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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: His Masterpiece</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Émile Zola</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Editor: Ernest Alfred Vizetelly</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Translator: Ernest Alfred Vizetelly</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: May 25, 2005 [eBook #15900]<br /> +[Most recently updated: September 30, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Dagny and David Widger</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HIS MASTERPIECE ***</div> + +<h1>HIS MASTERPIECE</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">By Émile Zola</h2> + +<h3>Edited, With a Preface, By Ernest Alfred Vizetelly</h3> + +<hr /> + +<h3>Contents</h3> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_PREF">PREFACE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0002">I</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0003">II</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0004">III</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0005">IV</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0006">V</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0007">VI</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0008">VII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0009">VIII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0010">IX</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0011">X</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0012">XI</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0013">XII</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF"></a> +PREFACE</h2> + +<p> +‘HIS MASTERPIECE,’ which in the original French bears the title of +<i>L’Œuvre</i>, is a strikingly accurate story of artistic life in Paris +during the latter years of the Second Empire. Amusing at times, extremely +pathetic and even painful at others, it not only contributes a necessary +element to the Rougon-Macquart series of novels—a series illustrative of +all phases of life in France within certain dates—but it also represents +a particular period of M. Zola’s own career and work. Some years, indeed, +before the latter had made himself known at all widely as a novelist, he had +acquired among Parisian painters and sculptors considerable notoriety as a +revolutionary art critic, a fervent champion of that ‘Open-air’ +school which came into being during the Second Empire, and which found its +first real master in Edouard Manet, whose then derided works are regarded, in +these later days, as masterpieces. Manet died before his genius was fully +recognised; still he lived long enough to reap some measure of recognition and +to see his influence triumph in more than one respect among his brother +artists. Indeed, few if any painters left a stronger mark on the art of the +second half of the nineteenth century than he did, even though the school, +which he suggested rather than established, lapsed largely into mere +impressionism—a term, by the way, which he himself coined already in +1858; for it is an error to attribute it—as is often done—to his +friend and junior, Claude Monet. +</p> + +<p> +It was at the time of the Salon of 1866 that M. Zola, who criticised that +exhibition in the <i>Evenement</i> newspaper,* first came to the front as an +art critic, slashing out, to right and left, with all the vigour of a born +combatant, and championing M. Manet—whom he did not as yet know +personally—with a fervour born of the strongest convictions. He had come +to the conclusion that the derided painter was being treated with injustice, +and that opinion sufficed to throw him into the fray; even as, in more recent +years, the belief that Captain Dreyfus was innocent impelled him in like manner +to plead that unfortunate officer’s cause. When M. Zola first championed +Manet and his disciples he was only twenty-six years old, yet he did not +hesitate to pit himself against men who were regarded as the most eminent +painters and critics of France; and although (even as in the Dreyfus case) the +only immediate result of his campaign was to bring him hatred and contumely, +time, which always has its revenges, has long since shown how right he was in +forecasting the ultimate victory of Manet and his principal methods. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +* Some of the articles will be found in the volume of his miscellaneous +writings entitled <i>Mes Haines</i>. +</p> + +<p> +In those days M. Zola’s most intimate friend—a companion of his +boyhood and youth—was Paul Cézanne, a painter who developed talent as an +impressionist; and the lives of Cézanne and Manet, as well as that of a certain +rather dissolute engraver, who sat for the latter’s famous picture <i>Le +Bon Bock</i>, suggested to M. Zola the novel which he has called +<i>L’Œuvre</i>. Claude Lantier, the chief character in the book, is, of +course, neither Cézanne nor Manet, but from the careers of those two painters, +M. Zola has borrowed many little touches and incidents.* The poverty which +falls to Claude’s lot is taken from the life of Cézanne, for +Manet—the only son of a judge—was almost wealthy. Moreover, Manet +married very happily, and in no wise led the pitiful existence which in the +novel is ascribed to Claude Lantier and his helpmate, Christine. The original +of the latter was a poor woman who for many years shared the life of the +engraver to whom I have alluded; and, in that connection, it as well to mention +that what may be called the Bennecourt episode of the novel is virtually +photographed from life. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +* So far as Manet is concerned, the curious reader may consult M. Antonin +Proust’s interesting ‘Souvenirs,’ published in the <i>Revue +Blanche</i>, early in 1897. +</p> + +<p> +Whilst, however, Claude Lantier, the hero of <i>L’Œuvre</i>, is unlike +Manet in so many respects, there is a close analogy between the artistic +theories and practices of the real painter and the imaginary one. Several of +Claude’s pictures are Manet’s, slightly modified. For instance, the +former’s painting, ‘In the Open Air,’ is almost a replica of +the latter’s <i>Déjeuner sur l’Herbe</i> (‘A Lunch on the +Grass’), shown at the Salon of the Rejected in 1863. Again, many of the +sayings put into Claude’s mouth in the novel are really sayings of +Manet’s. And Claude’s fate, at the end of the book, is virtually +that of a moody young fellow who long assisted Manet in his studio, preparing +his palette, cleaning his brushes, and so forth. This lad, whom Manet painted +in <i>L’Enfant aux Cerises</i> (‘The Boy with the Cherries’), +had artistic aspirations of his own and, being unable to justify them, ended by +hanging himself. +</p> + +<p> +I had just a slight acquaintance with Manet, whose studio I first visited early +in my youth, and though the exigencies of life led me long ago to cast aside +all artistic ambition of my own, I have been for more than thirty years on +friendly terms with members of the French art world. Thus it would be +comparatively easy for me to identify a large number of the characters and the +incidents figuring in ‘His Masterpiece’; but I doubt if such +identification would have any particular interest for English readers. I will +just mention that