
chartreuse near her, and had begun to empty it, looking the while very
flushed, and lapsing once more to her low street drollery.
‘So,’ continued Jory, who was apologising for not having sent her that
morning a book she wanted, ‘I was going to buy it last night at about
ten o’clock, when I met Fagerolles--’
‘You are telling a lie,’ said she, interrupting him in a clear voice.
And to cut short his protestations--‘Fagerolles was here,’ she added,
‘so you see that you are telling a lie.’
Then, turning to Claude, ‘No, it’s too disgusting. You can’t conceive
what a liar he is. He tells lies like a woman, for the pleasure of it,
for the merest trifle. Now, the whole of his story amounts simply to
this: that he didn’t want to spend three francs to buy me that book.
Each time he was to have sent me a bouquet, he had dropped it under the
wheels of a carriage, or there were no flowers to be had in all Paris.
Ah! there’s a fellow who only cares for himself, and no mistake.’
Jory, without getting in the least angry, tilted back his chair and
sucked his cigar, merely saying with a sneer:
‘Oh! if you see Fagerolles now--’
‘Well, what of it?’ she cried, becoming furious. ‘It’s no business of
yours. I snap my fingers at your Fagerolles, do you hear? He knows very
well that people don’t quarrel with me. We know each other; we sprouted
in the same crack between the paving-stones. Look here, whenever I like,
I have only to hold up my finger, and your Fagerolles will be there on
the floor, licking my feet.’
She was growing animated, and Jory thought it prudent to beat a retreat.
‘_My_ Fagerolles,’ he muttered; ‘_my_ Fagerolles.’
‘Yes, _your_ Fagerolles. Do you think that I don’t see through you both?
He is always patting you on the back, as he hopes to get articles out of
you, and you affect generosity and calculate the advantage you’ll derive
if you write up an artist liked by the public.’
This time Jory stuttered, feeling very much annoyed on account of Claude
being there. He did not attempt to defend himself, however, preferring
to turn the quarrel into a joke. Wasn’t she amusing, eh? when she blazed
up like that, with her lustrous wicked eyes, and her twitching mouth,
eager to indulge in vituperation?
‘But remember, my dear, this sort of thing cracks your Titianesque
“make-up,”’ he added.
She began to laugh, mollified at once.
Claude, basking in physical comfort, kept on sipping small glasses of
cognac one after another, without noticing it. During the two hours
they had been there a kind of intoxication had stolen over them, the
hallucinatory intoxication produced by liqueurs and tobacco smoke. They
changed the conversation; the high prices that pictures were
fetching came into question. Irma, who no longer spoke, kept a bit
of extinguished cigarette between her lips, and fixed her eyes on the
painter. At last she abruptly began to question him about his wife.
Her questions did not appear to surprise him; his ideas were going
astray: ‘She had just come from the provinces,’ he said. ‘She was in a
situation with a lady, and was a very good and honest girl.’
‘Pretty?’
‘Why, yes, pretty.’
For a moment Irma relapsed into her reverie, then she said, smiling:
‘Dash it all! How lucky you are!’
Then she shook herself, and exclaimed, rising from the table: ‘Nearly
three o’clock! Ah! my children, I must turn you out of the house. Yes,
I have an appointment with an architect; I am going to see some ground
near the Parc Monceau, you know, in the new quarter which is being
built. I have scented a stroke of business in that direction.’
They had returned to the drawing-room. She stopped before a
looking-glass, annoyed at seeing herself so flushed.
‘It’s about that house, isn’t it?’ asked Jory. ‘You have found the
money, then?’
She brought her hair down over her brow again, then with her hands
seemed to efface the flush on her cheeks; elongated the oval of her
face, and rearranged her tawny head, which had all the charm of a work
of art; and finally, turning round, she merely threw Jory these words by
way of reply: Look! there’s my Titianesque effect back again.’
She was already, amidst their laughter, edging them towards the hall,
where once more, without speaking, she took Claude’s hands in her own,
her glance yet again diving into the depths of his eyes. When he
reached the street he felt uncomfortable. The cold air dissipated his
intoxication; he remorsefully reproached himself for having spoken of
Christine in that house, and swore to himself that he would never set
foot there again.
Indeed, a kind of shame deterred Claude from going home, and when his
companion, excited by the luncheon and feeling inclined to loaf about,
spoke of going to shake hands with Bongrand, he was delighted with the
idea, and both made their way to the Boulevard de Clichy.
For the last twenty years Bongrand had there occupied a very large
studio, in which he had in no wise sacrificed to the tastes of the
day, to that magnificence of hangings and nick-nacks with which young
painters were then beginning to surround themselves. It was the bare,
greyish studio of the old style, exclusively ornamented with sketches
by the master, which hung there unframed, and in close array like the
votive offerings in a chapel. The only tokens of elegance consisted of
a cheval glass, of the First Empire style, a large Norman wardrobe, and
two arm-chairs upholstered in Utrecht velvet, and threadbare with
usage. In one corner, too, a bearskin which had lost nearly all its
hair covered a large couch. However, the artist had retained since his
youthful days, which had been spent in the camp of the Romanticists, the
habit of wearing a special costume, and it was in flowing trousers, in
a dressing-gown secured at the waist by a silken cord, and with his head
covered with a priest’s skull-cap, that he received his visitors.
He came to open the door himself, holding his palette and brushes.
‘So here you are! It was a good idea of yours to come! I was thinking
about you, my dear fellow. Yes, I don’t know who it was that told me of
your return, but I said to myself that it wouldn’t be long before I saw
you.’
The hand that he had free grasped Claude’s in a burst of sincere
affection. He then shook Jory’s, adding:
‘And you, young pontiff; I read your last article, and thank you for
your kind mention of myself. Come in, come in, both of you! You don’t
disturb me; I’m taking advantage of the daylight to the very last
minute, for there’s hardly time to do anything in this confounded month
of November.’
He had resumed his work, standing before his easel, on which there was
a small canvas, which showed two women, mother and daughter, sitting
sewing in the embrasure of a sunlit window. The young fellows stood
looking behind him.
‘Exquisite,’ murmured Claude, at last.
Bongrand shrugged his shoulders without turning round.
‘Pooh! A mere nothing at all. A fellow must occupy his time, eh? I did
this from life at a friend’s house, and I am cleaning it a bit.’
‘But it’s perfect--it is a little gem of truth and light,’ replied
Claude, warming up. ‘And do you know, what overcomes me is its
simplicity, its very simplicity.’