Mahoudeau, the sculptor, is, in a measure, Solari, another +friend of M. Zola’s boyhood and youth; that Fagerolles, in his main +features, is Gervex; and that Bongrand is a commingling of Courbet, Cabanel and +Gustave Flaubert. For instance, his so-called ‘Village Wedding’ is +suggested by Courbet’s ‘Funeral at Ornans’; his friendship +for Claude is Cabanel’s friendship for Manet; whilst some of his +mannerisms, such as his dislike for the praise accorded to certain of his +works, are simply those of Flaubert, who (like Balzac in the case of <i>Eugenie +Grandet</i>) almost invariably lost his temper if one ventured to extol +<i>Madame Bovary</i> in his presence. Courbet, by the way, so far as +disposition goes, crops up again in M. Zola’s pages in the person of +Champbouvard, a sculptor, who, artistically, is a presentment of Clesinger. +</p> + +<p> +I now come to a personage of a very different character, Pierre Sandoz, clerk, +journalist, and novelist; and Sandoz, it may be frankly admitted, is simply M. +Zola himself. Personal appearance, life, habits, opinions, all are those of the +novelist at a certain period of his career; and for this reason, no doubt, many +readers of ‘His Masterpiece’ will find Sandoz the most interesting +personage in the book. It is needless, I think, to enter into particulars on +the subject. The reader may take it from me that everything attributed in the +following pages to Pierre Sandoz was done, experienced, felt or said by Émile +Zola. In this respect, then ‘His Masterpiece’ is virtually M. +Zola’s ‘David Copperfield’—the book into which he has +put most of his real life. I may also mention, perhaps, that the long walks on +the quays of Paris which in the narrative are attributed to Claude Lantier are +really M. Zola’s walks; for, in his youth, when he vainly sought +employment after failing in his examinations, he was wont, at times of great +discouragement, to roam the Paris quays, studying their busy life and their +picturesque vistas, whenever he was not poring over the second-hand books set +out for sale upon their parapets. From a purely literary standpoint, the +pictures of the quays and the Seine to be found in <i>L’Œuvre</i> are +perhaps the best bits of the book, though it is all of interest, because it is +essentially a <i>livre vecu</i>, a work really ‘lived’ by its +author. And if in the majority of its characters, those readers possessing some +real knowledge of French art life find one man’s qualities blended with +another’s defects, the appearance of a third, and the habits of a fourth, +the whole none the less makes a picture of great fidelity to life and truth. +This is the Parisian art world as it really was, with nothing improbable or +overstrained in the narrative, save its very first chapter, in which +romanticism is certainly allowed full play. +</p> + +<p> +It is quite possible that some readers may not judge Claude Lantier, the +‘hero,’ very favourably; he is like the dog in the fable who +forsakes the substance for the shadow; but it should be borne in mind that he +is only in part responsible for his actions, for the fatal germ of insanity has +been transmitted to him from his great-grandmother. He is, indeed, the son of +Gervaise, the heroine of <i>L’Assommoir</i> (‘The Dram +Shop’), by her lover Lantier. And Gervaise, it may be remembered, was the +daughter of Antoine Macquart (of ‘The Fortune of the Rougons’ and +‘Dr. Pascal’), the latter being the illegitimate son of Adelaide +Fouque, from whom sprang the insanity of the Rougon-Macquarts. At the same +time, whatever view may be taken of Claude’s artistic theories, whatever +interest his ultimate fate may inspire, it cannot be denied that his opinions +on painting are very ably expressed, and that his ‘case,’ from a +pathological point of view, is diagnosticated by M. Zola with all the skill of +a physician. Moreover, there can be but one opinion concerning the helpmate of +his life, the poor devoted Christine; and no one possessed of feeling will be +able to read the history of little Jacques unmoved. +</p> + +<p> +Stories of artistic life are not as a rule particularly popular with English +readers, but this is not surprising when one remembers that those who take a +genuine interest in art, in this country, are still a small minority. Quite +apart from artistic matters, however, there is, I think, an abundance of human +interest in the pages of ‘His Masterpiece,’ and thus I venture to +hope that the present version, which I have prepared as carefully as my powers +permit, will meet with the favour of those who have supported me, for a good +many years now, in my endeavours to make the majority of M. Zola’s works +accessible in this country. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +E. A. V. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +MERTON, SURREY. +</p> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2> HIS MASTERPIECE</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"></a> +I</h2> + +<p> +CLAUDE was passing in front of the Hôtel de Ville, and the clock was striking +two o’clock in the morning when the storm burst forth. He had been +roaming forgetfully about the Central Markets, during that burning July night, +like a loitering artist enamoured of nocturnal Paris. Suddenly the raindrops +came down, so large and thick, that he took to his heels and rushed, wildly +bewildered, along the Quai de la Grève. But on reaching the Pont Louis Philippe +he pulled up, ragefully breathless; he considered this fear of the rain to be +idiotic; and so amid the pitch-like darkness, under the lashing shower which +drowned the gas-jets, he crossed the bridge slowly, with his hands dangling by +his side. +</p> + +<p> +He had only a few more steps to go. As he was turning on to the Quai Bourbon, +on the Isle of St. Louis, a sharp flash of lightning illumined the straight, +monotonous line of old houses bordering the narrow road in front of the Seine. +It blazed upon the panes of the high, shutterless windows, showing up the +melancholy frontages of the old-fashioned dwellings in all their details; here +a stone balcony, there the railing of a terrace, and there a garland sculptured +on a frieze. The painter had his studio close by, under the eaves of the old +Hôtel du Martoy, nearly at the corner of the Rue de la Femme-sans-Tête.* So he +went on while the quay, after flashing forth for a moment, relapsed into +darkness, and a terrible thunder-clap shook the drowsy quarter. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +* The street of the Headless woman.—ED. +</p> + +<p> +When Claude, blinded by the rain, got to his door—a low, rounded door, +studded with iron—he fumbled for the bell knob, and he was exceedingly +surprised—indeed, he started—on finding a living, breathing body +huddled against the woodwork. Then, by the light of a second flash, he +perceived a tall young girl, dressed in black, and drenched already, who was +shivering with fear. When a second thunder-clap had shaken both of them, Claude +exclaimed: +</p> + +<p> +‘How you frighten one! Who are you, and what do you want?’ +</p> + +<p> +He could no longer see her; he only heard her sob, and stammer: +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, monsieur, don’t hurt me. It’s the fault of the driver, +whom I hired at the station, and who left me at this door, after ill-treating +me. Yes, a train ran off the rails, near Nevers. We were four hours late, and a +person who was to wait for me had gone. Oh, dear me; I have never been in Paris +before, and I don’t know where I am....’ +</p> + +<p> +Another blinding flash cut her short, and with dilated eyes she stared, +terror-stricken, at that part of the strange capital, that violet-tinted +apparition of a fantastic city. The rain had ceased falling. On the opposite +bank of the Seine was the Quai des Ormes, with its small grey houses variegated +below by the woodwork of their shops and with their irregular roofs boldly +outlined above, while the horizon suddenly became clear on the left as far as +the blue slate eaves of the Hôtel de Ville, and on the right as far as the +leaden-hued dome of St. Paul. What startled her most of all, however, was the +hollow of the stream, the deep gap in which the Seine flowed, black and turgid, +from the heavy piles of the Pont Marie, to the light arches of the new Pont +Louis Philippe. Strange masses peopled the river, a sleeping flotilla of small +boats and yawls, a floating washhouse, and a dredger moored to the quay. Then, +farther down, against the other bank, were lighters, laden with coals, and +barges full of mill stone, dominated as it were by the gigantic arm of a steam +crane. But, suddenly, everything disappeared again. +</p> + +<p> +Claude had an instinctive distrust of women—that story of an accident, of +a belated train and a brutal cabman, seemed to him a ridiculous invention. At +the second thunder-clap the girl had shrunk farther still into her corner, +absolutely terrified. +</p> + +<p> +‘But you cannot stop here all night,’ he said. +</p> + +<p> +She sobbed still more and stammered, ‘I beseech you, monsieur, take me to +Passy. That’s where I was going.’ +</p> + +<p> +He shrugged his shoulders. Did she take him for a fool? Mechanically, however, +he turned towards the Quai des Célestins, where there was a cabstand. Not the +faintest glimmer of a lamp to be seen. +</p> + +<p> +‘To Passy, my dear? Why not to Versailles? Where do you think one can +pick up a cab at this time of night, and in such weather?’ +</p> + +<p> +Her only answer was a shriek; for a fresh flash of lightning had almost blinded +her, and this time the tragic city had seemed to her to be spattered with +blood. An immense chasm had been revealed, the two arms of the river stretching +far away amidst the lurid flames of a conflagration. The smallest details had +appeared: the little closed shutters of the Quai des Ormes, and the two +openings of the Rue de la Masure, and the Rue du Paon-Blanc, which made breaks +in the line of frontages; then near the Pont Marie one could have counted the +leaves on the lofty plane trees, which there form a bouquet of magnificent +verdure; while on the other side, beneath the Pont Louis Philippe, at the Mail, +the barges, ranged in a quadruple line, had flared with the piles of yellow +apples with which they were heavily laden. And there was also the ripple of the +water, the high chimney of the floating washhouse, the tightened chain of the +dredger, the heaps of sand on the banks, indeed, an extraordinary agglomeration +of things, quite a little world filling the great gap which seemed to stretch +from one horizon to the other. But the sky became dark again, and the river +flowed on, all obscurity, amid the crashing of the thunder. +</p> + +<p> +‘Thank heaven it’s over. Oh, heaven! what’s to become of +me?’ +</p> + +<p> +Just then the rain began to fall again, so stiffly and impelled by so strong a +wind that it swept along the quay with the violence of water escaping through +an open lock. +</p> + +<p> +‘Come, let me get in,’ said Claude; ‘I can stand this no +longer.’ +</p> + +<p> +Both were getting drenched. By the flickering light of the gas lamp at the +corner of the Rue de la Femme-sans-Tête the young man could see the water +dripping from the girl’s dress, which was clinging to her skin, in the +deluge that swept against the door. He was seized with compassion. Had he not +once picked up a cur on such a stormy night as this? Yet he felt angry with +himself for softening. He never had anything to do with women; he treated them +all as if ignorant of their existence, with a painful timidity which he +disguised under a mask of bravado. And that girl must really think him a +downright fool, to bamboozle him with that story of adventure—only fit +for a farce. Nevertheless, he ended by saying, ‘That’s enough. You +had better come in out of the wet. You can sleep in my rooms.’ +</p> + +<p> +But at this the girl became even more frightened, and threw up her arms. +</p> + +<p> +‘In your rooms? Oh! good heavens. No, no; it’s impossible. I +beseech you, monsieur, take me to Passy. Let me beg of you.’ +</p> + +<p> +But Claude became angry. Why did she make all this fuss, when he was willing to +give her shelter? He had already rung the bell twice. At last the door opened +and he pushed the girl before him. +</p> + +<p> +‘No, no, monsieur; I tell you, no—’ +</p> + +<p> +But another flash dazzled her, and when the thunder growled she bounded inside, +scarce knowing what she was about. The heavy door had closed upon them, she was +standing under a large archway in complete darkness. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s I, Madame Joseph,’ cried Claude to the doorkeeper. Then +he added, in a whisper, ‘Give me your hand, we have to cross the +courtyard.’ +</p> + +<p> +The girl did as she was told; she no longer resisted; she was overwhelmed, worn +out. Once more they encountered the diluvian rain, as they ran side by side as +hard as they could across the yard. It was a baronial courtyard, huge, and +surrounded with stone arcades, indistinct amidst the gloom. However, they came +to a narrow passage without a door, and he let go her hand. She could hear him +trying to strike some matches, and swearing. They were all damp. It was +necessary for them to grope their way upstairs. +</p> + +<p> +‘Take hold of the banisters, and be careful,’ said Claude; +‘the steps are very high.’ +</p> + +<p> +The staircase, a very narrow one, a former servants’ staircase, was +divided into three lofty flights, which she climbed, stumbling, with unskilful, +weary limbs. Then he warned her that they had to turn down a long passage. She +kept behind him, touching the walls on both sides with her outstretched hands, +as she advanced along that endless passage which bent and came back to the +front of the building on the quay. Then there were still other stairs right +under the roof—creaking, shaky wooden stairs, which had no banister, and +suggested the unplaned rungs of a miller’s ladder. The landing at the top +was so small that the girl knocked against the young man, as he fumbled in his +pocket for his key. At last, however, he opened the door. +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t come in, but wait, else you’ll hurt yourself +again.’ +</p> + +<p> +She did not stir. She was panting for breath, her heart was beating fast, there +was a buzzing in her ears, and she felt indeed exhausted by that ascent in the +dense gloom. It seemed to her as if she had been climbing for hours, in such a +maze, amidst such a turning and twisting of stairs that she would never be able +to find her way down again. Inside the studio there was a shuffling of heavy +feet, a rustling of hands groping in the dark, a clatter of things being +tumbled about, accompanied by stifled objurgations. At last the doorway was +lighted up. +</p> + +<p> +‘Come in, it’s all right now.’ +</p> + +<p> +She went in and looked around her, without distinguishing anything. The +solitary candle burned dim in that garret, more than fifteen feet high, and +filled with a confused jumble of things whose big shadows showed fantastically +on the walls, which were painted in grey distemper. No, she did not distinguish +anything. She mechanically raised her eyes to the large studio-window, against +which the rain was beating with a deafening roll like that of a drum, but at +that moment another flash of lightning illumined the sky, followed almost +immediately by a thunder-clap that seemed to split the roof. Dumb-stricken, +pale as death, she dropped upon a chair. +</p> + +<p> +‘The devil!’ muttered Claude, who also was rather pale. ‘That +clap wasn’t far off. We were just in time. It’s better here than in +the streets, isn’t it?’ +</p> + +<p> +Then he went towards the door, closed it with a bang and turned the key, while +she watched him with a dazed look. +</p> + +<p> +‘There, now, we are at home.’ +</p> + +<p> +But it was all over. There were only a few more thunder-claps in the distance, +and the rain soon ceased altogether. Claude, who was now growing embarrassed, +had examined the girl, askance. She seemed by no means bad looking, and +assuredly she was young: twenty at the most. This scrutiny had the effect of +making him more suspicious of her still, in spite of an unconscious feeling, a +vague idea, that she was not altogether deceiving him. In any case, no matter +how clever she might be, she was mistaken if she imagined she had caught him. +To prove this he wilfully exaggerated his gruffness and curtness of manner. +</p> + +<p> +Her very anguish at his words and demeanour made her rise, and in her turn she +examined him, though without daring to look him straight in the face. And the +aspect of that bony young man, with his angular joints and wild bearded face, +increased her fears. With his black felt hat and his old brown coat, +discoloured by long usage, he looked like a kind of brigand. +</p> + +<p> +Directly he told her to make herself at home and go to bed, for he placed his +bed at her disposal, she shrinkingly replied: ‘Thank you; I’ll do +very well as I am; I’ll not undress.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But your clothes are dripping,’ he retorted. ‘Come now, +don’t make an idiot of yourself.’ +</p> + +<p> +And thereupon he began to knock about the chairs, and flung aside an old +screen, behind which she noticed a washstand and a tiny iron bedstead, from +which he began to remove the coverlet. +</p> + +<p> +‘No, no, monsieur, it isn’t worth while; I assure you that I shall +stay here.’ +</p> + +<p> +At this, however, Claude became angry, gesticulating and shaking his fists. +</p> + +<p> +‘How much more of this comedy are we to have?’ said he. ‘As I +give you my bed, what have you to complain of? You need not pay any attention +to me. I shall sleep on that couch.’ +</p> + +<p> +He strode towards her with a threatening look, and thereupon, beside herself +with fear, thinking that he was going to strike her, she tremblingly unfastened +her hat. The water was dripping from her skirts. He kept on growling. +Nevertheless, a sudden scruple seemed to come to him, for he ended by saying, +condescendingly: +</p> + +<p> +‘Perhaps you don’t like to sleep in my sheets. I’ll change +them.’ +</p> + +<p> +He at once began dragging them from the bed and flinging them on to the couch +at the other end of the studio. And afterwards he took a clean pair from the +wardrobe and began to make the bed with all the deftness of a bachelor +accustomed to that kind of thing. He carefully tucked in the clothes on the +side near the wall, shook the pillows, and turned back a corner of the +coverlet. +</p> + +<p> +‘There, that’ll do; won’t it?’ said he. +</p> + +<p> +And as she did not answer, but remained motionless, he pushed her behind the +screen. ‘Good heavens! what a lot of fuss,’ he thought. And after +spreading his own sheets on the couch, and hanging his clothes on an easel, he +quickly went to bed himself. When he was on the point of blowing out the +candle, however, he reflected that if he did so she would have to undress in +the dark, and so he waited. At first he had not heard her stir; she had no +doubt remained standing against the iron bedstead. But at last he detected a +slight rustling, a slow, faint movement, as if amidst her preparations she also +were listening, frightened perchance by the candle which was still alight. At +last, after several minutes, the spring mattress creaked, and then all became +still. +</p> + +<p> +‘Are you comfortable, mademoiselle?’ now asked Claude, in a much +more gentle voice. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, monsieur, very comfortable,’ she replied, in a scarcely +audible voice, which still quivered with emotion. +</p> + +<p> +‘Very well, then. Good-night.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Good-night.’ +</p> + +<p> +He blew out the candle, and the silence became more intense. In spite of his +fatigue, his eyes soon opened again, and gazed upward at the large window of +the studio. The sky had become very clear again, the stars were twinkling in +the sultry July night, and, despite the storm, the heat remained oppressive. +Claude was thinking about the girl—agitated for a moment by contrary +feelings, though at last contempt gained the mastery. He indeed believed +himself to be very strong-minded; he imagined a romance concocted to destroy +his tranquillity, and he gibed contentedly at having frustrated it. His +experience of women was very slight, nevertheless he endeavoured to draw +certain conclusions from the story she had told him, struck as he was at +present by certain petty details, and feeling perplexed. But why, after all, +should he worry his brain? What did it matter whether she had told him the +truth or a lie? In the morning she would go off; there would be an end to it +all, and they would never see each other again. Thus Claude lay cogitating, and +it was only towards daybreak, when the stars began to pale, that he fell +asleep. As for the girl behind the screen, in spite of the crushing fatigue of +her journey, she continued tossing about uneasily, oppressed by the heaviness +of the atmosphere beneath the hot zinc-work of the roof; and doubtless, too, +she was rendered nervous by the strangeness of her surroundings. +</p> + +<p> +In the morning, when Claude awoke, his eyes kept blinking. It was very late, +and the sunshine streamed through the large window. One of his theories was, +that young landscape painters should take studios despised by the academical +figure painters—studios which the sun flooded with living beams. +Nevertheless he felt dazzled, and fell back again on his couch. Why the devil +had he been sleeping there? His eyes, still heavy with sleep, wandered +mechanically round the studio, when, all at once, beside the screen he noticed +a heap of petticoats. Then he at once remembered the girl. He began to listen, +and heard a sound of long-drawn, regular breathing, like that of a child +comfortably asleep. Ah! so she was still slumbering, and so calmly, that it +would be a pity to disturb her. He felt dazed and somewhat