On hearing this the painter stepped back and blinked his eyes, looking
very much surprised.
‘You think so? It really pleases you? Well, when you came in I was just
thinking it was a foul bit of work. I give you my word, I was in the
dumps, and felt convinced that I hadn’t a scrap of talent left.’
His hands shook, his stalwart frame trembled as with the agony of
travail. He rid himself of his palette, and came back towards them,
his arms sawing the air, as it were; and this artist, who had grown old
amidst success, who was assured of ranking in the French School, cried
to them:
‘It surprises you, eh? but there are days when I ask myself whether
I shall be able to draw a nose correctly. Yes, with every one of my
pictures I still feel the emotion of a beginner; my heart beats, anguish
parches my mouth--in fact, I funk abominably. Ah! you youngsters, you
think you know what funk means; but you haven’t as much as a notion
of it, for if you fail with one work, you get quits by trying to do
something better. Nobody is down upon you; whereas we, the veterans,
who have given our measure, who are obliged to keep up to the level
previously attained, if not to surpass it, we mustn’t weaken under
penalty of rolling down into the common grave. And so, Mr. Celebrity,
Mr. Great Artist, wear out your brains, consume yourself in striving to
climb higher, still higher, ever higher, and if you happen to kick
your heels on the summit, think yourself lucky! Wear your heels out
in kicking them up as long as possible, and if you feel that you are
declining, why, make an end of yourself by rolling down amid the death
rattle of your talent, which is no longer suited to the period; roll
down forgetful of such of your works as are destined to immortality, and
in despair at your powerless efforts to create still further!’
His full voice had risen to a final outburst like thunder, and his
broad flushed face wore an expression of anguish. He strode about,
and continued, as if carried away, in spite of himself, by a violent
whirlwind:
‘I have told you a score of times that one was for ever beginning one’s
career afresh, that joy did not consist in having reached the summit,
but in the climbing, in the gaiety of scaling the heights. Only, you
don’t understand, you cannot understand; a man must have passed through
it. Just remember! You hope for everything, you dream of everything; it
is the hour of boundless illusions, and your legs are so strong that the
most fatiguing roads seem short; you are consumed with such an appetite
for glory, that the first petty successes fill your mouth with a
delicious taste. What a feast it will be when you are able to gratify
ambition to satiety! You have nearly reached that point, and you look
right cheerfully on your scratches! Well, the thing is accomplished; the
summit has been gained; it is now a question of remaining there. Then
a life of abomination begins; you have exhausted intoxication, and you
have discovered that it does not last long enough, that it is not worth
the struggle it has cost, and that the dregs of the cup taste bitter.
There is nothing left to be learnt, no new sensation to be felt; pride
has had its allowance of fame; you know that you have produced your
greatest works; and you are surprised that they did not bring keener
enjoyment with them. From that moment the horizon becomes void; no fresh
hope inflames you; there is nothing left but to die. And yet you still
cling on, you won’t admit that it’s all up with you, you obstinately
persist in trying to produce--just as old men cling to love with
painful, ignoble efforts. Ah! a man ought to have the courage and the
pride to strangle himself before his last masterpiece!’
While he spoke he seemed to have increased in stature, reaching to the
elevated ceiling of the studio, and shaken by such keen emotion that
the tears started to his eyes. And he dropped into a chair before his
picture, asking with the anxious look of a beginner who has need of
encouragement:
‘Then this really seems to you all right? I myself no longer dare to
believe anything. My unhappiness springs from the possession of both too
much and not enough critical acumen. The moment I begin a sketch I exalt
it, then, if it’s not successful, I torture myself. It would be better
not to know anything at all about it, like that brute Chambouvard, or
else to see very clearly into the business and then give up painting....
Really now, you like this little canvas?’
Claude and Jory remained motionless, astonished and embarrassed by those
tokens of the intense anguish of art in its travail. Had they come at a
moment of crisis, that this master thus groaned with pain, and consulted
them like comrades? The worst was that they had been unable to disguise
some hesitation when they found themselves under the gaze of the ardent,
dilated eyes with which he implored them--eyes in which one could read
the hidden fear of decline. They knew current rumours well enough; they
agreed with the opinion that since his ‘Village Wedding’ the painter had
produced nothing equal to that famous picture. Indeed, after maintaining
something of that standard of excellence in a few works, he was now
gliding into a more scientific, drier manner. Brightness of colour
was vanishing; each work seemed to show a decline. However, these were
things not to be said; so Claude, when he had recovered his composure,
exclaimed:
‘You never painted anything so powerful!’
Bongrand looked at him again, straight in the eyes. Then he turned
to his work, in which he became absorbed, making a movement with his
herculean arms, as if he were breaking every bone of them to lift that
little canvas which was so very light. And he muttered to himself:
‘Confound it! how heavy it is! Never mind, I’ll die at it rather than
show a falling-off.’
He took up his palette and grew calm at the first stroke of the brush,
while bending his manly shoulders and broad neck, about which one
noticed traces of peasant build remaining amid the bourgeois refinement
contributed by the crossing of classes of which he was the outcome.
Silence had ensued, but Jory, his eyes still fixed on the picture,
asked:
‘Is it sold?’
Bongrand replied leisurely, like the artist who works when he likes
without care of profit:
‘No; I feel paralysed when I’ve a dealer at my back.’ And, without
pausing in his work, he went on talking, growing waggish.
‘Ah! people are beginning to make a trade of painting now. Really and
truly I have never seen such a thing before, old as I am getting. For
instance, you, Mr. Amiable Journalist, what a quantity of flowers you
fling to the young ones in that article in which you mentioned me! There
were two or three youngsters spoken of who were simply geniuses, nothing
less.’
Jory burst out laughing.
‘Well, when a fellow has a paper, he must make use of it. Besides, the
public likes to have great men discovered for it.’
‘No doubt, public stupidity is boundless, and I am quite willing that
you should trade on it. Only I remember the first starts that we old
fellows had. Dash it! We were not spoiled like that, I can tell you.
We had ten years’ labour and struggle before us ere we could impose
on people a picture the size of your hand; whereas nowadays the first
hobbledehoy who can stick a figure on its legs makes all the trumpets of
publicity blare. And what kind of publicity is it? A hullabaloo from one
end of France to the other, sudden reputations that shoot up of a night,
and burst upon one like thunderbolts, amid the gaping of the throng.
And I say nothing of the works themselves, those works announced with
salvoes of artillery, awaited amid a delirium of impatience, maddening
Paris for a week, and then falling into everlasting oblivion!’
‘This is an indictment against journalism,’ said Jory, who had stretched
himself on the couch and lighted another cigar. ‘There is a great deal
to be said for and against it, but devil a bit, a man must keep pace
with the times.’
Bongrand shook his head, and then started off again, amid a tremendous
burst of mirth:
‘No! no! one can no longer throw off the merest daub without being
hailed as a young “master.” Well, if you only knew how your young
masters amuse me!’
But as if these words had led to some other ideas, he cooled down, and
turned towards Claude to ask this question: ‘By the way, have you seen
Fagerolles’ picture?’
‘Yes,’ said the young fellow, quietly.
They both remained looking at each other: a restless smile had risen to
their lips, and Bongrand eventually added:
‘There’s a fellow who pillages you right and left.’
Jory, becoming embarrassed, had lowered his eyes, asking himself whether
he should defend Fagerolles. He, no doubt, concluded that it would be
profitable to do so, for he began to praise the picture of the actress
in her dressing-room, an engraving of which was then attracting a great
deal of notice in the print-shops. Was not the subject a really modern
one? Was it not well painted, in the bright clear tone of the new
school? A little more vigour might, perhaps, have been desirable;
but every one ought to be left to his own temperament. And besides,
refinement and charm were not so common by any means, nowadays.
Bending over his canvas, Bongrand, who, as a rule, had nothing but
paternal praise for the young ones, shook and made a visible effort
to avoid an outburst. The explosion took place, however, in spite of
himself.
‘Just shut up, eh? about your Fagerolles! Do you think us greater fools
than we really are? There! you see the great painter here present.
Yes; I mean the young gentleman in front of you. Well, the whole trick
consists in pilfering his originality, and dishing it up with the
wishy-washy sauce of the School of Arts! Quite so! you select a modern
subject, and you paint in the clear bright style, only you adhere to
correctly commonplace drawing, to all the habitual pleasing style of
composition--in short, to the formula which is taught over yonder
for the pleasure of the middle-classes. And you souse all that with
deftness, that execrable deftness of the fingers which would just
as well carve cocoanuts, the flowing, pleasant deftness that begets
success, and which ought to be punished with penal servitude, do you
hear?’
He brandished his palette and brushes aloft, in his clenched fists.
‘You are severe,’ said Claude, feeling embarrassed. ‘Fagerolles shows
delicacy in his work.’
‘I have been told,’ muttered Jory, mildly, ‘that he has just signed a
very profitable agreement with Naudet.’
That name, thrown haphazard into the conversation, had the effect of
once more soothing Bongrand, who repeated, shrugging his shoulders:
‘Ah! Naudet--ah! Naudet.’
And he greatly amused the young fellows by telling them about Naudet,
with whom he was well acquainted. He was a dealer, who, for some few
years, had been revolutionising the picture trade. There was nothing of
the old fashion about his style--the greasy coat and keen taste of
Papa Malgras, the watching for the pictures of beginners, bought at ten
francs, to be resold at fifteen, all the little humdrum comedy of
the connoisseur, turning up his nose at a coveted canvas in order to
depreciate it, worshipping painting in his inmost heart, and earning a
meagre living by quickly and prudently turning over his petty capital.
No, no; the famous Naudet had the appearance of a nobleman, with a
fancy-pattern jacket, a diamond pin in his scarf, and patent-leather
boots; he was well pomaded and brushed, and lived in fine style, with
a livery-stable carriage by the month, a stall at the opera, and his
particular table at Bignon’s. And he showed himself wherever it was the
correct thing to be seen. For the rest, he was a speculator, a
Stock Exchange gambler, not caring one single rap about art. But he
unfailingly scented success, he guessed what artist ought to be properly
started, not the one who seemed likely to develop the genius of a great
painter, furnishing food for discussion, but the one whose deceptive
talent, set off by a pretended display of audacity, would command a
premium in the market. And that was the way in which he revolutionised
that market, giving the amateur of taste the cold shoulder, and only
treating with the moneyed amateur, who knew nothing about art, but who
bought a picture as he might buy a share at the Stock Exchange, either
from vanity or with the hope that it would rise in value.
At this stage of the conversation Bongrand, very jocular by nature,
and with a good deal of the mummer about him, began to enact the scene.
Enter Naudet in Fagerolles’ studio.
‘“You’ve real genius, my dear fellow. Your last picture is sold, then?
For how much?”
‘“For five hundred francs.”
‘“But you must be mad; it was worth twelve hundred. And this one which
you have by you--how much?”
‘“Well, my faith, I don’t know. Suppose we say twelve hundred?”
‘“What are you talking about? Twelve hundred francs! You don’t
understand me, then, my boy; it’s worth two thousand. I take it at
two thousand. And from this day forward you must work for no one but
myself--for me, Naudet. Good-bye, good-bye, my dear fellow; don’t
overwork yourself--your fortune is made. I have taken it in hand.”
Wherewith he goes off, taking the picture with him in his carriage. He
trots it round among his amateurs, among whom he has spread the rumour
that he has just discovered an extraordinary painter. One of the
amateurs bites at last, and asks the price.
“‘Five thousand.”
‘“What, five thousand francs for the picture of a man whose name hasn’t
the least notoriety? Are you playing the fool with me?”
‘“Look here, I’ll make you a proposal; I’ll sell it you for five
thousand francs, and I’ll sign an agreement to take it back in a
twelvemonth at six thousand, if you no longer care for it.”
Of course the amateur is tempted. What does he risk after all? In
reality it’s a good speculation, and so he buys. After that Naudet loses
no time, but disposes in a similar manner of nine or ten paintings by
the same man during the course of the year. Vanity gets mingled with the
hope of gain, the prices go up, the pictures get regularly quoted, so
that when Naudet returns to see his amateur, the latter, instead of
returning the picture, buys another one for eight thousand francs. And
the prices continue to go up, and painting degenerates into something
shady, a kind of gold mine situated on the heights of Montmartre,
promoted by a number of bankers, and around which there is a constant
battle of bank-notes.’
Claude was growing indignant, but Jory thought it all very clever, when
there came a knock at the door. Bongrand, who went to open it, uttered a
cry of surprise.
‘Naudet, as I live! We were just talking about you.’
Naudet, very correctly dressed, without a speck of mud on him, despite
the horrible weather, bowed and came in with the reverential politeness
of a man of society entering a church.
‘Very pleased--feel flattered, indeed, dear master. And you only spoke
well of me, I’m sure of it.’
‘Not at all, Naudet, not at all,’ said Bongrand, in a quiet tone. ‘We
were saying that your manner of trading was giving us a nice generation
of artists--tricksters crossed with dishonest business men.’
Naudet smiled, without losing his composure.
‘The remark is harsh, but so charming! Never mind, never mind, dear
master, nothing that you say offends me.’
And, dropping into ecstasy before the picture of the two little women at
needlework:
‘Ah! Good heavens, I didn’t know this, it’s a little marvel! Ah! that
light, that broad substantial treatment! One has to go back to Rembrandt
for anything like it; yes, to Rembrandt! Look here, I only came in to
pay my respects, but I thank my lucky star for having brought me here.
Let us do a little bit of business. Let me have this gem. Anything you
like to ask for it--I’ll cover it with gold.’
One could see Bongrand’s back shake, as if his irritation were
increasing at each sentence. He curtly interrupted the dealer.
‘Too late; it’s sold.’
‘Sold, you say. And you cannot annul your bargain? Tell me, at any rate,
to whom it’s sold? I’ll do everything, I’ll give anything. Ah! What a
horrible blow! Sold, are you quite sure of it? Suppose you were offered
double the sum?’
‘It’s sold, Naudet. That’s enough, isn’t it?’
However, the dealer went on lamenting. He remained for a few minutes
longer, going into raptures before other sketches, while making the tour
of the studio with the keen glances of a speculator in search of luck.
When he realised that his time was badly chosen, and that he would be
able to take nothing away with him, he went off, bowing with an air of
gratitude, and repeating remarks of admiration as far as the landing.
As soon as he had gone, Jory, who had listened to the conversation with
surprise, ventured to ask a question:
‘But you told us, I thought--It isn’t sold, is it?’
Without immediately answering, Bongrand went back to his picture. Then,
in his thundering voice, resuming in one cry all his hidden suffering,
the whole of the nascent struggle within him which he dared not avow, he
said:
‘He plagues me. He shall never have anything of mine! Let him go and buy
of Fagerolles!’
A quarter of an hour later, Claude and Jory also said good-bye, leaving
Bongrand struggling with his work in the waning daylight. Once outside,
when the young painter had left his companion, he did not at once return
home to the Rue de Douai, in spite of his long absence. He still felt
the want of walking about, of surrendering himself up to that great
city of Paris, where the meetings of one single day sufficed to fill
his brain; and this need of motion made him wander about till the black
night had fallen, through the frozen mud of the streets, beneath the
gas-lamps, which, lighted up one by one, showed like nebulous stars
amidst the fog.
Claude impatiently awaited the Thursday when he was to dine at Sandoz’s,
for the latter, immutable in his habits, still invited his cronies to
dinner once a week. All those who chose could come, their covers were
laid. His marriage, his change of life, the ardent literary struggle
into which he had thrown himself, made no difference; he kept to his day
‘at home,’ that Thursday which dated from the time he had left college,
from the time they had all smoked their first pipes. As he himself
expressed it, alluding to his wife, there was only one chum more.
‘I say, old man,’ he had frankly said to Claude, ‘I’m greatly worried--’
‘What about?’
‘Why, about inviting Madame Christine. There are a lot of idiots, a lot
of philistines watching me, who would say all manner of things--’
‘You are quite right, old man. But Christine herself would decline to
come. Oh! we understand the position very well. I’ll come alone, depend
upon it.’
At six o’clock, Claude started for Sandoz’s place in the Rue Nollet, in
the depths of Batignolles, and he had no end of trouble in finding the
small pavilion which his friend had rented. First of all he entered a
large house facing the street, and applied to the doorkeeper, who made
him cross three successive courtyards; then he went down a passage,
between two other buildings, descended some steps, and tumbled upon the
iron gate of a small garden. That was the spot, the pavilion was there
at the end of a path. But it was so dark, and he had nearly broken his
legs coming down the steps, that he dared not venture any further, the
more so as a huge dog was barking furiously. At last he heard the voice
of Sandoz, who was coming forward and trying to quiet the dog.
‘Ah, it’s you! We are quite in the country, aren’t we? We are going to
set up a lantern, so that our company may not break their necks. Come
in, come in! Will you hold your noise, you brute of a Bertrand? Don’t
you see that it’s a friend, fool?’
Thereupon the dog accompanied them as far as the pavilion, wagging his
tail and barking joyously. A young servant-girl had come out with
a lantern, which she fastened to the gate, in order to light up the
breakneck steps. In the garden there was simply a small central lawn,
on which there stood a large plum tree, diffusing a shade around that
rotted the grass; and just in front of the low house, which showed only
three windows, there stretched an arbour of Virginia creeper, with a
brand-new seat shining there as an ornament amid the winter showers,
pending the advent of the summer sun.
‘Come in,’ repeated Sandoz.
On the right-hand side of the hall he ushered Claude into the parlour,
which he had turned into a study. The dining-room and kitchen were
on the left. Upstairs, his mother, who was now altogether bedridden,
occupied the larger room, while he and his wife contented themselves
with the other one, and a dressing-room that parted the two. That was
the whole place, a real cardboard box, with rooms like little drawers
separated by partitions as thin as paper. Withal, it was the abode of
work and hope, vast in comparison with the ordinary garrets of youth,
and already made bright by a beginning of comfort and luxury.
‘There’s room here, eh?’ he exclaimed. ‘Ah! it’s a jolly sight more
comfortable than the Rue d’Enfer. You see that I’ve a room to myself.
And I have bought myself an oaken writing-table, and my wife made me
a present of that dwarf palm in that pot of old Rouen ware. Isn’t it
swell, eh?’
His wife came in at that very moment. Tall, with a pleasant, tranquil
face and beautiful brown hair, she wore a large white apron over her
plainly made dress of black poplin; for although they had a regular
servant, she saw to the cooking, for she was proud of certain of
her dishes, and she put the household on a footing of middle-class
cleanliness and love of cheer.
She and Claude became old chums at once.
‘Call him Claude, my darling. And you, old man, call her Henriette. No
madame nor monsieur, or I shall fine you five sous each time.’
They laughed, and she scampered away, being wanted in the kitchen to
look after a southern dish, a _bouillabaisse_, with which she wished
to surprise the Plassans friend. She had obtained the recipe from her
husband himself, and had become marvellously deft at it, so he said.
‘Your wife is charming,’ said Claude, ‘and I see she spoils you.’
But Sandoz, seated at his table, with his elbows among such pages of the
book he was working at as he had written that morning, began to talk of
the first novel of his series, which he had published in October. Ah!
they had treated his poor book nicely! It had been a throttling,
a butchering, all the critics yelling at his heels, a broadside of
imprecations, as if he had murdered people in a wood. He himself laughed
at it, excited rather than otherwise, for he had sturdy shoulders and
the quiet bearing of a toiler who knows what he’s after. Mere surprise
remained to him at the profound lack of intelligence shown by those
fellows the critics, whose articles, knocked off on the corner of some
table, bespattered him with mud, without appearing as much as to guess
at the least of his intentions. Everything was flung into the same
slop-pail of abuse: his studies of physiological man; the important part
he assigned to circumstances and surroundings; his allusions to nature,
ever and ever creating; in short, life--entire, universal life--existent
through all the animal world without there really being either high
or low, beauty or ugliness; he was insulted, too, for his boldness of
language for the conviction he expressed that all things ought to be
said, that there are abominable expressions which become necessary,
like branding irons, and that a language emerges enriched from such
strength-giving baths. He easily granted their anger, but he would at
least have liked them to do him the honour of understanding him and
getting angry at his audacity, not at the idiotic, filthy designs of
which he was accused.
‘Really,’ he continued, ‘I believe that the world still contains more
idiots than downright spiteful people. They are enraged with me on
account of the form I give to my productions, the written sentences, the
similes, the very life of my style. Yes, the middle-classes fairly split
with hatred of literature!’
Then he became silent, having grown sad.
‘Never mind,’ said Claude, after an interval, ‘you are happy, you at
least work, you produce--’
Sandoz had risen from his seat with a gesture of sudden pain.
‘True, I work. I work out my books to their last pages--But if you only
knew, if I told you amidst what discouragement, amidst what torture!
Won’t those idiots take it into their heads to accuse me of pride! I,
whom the imperfection of my work pursues even in my sleep--I, who
never look over the pages of the day before, lest I should find them so
execrable that I might afterwards lack the courage to continue. Oh, I
work, no doubt, I work! I go on working, as I go on living, because I
am born to it, but I am none the gayer on account of it. I am never
satisfied; there is always a great collapse at the end.’
He was interrupted by a loud exclamation outside, and Jory appeared,
delighted with life, and relating that he had just touched up an old
article in order to have the evening to himself. Almost immediately
afterwards Gagnière and Mahoudeau, who had met at the door, came in
conversing together. The former, who had been absorbed for some months
in a theory of colours, was explaining his system to the other.
‘I paint my shade in,’ he continued, as if in a dream. ‘The red of the
flag loses its brightness and becomes yellowish because it stands
out against the blue of the sky, the complementary shade of
which--orange--blends with red--’
Claude, interested at once, was already questioning him when the servant
brought in a telegram.
‘All right,’ said Sandoz, ‘it’s from Dubuche, who apologises; he
promises to come and surprise us at about eleven o’clock.’
At this moment Henriette threw the door wide open, and personally
announced that dinner was ready. She had doffed her white apron, and
cordially shook hands, as hostess, with all of them. ‘Take your seats!
take your seats!’ was her cry. It was half-past seven already, the
_bouillabaisse_ could not wait. Jory, having observed that Fagerolles
had sworn to him that he would come, they would not believe it.
Fagerolles was getting ridiculous with his habit of aping the great
artist overwhelmed with work!
The dining-room into which they passed was so small that, in order to
make room for a piano, a kind of alcove had been made out of a dark
closet which had formerly served for the accommodation of crockery.
However, on grand occasions half a score of people still gathered round
the table, under the white porcelain hanging lamp, but this was only
accomplished by blocking up the sideboard, so that the servant could not
even pass to take a plate from it. However, it was the mistress of the
house who carved, while the master took his place facing her, against
the blockaded sideboard, in order to hand round whatever things might be
required.
Henriette had placed Claude on her right hand, Mahoudeau on her left,
while Gagnière and Jory were seated next to Sandoz.
‘Françoise,’ she called, ‘give me the slices of toast. They are on the
range.’
And the girl having brought the toast, she distributed two slices to
each of them, and was beginning to ladle the _bouillabaisse_ into the
plates, when the door opened once more.
‘Fagerolles at last!’ she said. ‘I have given your seat to Mahoudeau.
Sit down there, next to Claude.’
He apologised with an air of courtly politeness, by alleging a business
appointment. Very elegantly dressed, tightly buttoned up in clothes of
an English cut, he had the carriage of a man about town, relieved by
the retention of a touch of artistic free-and-easiness. Immediately on
sitting down he grasped his neighbour’s hand, affecting great delight.
‘Ah, my old Claude! I have for such a long time wanted to see you. A
score of times I intended going after you into the country; but then,
you know, circumstances--’
Claude, feeling uncomfortable at these protestations, endeavoured to
meet them with a like cordiality. But Henriette, who was still serving,
saved the situation by growing impatient.
‘Come, Fagerolles, just answer me. Do you wish two slices of toast?’
‘Certainly, madame, two, if you please. I am very fond of
_bouillabaisse_. Besides, yours is delicious, a marvel!’
In fact, they all went into raptures over it, especially Jory and
Mahoudeau, who declared they had never tasted anything better at
Marseilles; so much so, that the young wife, delighted and still flushed
with the heat of the kitchen, her ladle in her hand, had all she could
do to refill the plates held out to her; and, indeed, she rose up and
ran in person to the kitchen to fetch the remains of the soup, for the
servant-girl was losing her wits.
‘Come, eat something,’ said Sandoz to her. ‘We’ll wait well enough till
you have done.’
But she was obstinate and remained standing.
‘Never mind me. You had better pass the bread--yes, there, behind you on
the sideboard. Jory prefers crumb, which he can soak in the soup.’
Sandoz rose in his turn and assisted his wife, while the others chaffed
Jory on his love for sops. And Claude, moved by the pleasant cordiality
of his hosts, and awaking, as it were, from a long sleep, looked at them
all, asking himself whether he had only left them on the previous night,
or whether four years had really elapsed since he had dined with them
one Thursday. They were different, however; he felt them to be changed:
Mahoudeau soured by misery, Jory wrapt up in his own pleasures, Gagnière
more distant, with his thoughts elsewhere. And it especially seemed to
him that Fagerolles was chilly, in spite of his exaggerated cordiality
of manner. No doubt their features had aged somewhat amid the wear and
tear of life; but it was not only that which he noticed, it seemed to
him also as if there was a void between them; he beheld them isolated
and estranged from each other, although they were seated elbow to elbow
in close array round the table. Then the surroundings were different;
nowadays, a woman brought her charm to bear on them, and calmed them by
her presence. Then why did he, face to face with the irrevocable current
of things, which die and are renewed, experience that sensation of
beginning something over again--why was it that he could have sworn that
he had been seated at that same place only last Thursday? At last he
thought he understood. It was Sandoz who had not changed, who remained
as obstinate as regards his habits of friendship, as regards his habits
of work, as radiant at being able to receive his friends at the board of
his new home as he had formerly been, when sharing his frugal bachelor
fare with them. A dream of eternal friendship made him changeless.
Thursdays similar one to another followed and followed on until the
furthest stages of their lives. All of them were eternally together, all
started at the self-same hour, and participated in the same triumph!
Sandoz must have guessed the thought that kept Claude mute, for he said
to him across the table, with his frank, youthful smile:
‘Well, old man, here you are again! Ah, confound it! we missed you
sorely. But, you see, nothing is changed; we are all the same--aren’t
we, all of you?’
They answered by nodding their heads--no doubt, no doubt!
‘With this difference,’ he went on, beaming--‘with this difference, that
the cookery is somewhat better than in the Rue d’Enfer! What a lot of
messes I did make you swallow!’
After the _bouillabaisse_ there came a _civet_ of hare; and a roast fowl
and salad terminated the dinner. But they sat for a long time at table,
and the dessert proved a protracted affair, although the conversation
lacked the fever and violence of yore. Every one spoke of himself and
ended by relapsing into silence on perceiving that the others did not
listen to him. With the cheese, however, when they had tasted some
burgundy, a sharp little growth, of which the young couple had ordered a
cask out of the profits of Sandoz’s first novel, their voices rose to a
higher key, and they all grew animated.
‘So you have made an arrangement with Naudet, eh?’ asked Mahoudeau,
whose bony cheeks seemed to have grown yet more hollow. ‘Is it true that
he guarantees you fifty thousand francs for the first year?’
Fagerolles replied, with affected carelessness, ‘Yes, fifty thousand
francs. But nothing is settled; I’m thinking it over. It is hard to
engage oneself like that. I am not going to do anything precipitately.’
‘The deuce!’ muttered the sculptor; ‘you are hard to please. For twenty
francs a day I’d sign whatever you like.’
They all now listened to Fagerolles, who posed as being wearied by
his budding success. He still had the same good-looking, disturbing
hussy-like face, but the fashion in which he wore his hair and the cut
of his beard lent him an appearance of gravity. Although he still came
at long intervals to Sandoz’s, he was separating from the band; he
showed himself on the boulevards, frequented the cafés and newspaper
offices--all the places where a man can advertise himself and make
useful acquaintances. These were tactics of his own, a determination to
carve his own victory apart from the others; the smart idea that if he
wished to triumph he ought to have nothing more in common with those
revolutionists, neither dealer, nor connections, nor habits. It was
even said that he had interested the female element of two or three
drawing-rooms in his success, not in Jory’s style, but like a vicious
fellow who rises superior to his passions, and is content to adulate
superannuated baronesses.
Just then Jory, in view of lending importance to himself, called
Fagerolles’ attention to a recently published article; he pretended that
he had made Fagerolles just as he pretended that he had made Claude.
‘I say, have you read that article of Vernier’s about yourself? There’s
another fellow who repeats my ideas!’
‘Ah, he does get articles, and no mistake!’ sighed Mahoudeau.
Fagerolles made a careless gesture, but he smiled with secret contempt
for all those poor beggars who were so utterly deficient in shrewdness
that they clung, like simpletons, to their crude style, when it was so
easy to conquer the crowd. Had it not sufficed for him to break with
them, after pillaging them, to make his own fortune? He benefited by
all the hatred that folks had against them; his pictures, of a softened,
attenuated style, were held up in praise, so as to deal the death-blow
to their ever obstinately violent works.
‘Have you read Vernier’s article?’ asked Jory of Gagnière. ‘Doesn’t he
say exactly what I said?’
For the last few moments Gagnière had been absorbed in contemplating
his glass, the wine in which cast a ruddy reflection on the white
tablecloth. He started:
‘Eh, what, Vernier’s article?’
‘Why, yes; in fact, all those articles which appear about Fagerolles.’
Gagnière in amazement turned to the painter.
‘What, are they writing articles about you? I know nothing about them, I
haven’t seen them. Ah! they are writing articles about you, but whatever
for?’
There was a mad roar of laughter. Fagerolles alone grinned with an
ill grace, for he fancied himself the butt of some spiteful joke. But
Gagnière spoke in absolute good faith. He felt surprised at the success
of a painter who did not even observe the laws regulating the value of
tints. Success for that trickster! Never! For in that case what would
become of conscientiousness?
This boisterous hilarity enlivened the end of the dinner. They all left
off eating, though the mistress of the house still insisted upon filling
their plates.
‘My dear, do attend to them,’ she kept saying to Sandoz, who had
grown greatly excited amidst the din. ‘Just stretch out your hand; the
biscuits are on the side-board.’
They all declined anything more, and rose up. As the rest of the evening
was to be spent there, round the table, drinking tea, they leaned back
against the walls and continued chatting while the servant cleared
away. The young couple assisted, Henriette putting the salt-cellars in a
drawer, and Sandoz helping to fold the cloth.
‘You can smoke,’ said Henriette. ‘You know that it doesn’t inconvenience
me in the least.’
Fagerolles, who had drawn Claude into the window recess, offered him a
cigar, which was declined.
‘True, I forgot; you don’t smoke. Ah! I say, I must go to see what you
have brought back with you. Some very interesting things, no doubt. You
know what I think of your talent. You are the cleverest of us all.’
He showed himself very humble, sincere at heart, and allowing his
admiration of former days to rise once more to the surface; indeed,
he for ever bore the imprint of another’s genius, which he admitted,
despite the complex calculations of his cunning mind. But his humility
was mingled with a certain embarrassment very rare with him--the
concern he felt at the silence which the master of his youth preserved
respecting his last picture. At last he ventured to ask, with quivering
lips:
‘Did you see my actress at the Salon? Do you like it? Tell me candidly.’
Claude hesitated for a moment; then, like the good-natured fellow he
was, said:
‘Yes; there are some very good bits in it.’
Fagerolles already repented having asked that stupid question, and he
ended by altogether floundering; he tried to excuse himself for his
plagiarisms and his compromises. When with great difficulty he had
got out of the mess, enraged with himself for his clumsiness, he for a
moment became the joker of yore again, made even Claude laugh till he
cried, and amused them all. At last he held out his hand to take leave
of Henriette.
‘What, going so soon?’
‘Alas! yes, dear madame. This evening my father is entertaining the head
of a department at one of the ministries, an official whom he’s trying
to influence in view of obtaining a decoration; and, as I am one of his
titles to that distinction, I had to promise that I would look in.’
When he was gone, Henriette, who had exchanged a few words in a low
voice with Sandoz, disappeared; and her light footfall was heard on the
first floor. Since her marriage it was she who tended the old, infirm
mother, absenting herself in this fashion several times during the
evening, just as the son had done formerly.
Not one of the guests, however, had noticed her leave the room.
Mahoudeau and Gagnière were now talking about Fagerolles; showing
themselves covertly bitter, without openly attacking him. As yet
they contented themselves with ironical glances and shrugs of the
shoulders--all the silent contempt of fellows who don’t wish to slash a
chum. Then they fell back on Claude; they prostrated themselves before
him, overwhelmed him with the hopes they set in him. Ah! it was high
time for him to come back, for he alone, with his great gifts, his
vigorous touch, could become the master, the recognised chief. Since
the Salon of the Rejected the ‘school of the open air’ had increased in
numbers; a growing influence was making itself felt; but unfortunately,
the efforts were frittered away; the new recruits contented themselves
with producing sketches, impressions thrown off with a few strokes of
the brush; they were awaiting the necessary man of genius, the one who
would incarnate the new formula in masterpieces. What a position to
take! to master the multitude, to open up a century, to create a new
art! Claude listened to them, with his eyes turned to the floor and his
face very pale. Yes, that indeed was his unavowed dream, the ambition he
dared not confess to himself. Only, with the delight that the flattery
caused him, there was mingled a strange anguish, a dread of the future,
as he heard them raising him to the position of dictator, as if he had
already triumphed.
‘Don’t,’ he exclaimed at last; ‘there are others as good as myself. I am
still seeking my real line.’
Jory, who felt annoyed, was smoking in silence. Suddenly, as the others
obstinately kept at it, he could not refrain from remarking:
‘All this, my boys, is because you are vexed at Fagerolles’ success.’
They energetically denied it; they burst out in protestations.
Fagerolles, the young master! What a good joke!
‘Oh, you are turning your back upon us, we know it,’ said Mahoudeau.
‘There’s no fear of your writing a line about us nowadays.’
‘Well, my dear fellow,’ answered Jory, vexed, ‘everything I write about
you is cut out. You make yourselves hated everywhere. Ah! if I had a
paper of my own!’
Henriette came back, and Sandoz’s eyes having sought hers, she answered
him with a glance and the same affectionate, quiet smile that he had
shown when leaving his mother’s room in former times. Then she summoned
them all. They sat down again round the table while she made the tea and
poured it out. But the gathering grew sad, benumbed, as it were, with
lassitude. Sandoz vainly tried a diversion by admitting Bertrand, the
big dog, who grovelled at sight of the sugar-basin, and ended by
going to sleep near the stove, where he snored like a man. Since the
discussion on Fagerolles there had been intervals of silence, a kind of
bored irritation, which fell heavily upon them amidst the dense tobacco
smoke. And, in fact, Gagnière felt so out of sorts that he left the
table for a moment to seat himself at the piano, murdering some passages
from Wagner in a subdued key, with the stiff fingers of an amateur who
tries his first scale at thirty.
Towards eleven o’clock Dubuche, arriving at last, contributed the
finishing touch to the general frost. He had made his escape from a ball
to fulfil what he considered a remaining duty towards his old comrades;
and his dress-coat, his white necktie, his fat, pale face, all
proclaimed his vexation at having come, the importance he attached to
the sacrifice, and the fear he felt of compromising his new position. He
avoided mentioning his wife, so that he might not have to bring her to
Sandoz’s. When he had shaken hands with Claude, without showing more
emotion than if he had met him the day before, he declined a cup of
tea and spoke slowly--puffing out his cheeks the while--of his worry in
settling in a brand-new house, and of the work that had overwhelmed
him since he had attended to the business of his father-in-law, who was
building a whole street near the Parc Monceau.
Then Claude distinctly felt that something had snapped. Had life then
already carried away the evenings of former days, those evenings so
fraternal in their very violence, when nothing had as yet separated
them, when not one of them had thought of keeping his part of glory to
himself? Nowadays the battle was beginning. Each hungry one was eagerly
biting. And a fissure was there, a scarcely perceptible crack that had
rent the old, sworn friendships, and some day would make them crumble
into a thousand pieces.
However, Sandoz, with his craving for perpetuity, had so far noticed
nothing; he still beheld them as they had been in the Rue d’Enfer, all
arm in arm, starting off to victory. Why change what was well? Did not
happiness consist in one pleasure selected from among all, and then
enjoyed for ever afterwards? And when, an hour later, the others made up
their minds to go off, wearied by the dull egotism of Dubuche, who
had not left off talking about his own affairs; when they had dragged
Gagnière, in a trance, away from the piano, Sandoz, followed by his
wife, absolutely insisted, despite the coldness of the night, on
accompanying them all to the gate at the end of the garden. He shook
hands all round, and shouted after them:
‘Till Thursday, Claude; till next Thursday, all of you, eh? Mind you all
come!’
‘Till Thursday!’ repeated Henriette, who had taken the lantern and was
holding it aloft so as to light the steps.
And, amid the laughter, Gagnière and Mahoudeau replied, jokingly: ‘Till
Thursday, young master! Good-night, young master!’
Once in the Rue Nollet, Dubuche immediately hailed a cab, in which
he drove away. The other four walked together as far as the outer
boulevards, scarcely exchanging a word, looking dazed, as it were, at
having been in each other’s company so long. At last Jory decamped,
pretending that some proofs were waiting for him at the office of his
newspaper. Then Gagnière mechanically stopped Claude in front of the
Café Baudequin, the gas of which was still blazing away. Mahoudeau
refused to go in, and went off alone, sadly ruminating, towards the Rue
du Cherche-Midi.
Without knowing how, Claude found himself seated at their old table,
opposite Gagnière, who was silent. The café had not changed. The friends
still met there of a Sunday, showing a deal of fervour, in fact, since
Sandoz had lived in the neighbourhood; but the band was now lost amid
a flood of new-comers; it was slowly being submerged by the increasing
triteness of the young disciples of the ‘open air.’ At that hour
of night, however, the establishment was getting empty. Three young
painters, whom Claude did not know, came to shake hands with him as they
went off; and then there merely remained a petty retired tradesman of
the neighbourhood, asleep in front of a saucer.
Gagnière, quite at his ease, as if he had been at home, absolutely
indifferent to the yawns of the solitary waiter, who was stretching his
arms, glanced towards Claude, but without seeing him, for his eyes were
dim.
‘By the way,’ said the latter, ‘what were you explaining to Mahoudeau
this evening? Yes, about the red of a flag turning yellowish amid
the blue of the sky. That was it, eh? You are studying the theory of
complementary colours.’
But the other did not answer. He took up his glass of beer, set it down
again without tasting its contents, and with an ecstatic smile ended by
muttering:
‘Haydn has all the gracefulness of a rhetorician--his is a gentle
music, quivering like the voice of a great-grandmother in powdered hair.
Mozart, he’s the precursory genius--the first who endowed an orchestra
with an individual voice; and those two will live mostly because they
created Beethoven. Ah, Beethoven! power and strength amidst serene
suffering, Michael Angelo at the tomb of the Medici! A heroic logician,
a kneader of human brains; for the symphony, with choral accompaniments,
was the starting-point of all the great ones of to-day!’
The waiter, tired of waiting, began to turn off the gas, wearily
dragging his feet along as he did so. Mournfulness pervaded the deserted
room, dirty with saliva and cigar ends, and reeking of spilt drink;
while from the hushed boulevard the only sound that came was the distant
blubbering of some drunkard.
Gagnière, still in the clouds, however, continued to ride his
hobby-horse.
‘Weber passes by us amid a romantic landscape, conducting the ballads of
the dead amidst weeping willows and oaks with twisted branches. Schumann
follows him, beneath the pale moonlight, along the shores of silvery
lakes. And behold, here comes Rossini, incarnation of the musical gift,
so gay, so natural, without the least concern for expression, caring
nothing for the public, and who isn’t my man by a long way--ah!
certainly not--but then, all the same, he astonishes one by his wealth
of production, and the huge effects he derives from an accumulation of
voices and an ever-swelling repetition of the same strain. These
three led to Meyerbeer, a cunning fellow who profited by everything,
introducing symphony into opera after Weber, and giving dramatic
expression to the unconscious formulas of Rossini. Oh! the superb bursts
of sound, the feudal pomp, the martial mysticism, the quivering of
fantastic legends, the cry of passion ringing out through history! And
such finds!--each instrument endowed with a personality, the dramatic
_recitatives_ accompanied symphoniously by the orchestra--the typical
musical phrase on which an entire work is built! Ah! he was a great
fellow--a very great fellow indeed!’
‘I am going to shut up, sir,’ said the waiter, drawing near.
And, seeing that Gagnière did not as much as look round, he went to
awaken the petty retired tradesman, who was still dozing in front of his
saucer.
‘I am going to shut up, sir.’
The belated customer rose up, shivering, fumbled in the dark corner
where he was seated for his walking-stick, and when the waiter had
picked it up for him from under the seats he went away.
And Gagnière rambled on:
‘Berlioz has mingled literature with his work. He is the musical
illustrator of Shakespeare, Virgil, and Goethe. But what a painter!--the
Delacroix of music, who makes sound blaze forth amidst effulgent
contrasts of colour. And withal he has romanticism in his brain, a
religious mysticism that carries him away, an ecstasy that soars higher
than mountain summits. A bad builder of operas, but marvellous in
detached pieces, asking too much at times of the orchestra which he
tortures, having pushed the personality of instruments to its furthest
limits; for each instrument represents a character to him. Ah! that
remark of his about clarionets: “They typify beloved women.” Ah! it has
always made a shiver run down my back. And Chopin, so dandified in
his Byronism; the dreamy poet of those who suffer from neurosis! And
Mendelssohn, that faultless chiseller! a Shakespeare in dancing pumps,
whose “songs without words” are gems for women of intellect! And after
that--after that--a man should go down on his knees.’
There was now only one gas-lamp alight just above his head, and the
waiter standing behind him stood waiting amid the gloomy, chilly void of
the room. Gagnière’s voice had come to a reverential _tremolo_. He was
reaching devotional fervour as he approached the inner tabernacle, the
holy of holies.
‘Oh! Schumann, typical of despair, the voluptuousness of despair! Yes,
the end of everything, the last song of saddened purity hovering above
the ruins of the world! Oh! Wagner, the god in whom centuries of music
are incarnated! His work is the immense ark, all the arts blended
in one; the real humanity of the personages at last expressed, the
orchestra itself living apart the life of the drama. And what a massacre
of conventionality, of inept formulas! what a revolutionary emancipation
amid the infinite! The overture of “Tannhauser,” ah! that’s the sublime
hallelujah of the new era. First of all comes the chant of the pilgrims,
the religious strain, calm, deep and slowly throbbing; then the voices
of the sirens gradually drown it; the voluptuous pleasures of Venus,
full of enervating delight and languor, grow more and more imperious and
disorderly; and soon the sacred air gradually returns, like the aspiring
voice of space, and seizes hold of all other strains and blends them
in one supreme harmony, to waft them away on the wings of a triumphal
hymn!’
‘I am going to shut up, sir,’ repeated the waiter.
Claude, who no longer listened, he also being absorbed in his own
passion, emptied his glass of beer and cried: ‘Eh, old man, they are
going to shut up.’
Then Gagnière trembled. A painful twitch came over his ecstatic face,
and he shivered as if he had dropped from the stars. He gulped down his
beer, and once on the pavement outside, after pressing his companion’s
hand in silence, he walked off into the gloom.
It was nearly two o’clock in the morning when Claude returned to the Rue
de Douai. During the week that he had been scouring Paris anew, he had
each time brought back with him the feverish excitement of the day. But
he had never before returned so late, with his brain so hot and smoky.
Christine, overcome with fatigue, was asleep under the lamp, which had
gone out, her brow resting on the edge of the table.