annoyed at the +adventure, however, for it would spoil his morning’s work. He got angry +at his own good nature; it would be better to shake her, so that she might go +at once. Nevertheless he put on his trousers and slippers softly, and walked +about on tiptoes. +</p> + +<p> +The cuckoo clock struck nine, and Claude made a gesture of annoyance. Nothing +had stirred; the regular breathing continued. The best thing to do, he thought, +would be to set to work on his large picture; he would see to his breakfast +later on, when he was able to move about. But, after all, he could not make up +his mind. He who lived amid chronic disorder felt worried by that heap of +petticoats lying on the floor. Some water had dripped from them, but they were +damp still. And so, while grumbling in a low tone, he ended by picking them up +one by one and spreading them over the chairs in the sunlight. Had one ever +seen the like, clothes thrown about anyhow? They would never get dry, and she +would never go off! He turned all that feminine apparel over very awkwardly, +got entangled with the black dress-body, and went on all fours to pick up the +stockings that had fallen behind an old canvas. They were Balbriggan stockings +of a dark grey, long and fine, and he examined them, before hanging them up to +dry. The water oozing from the edge of the dress had soaked them, so he wrung +and stretched them with his warm hands, in order that he might be able to send +her away the quicker. +</p> + +<p> +Since he had been on his legs, Claude had felt sorely tempted to push aside the +screen and to take a look at his guest. This self-condemned curiosity only +increased his bad temper. At last, with his habitual shrug of the shoulders, he +was taking up his brushes, when he heard some words stammered amidst a rustling +of bed-clothes. Then, however, soft breathing was heard again, and this time he +yielded to the temptation, dropping his brushes, and peeping from behind the +screen. The sight that met his eyes rooted him to the spot, so fascinated that +he muttered, ‘Good gracious! good gracious!’ +</p> + +<p> +The girl, amidst the hot-house heat that came from the window, had thrown back +her coverlet, and, overcome with the fatigue of a restless night, lay steeped +in a flood of sunshine, unconscious of everything. In her feverish slumbers a +shoulder button had become unfastened, and a sleeve slipping down allowed her +bosom to be seen, with skin which looked almost gilded and soft like satin. Her +right arm rested beneath her neck, her head was thrown back, and her black +unwound tresses enwrapped her like a dusky cloak. +</p> + +<p> +‘Good gracious! But she’s a beauty!’ muttered Claude once +more. +</p> + +<p> +There, in every point, was the figure he had vainly sought for his picture, and +it was almost in the right pose. She was rather spare, perhaps, but then so +lithe and fresh. +</p> + +<p> +With a light step, Claude ran to take his box of crayons, and a large sheet of +paper. Then, squatting on a low chair, he placed a portfolio on his knees and +began to sketch with an air of perfect happiness. All else vanished amidst +artistic surprise and enthusiasm. No thought of sex came to him. It was all a +mere question of chaste outlines, splendid flesh tints, well-set muscles. Face +to face with nature, an uneasy mistrust of his powers made him feel small; so, +squaring his elbows, he became very attentive and respectful. This lasted for +about a quarter of an hour, during which he paused every now and then, blinking +at the figure before him. As he was afraid, however, that she might change her +position, he speedily set to work again, holding his breath, lest he should +awaken her. +</p> + +<p> +And yet, while steadily applying himself to his work, vague fancies again +assailed his mind. Who could she be? Assuredly no mere hussy. But why had she +told him such an unbelievable tale? Thereupon he began to imagine other +stories. Perhaps she had but lately arrived in Paris with a lover, who had +abandoned her; perhaps she was some young woman of the middle classes led into +bad company by a female friend, and not daring to go home to her relatives; or +else there was some still more intricate drama beneath it all; something +horrible, inexplicable, the truth of which he would never fathom. All these +hypotheses increased his perplexity. Meanwhile, he went on sketching her face, +studying it with care. The whole of the upper part, the clear forehead, as +smooth as a polished mirror, the small nose, with its delicately chiselled and +nervous nostrils, denoted great kindliness and gentleness. One divined the +sweet smile of the eyes beneath the closed lids; a smile that would light up +the whole of the features. Unfortunately, the lower part of the face marred +that expression of sweetness; the jaw was prominent, and the lips, rather too +full, showed almost blood-like over the strong white teeth. There was here, +like a flash of passion, something that spoke of awakening womanhood, still +unconscious of itself amidst those other traits of childlike softness. +</p> + +<p> +But suddenly a shiver rippled over the girl’s satiny skin. Perhaps she +had felt the weight of that gaze thus mentally dissecting her. She opened her +eyes very wide and uttered a cry. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! great heavens!’ +</p> + +<p> +Sudden terror paralysed her at the sight of that strange room, and that young +man crouching in his shirt-sleeves in front of her and devouring her with his +eyes. Flushing hotly, she impulsively pulled up the counterpane. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, what’s the matter?’ cried Claude, angrily, his crayon +suspended in mid-air; ‘what wasp has stung you now?’ +</p> + +<p> +He, whose knowledge of womankind was largely limited to professional models, +was at a loss to understand the girl’s action. +</p> + +<p> +She neither spoke nor stirred, but remained with the counterpane tightly +wrapped round her throat, her body almost doubled up, and scarcely showing an +outline beneath her coverings. +</p> + +<p> +‘I won’t eat you, will I?’ urged Claude. ‘Come, just +lie as you were, there’s a good girl.’ +</p> + +<p> +Again she blushed to her very ears. At last she stammered, ‘Oh, no, +monsieur, no—pray!’ +</p> + +<p> +But he began to lose his temper altogether. One of the angry fits to which he +was subject was coming upon him. He thought her obstinacy stupid. And as in +response to his urgent requests she only began to sob, he quite lost his head +in despair before his sketch, thinking that he would never be able to finish +it, and would thus lose a capital study for his picture. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, you won’t, eh? But it’s idiotic. What do you take me +for? Have I annoyed you at all? You know I haven’t. Besides, listen, it +is very unkind of you to refuse me this service, because, after all, I +sheltered you—I gave up my bed to you.’ +</p> + +<p> +She only continued to cry, with her head buried in the pillow. +</p> + +<p> +‘I assure you that I am very much in want of this sketch, else I +wouldn’t worry you.’ +</p> + +<p> +He grew surprised at the girl’s abundant tears, and ashamed at having +been so rough with her, so he held his tongue at last, feeling embarrassed, and +wishing too that she might have time to recover a bit. Then he began again, in +a very gentle tone: +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, as it annoys you, let’s say no more about it. But if you +only knew. I’ve got a figure in my picture yonder which doesn’t +make head-way at all, and you were just in the very note. As for me, when +it’s a question of painting, I’d kill father and mother, you know. +Well, you’ll excuse me, won’t you? And if you’d like me to be +very nice, you’d just give me a few minutes more. No, no; keep quiet as +you are; I only want the head—nothing but the head. If I could finish +that, it would be all right. Really now, be kind; put your arm as it was +before, and I shall be very grateful to you—grateful all my life +long.’ +</p> + +<p> +It was he who was entreating now, pitifully waving his crayon amid the emotion +of his artistic craving. Besides, he had not stirred, but remained crouching on +his low chair, at a distance from the bed. At last she risked the ordeal, and +uncovered her tranquillised face. What else could she do? She was at his mercy, +and he looked so wretchedly unhappy. +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless, she still hesitated, she felt some last scruples. But eventually, +without saying a word, she slowly brought her bare arm from beneath the +coverings, and again slipped it under her head, taking care, however, to keep +the counterpane tightly round her throat. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! how kind you are! I’ll make haste, you will be free in a +minute.’ +</p> + +<p> +He bent over his drawing, and only looked at her now and then with the glance +of a painter who simply regards the woman before him as a model. At first she +became pink again; the consciousness that she was showing her bare +arm—which she would have shown in a ball-room without thinking at all +about it—filled her with confusion. Nevertheless, the young man seemed so +reasonable that she became reassured. The blush left her cheeks, and her lips +parted in a vague confiding smile. And from between her half-opened eyelids she +began to study him. How he had frightened her the previous night with his thick +brown beard, his large head, and his impulsive gestures. And yet he was not +ugly; she even detected great tenderness in the depths of his brown eyes, while +his nose altogether surprised her. It was a finely-cut woman’s nose, +almost lost amidst the bristling hair on his lips. He shook slightly with a +nervous anxiety which made his crayon seem a living thing in his slender hand, +and which touched her though she knew not why. She felt sure he was not +bad-natured, his rough, surly ways arose from bashfulness. She did not decipher +all this very clearly, but she divined it, and began to put herself at her +ease, as if she were with a friend. +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless, the studio continued to frighten her a little. She cast sidelong +glances around it, astonished at so much disorder and carelessness. Before the +stove the cinders of the previous winter still lay in a heap. Besides the bed, +the small washstand, and the couch, there was no other furniture than an old +dilapidated oaken wardrobe and a large deal table, littered with brushes, +colours, dirty plates, and a spirit lamp, atop of which was a saucepan, with +shreds of vermicelli sticking to its sides. Some rush-bottomed chairs, their +seats the worse for wear, were scattered about beside spavined easels. Near the +couch the candlestick used on the previous night stood on the floor, which +looked as if it had not been swept for fully a month. There was only the cuckoo +clock, a huge one, with a dial illuminated with crimson flowers, that looked +clean and bright, ticking sonorously all the while. But what especially +frightened her were some sketches in oils that hung frameless from the walls, a +serried array of sketches reaching to the floor, where they mingled with heaps +of canvases thrown about anyhow. She had never seen such terrible painting, so +coarse, so glaring, showing a violence of colour, that jarred upon her nerves +like a carter’s oath heard on the doorstep of an inn. She cast her eyes +down for a moment, and then became attracted by a picture, the back of which +was turned to her. It was the large canvas at which the painter was working, +and which he pushed against the wall every night, the better to judge it on the +morrow in the surprise of the first glance. What could it be, that one, she +wondered, since he dared not even show it? And, meantime, through the vast +room, a sheet of burning sunlight, falling straight from the window panes, +unchecked by any blind, spread with the flow of molten gold over all the +broken-down furniture, whose devil-may-care shabbiness it threw into bold +relief. +</p> + +<p> +Claude began to feel the silence oppressive; he wanted to say something, no +matter what, first, in order to be polite, and more especially to divert her +attention from her pose. But cudgel his brain as he would, he could only think +of asking: ‘Pray, what is your name?’ +</p> + +<p> +She opened her eyes, which she had closed, as if she were feeling sleepy. +</p> + +<p> +‘Christine,’ she said. +</p> + +<p> +At which he seemed surprised. Neither had he told her his name. Since the night +before they had been together, side by side, without knowing one another. +</p> + +<p> +‘My name is Claude.’ +</p> + +<p> +And, having looked at her just at that moment, he saw her burst into a pretty +laugh. It was the sudden, merry peal of a big girl, still scarcely more than a +hoyden. She considered this tardy exchange of names rather droll. Then +something else amused her. +</p> + +<p> +‘How funny—Claude, Christine—they begin with the same +letter.’ +</p> + +<p> +They both became silent once more. He was blinking at his work, growing +absorbed in it, and at a loss how to continue the conversation. He fancied that +she was beginning to feel tired and uncomfortable, and in his fear lest she +should stir, he remarked at random, merely to occupy her thoughts, ‘It +feels rather warm.’ +</p> + +<p> +This time she checked her laughter, her natural gaiety that revived and burst +forth in spite of herself ever since she had felt easier in mind. Truth to +tell, the heat was indeed so oppressive that it seemed to her as if she were in +a bath, with skin moist and pale with the milky pallor of a camellia. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, it feels rather warm,’ she said, seriously, though mirth was +dancing in her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +Thereupon Claude continued, with a good-natured air: +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s the sun falling straight in; but, after all, a flood of +sunshine on one’s skin does one good. We could have done with some of it +last night at the door, couldn’t we?’ +</p> + +<p> +At this both burst out laughing, and he, delighted at having hit upon a subject +of conversation, questioned her about her adventure, without, however, feeling +inquisitive, for he cared little about discovering the real truth, and was only +intent upon prolonging the sitting. +</p> + +<p> +Christine simply, and in a few words, related what had befallen her. Early on +the previous morning she had left Clermont for Paris, where she was to take up +a situation as reader and companion to the widow of a general, Madame Vanzade, +a rich old lady, who lived at Passy. The train was timed to reach Paris at ten +minutes past nine in the evening, and a maid was to meet her at the station. +They had even settled by letter upon a means of recognition. She was to wear a +black hat with a grey feather in it. But, a little above Nevers, her train had +come upon a goods train which had run off the rails, its litter of smashed +trucks still obstructing the line. There was quite a series of mishaps and +delays. First an interminable wait in the carriages, which the passengers had +to quit at last, luggage and all, in order to trudge to the next station, three +kilometres distant, where the authorities had decided to make up another train. +By this time they had lost two hours, and then another two were lost in the +general confusion which the accident had caused from one end of the line to the +other, in such wise that they reached the Paris terminus four hours behind +time, that is, at one o’clock in the morning. +</p> + +<p> +‘Bad luck, indeed,’ interrupted Claude, who was still sceptical, +though half disarmed, in his surprise at the neat way in which the girl +arranged the details of her story. +</p> + +<p> +‘And, of course, there was no one at the station to meet you?’ he +added. +</p> + +<p> +Christine had, indeed, missed Madame Vanzade’s maid, who, no doubt, had +grown tired of waiting. She told Claude of her utter helplessness at the Lyons +terminus—that large, strange, dark station, deserted at that late hour of +night. She had not dared to take a cab at first, but had kept on walking up and +down, carrying her small bag, and still hoping that somebody would come for +her. When at last she made up her mind there only remained one driver, very +dirty and smelling of drink, who prowled round her, offering his cab in a +knowing, impudent way. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, I know, a dawdler,’ said Claude, getting as interested as if +he were listening to a fairy tale. ‘So you got into his cab?’ +</p> + +<p> +Looking up at the ceiling, Christine continued, without shifting her position: +‘He made me; he called me his little dear, and frightened me. When he +found out that I was going to Passy, he became very angry, and whipped his +horse so hard that I was obliged to hold on by the doors. After that I felt +more easy, because the cab trundled along all right through the lighted +streets, and I saw people about. At last I recognised the Seine, for though I +was never in Paris before, I had often looked at a map. Naturally I thought he +would keep along the quay, so I became very frightened again on noticing that +we crossed a bridge. Just then it began to rain, and the cab, which had got +into a very dark turning, suddenly stopped. The driver got down from his seat, +and declared it was raining too hard for him to remain on the box—’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude burst out laughing. He no longer doubted. She could not have invented +that driver. And as she suddenly stopped, somewhat confused, he said, +‘All right, the cabman was having a joke.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I jumped out at once by the other door,’ resumed Christine. +‘Then he began to swear at me, saying that we had arrived at Passy, and +that he would tear my hat from my head if I did not pay him. It was raining in +torrents, and the quay was absolutely deserted. I was losing my head, and when +I had pulled out a five-franc piece, he whipped up his horse and drove off, +taking my little bag, which luckily only contained two pocket-handkerchiefs, a +bit of cake, and the key of my trunk, which I had been obliged to leave behind +in the train.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But you ought to have taken his number,’ exclaimed the artist +indignantly. In fact he now remembered having been brushed against by a passing +cab, which had rattled by furiously while he was crossing the Pont Louis +Philippe, amid the downpour of the storm. And he reflected how improbable truth +often was. The story he had conjured up as being the most simple and logical +was utterly stupid beside the natural chain of life’s many combinations. +</p> + +<p> +‘You may imagine how I felt under the doorway,’ concluded +Christine. ‘I knew well enough that I was not at Passy, and that I should +have to spend the night there, in this terrible Paris. And there was the +thunder and the lightning—those horrible blue and red flashes, which +showed me things that made me tremble.’ +</p> + +<p> +She closed her eyelids once more, she shivered, and the colour left her cheeks +as, in her fancy, she again beheld the tragic city—that line of quays +stretching away in a furnace-like blaze, the deep moat of the river, with its +leaden waters obstructed by huge black masses, lighters looking like lifeless +whales, and bristling with motionless cranes which stretched forth gallows-like +arms. Was that a welcome to Paris? +</p> + +<p> +Again did silence fall. Claude had resumed his drawing. But she became +restless, her arm was getting stiff. +</p> + +<p> +‘Just put your elbow a little lower, please,’ said Claude. Then, +with an air of concern, as if to excuse his curtness: ‘Your parents will +be very uneasy, if they have heard of the accident.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I have no parents.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What! neither father nor mother? You are all alone in the world?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes; all alone.’ +</p> + +<p> +She was eighteen years old, and had been born in Strasburg, quite by chance, +though, between two changes of garrison, for her father was a soldier, Captain +Hallegrain. Just as she entered upon her twelfth year, the captain, a Gascon, +hailing from Montauban, had died at Clermont, where he had settled when +paralysis of the legs had obliged him to retire from active service. For nearly +five years afterwards, her mother, a Parisian by birth, had remained in that +dull provincial town, managing as well as she could with her scanty pension, +but eking it out by fan-painting, in order that she might bring up her daughter +as a lady. She had, however, now been dead for fifteen months, and had left her +child penniless and unprotected, without a friend, save the Superior of the +Sisters of the Visitation, who had kept her with them. Christine had come +straight to Paris from the convent, the Superior having succeeded in procuring +her a situation as reader and companion to her old friend, Madame Vanzade, who +was almost blind. +</p> + +<p> +At these additional particulars, Claude sat absolutely speechless. That +convent, that well-bred orphan, that adventure, all taking so romantic a turn, +made him relapse into embarrassment again, into all his former awkwardness of +gesture and speech. He had left off drawing, and sat looking, with downcast +eyes, at his sketch. +</p> + +<p> +‘Is Clermont pretty?’ he asked, at last. +</p> + +<p> +‘Not very; it’s a gloomy town. Besides, I don’t know; I +scarcely ever went out.’ +</p> + +<p> +She was resting on her elbow, and continued, as if talking to herself in a very +low voice, still tremulous from the thought of her bereavement. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mamma, who wasn’t strong, killed herself with work. She spoilt me; +nothing was too good for me. I had all sorts of masters, but I did not get on +very well; first, because I fell ill, then because I paid no attention. I was +always laughing and skipping about like a featherbrain. I didn’t care for +music, piano playing gave me a cramp in my arms. The only thing I cared about +at all was painting.’ +</p> + +<p> +He raised his head and interrupted her. ‘You can paint?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, no; I know nothing, nothing at all. Mamma, who was very talented, +made me do a little water-colour, and I sometimes helped her with the +backgrounds of her fans. She painted some lovely ones.’ +</p> + +<p> +In spite of herself, she then glanced at the startling sketches with which the +walls seemed ablaze, and her limpid eyes assumed an uneasy expression at the +sight of that rough, brutal style of painting. From where she lay she obtained +a topsy-turvy view of the study of herself which the painter had begun, and her +consternation at the violent tones she noticed, the rough crayon strokes, with +which the shadows were dashed off, prevented her from asking to look at it more +closely. Besides, she was growing very uncomfortable in that bed, where she lay +broiling; she fidgetted with the idea of going off and putting an end to all +these things which, ever since the night before, had seemed to her so much of a +dream. +</p> + +<p> +Claude, no doubt, became aware of her discomfort. A sudden feeling of shame +brought with it one of compunction. +</p> + +<p> +He put his unfinished sketch aside, and hastily exclaimed: ‘Much obliged +for your kindness, mademoiselle. Forgive me, I have really abused it. Yes, +indeed, pray get up; it’s time for you to look for your friends.’ +</p> + +<p> +And without appearing to understand why she did not follow his advice, but hid +more and more of her bare arm in proportion as he drew nearer, he still +insisted upon advising her to rise. All at once, as the real state of things +struck him, he swung his arms about like a madman, set the screen in position, +and went to the far end of the studio, where he began noisily setting his +crockery in order, so that she might jump out and dress herself, without fear +of being overheard. +</p> + +<p> +Amidst the din he had thus raised, he failed to hear her hesitating voice, +‘Monsieur, monsieur—’ +</p> + +<p> +At last he caught her words. +</p> + +<p> +‘Monsieur, would you be so kind—I can’t find my +stockings.’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude hurried forward. What had he been thinking of? What was she to do behind +that screen, without her stockings and petticoats, which he had spread out in +the sunlight? The stockings were dry, he assured himself of that by gently +rubbing them together, and he handed them to her over the partition; again +noticing her arm, bare, plump and rosy like that of a child. Then he tossed the +skirts on to the foot of the bed and pushed her boots forward, leaving nothing +but her bonnet suspended from the easel. She had thanked him and that was all; +he scarcely distinguished the rustling of her clothes and the discreet +splashing of water. Still he continued to concern himself about her. +</p> + +<p> +‘You will find the soap in a saucer on the table. Open the drawer and +take a clean towel. Do you want more water? I’ll give you the +pitcher.’ +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly the idea that he was blundering again exasperated him. +</p> + +<p> +‘There, there, I am only worrying you. I will leave you to your own +devices. Do as if you were at home.’ +</p> + +<p> +And he continued to potter about among the crockery. He was debating with +himself whether he should ask her to stay to breakfast. He ought not to let her +go like that. On the other hand, if she did stay, he would never get done; it +would mean a loss of his whole morning. Without deciding anything, as soon as +he had lighted his spirit lamp, he washed his saucepan and began to make some +chocolate. He thought it more <i>distingué</i>, feeling rather ashamed of his +vermicelli, which he mixed with bread and soused with oil as people do in the +South of France. However, he was still breaking the chocolate into bits, when +he uttered a cry of surprise, ‘What, already?’ +</p> + +<p> +It was Christine, who had pushed back the screen, and who appeared looking neat +and correct in her black dress, duly laced and buttoned up, equipped, as it +were, in a twinkle. Her rosy face did not even show traces of the water, her +thick hair was twisted in a knot at the back of her head, not a single lock out +of place. And Claude remained open-mouthed before that miracle of quickness, +that proof of feminine skill in dressing well and promptly. +</p> + +<p> +‘The deuce, if you go about everything in that way!’ said he. +</p> + +<p> +He found her taller and handsomer than he had fancied. But what struck him most +was her look of quiet decision. She was evidently no longer afraid of him. It +seemed as though she had re-donned her armour and become an amazon again. She +smiled and looked him straight in the face. Whereupon he said what he was still +reluctant to say: +</p> + +<p> +‘You’ll breakfast with me, won’t you?’ +</p> + +<p> +But she refused the offer. ‘No, thank you. I am going to the station, +where my trunk must have arrived by now, and then I shall drive to +Passy.’ +</p> + +<p> +It was in vain that he told her that she must be hungry, that it was +unreasonable for her to go out without eating something. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, if you won’t, I’ll go down and fetch you a cab,’ +he ended by exclaiming. +</p> + +<p> +‘Pray don’t take such trouble.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But you can’t go such a distance on foot. Let me at least take you +to the cabstand, as you don’t know Paris.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, really I do not need you. If you wish to oblige me, let me go away +by myself.’ +</p> + +<p> +She had evidently made up her mind. She no doubt shrank from the idea of being +seen with a man, even by strangers. She meant to remain silent about that +strange night, she meant to tell some falsehood, and keep the recollection of +her adventure entirely to herself. He made a furious gesture, which was +tantamount to sending her to the devil. Good riddance; it suited him better not +to have to go down. But, all the same, he felt hurt at heart, and considered +that she was ungrateful. +</p> + +<p> +‘As you please, then. I sha’n’t resort to force,’ he +said. +</p> + +<p> +At these words, Christine’s vague smile became more accentuated. She did +not reply, but took her bonnet and looked round in search of a glass. Failing +to find one, she tied the strings as best she could. With her arms uplifted, +she leisurely arranged and smoothed the ribbons, her face turned towards the +golden rays of the sun. Somewhat surprised, Claude looked in vain for the +traits of childish softness that he had just portrayed; the upper part of her +face, her clear forehead, her gentle eyes had become less conspicuous; and now +the lower part stood out, with its somewhat sensual jaw, ruddy mouth, and +superb teeth. And still she smiled with that enigmatical, girlish smile, which +was, perhaps, an ironical one. +</p> + +<p> +‘At any rate,’ he said, in a vexed tone, ‘I do not think you +have anything to reproach me with.’ +</p> + +<p> +At which she could not help laughing, with a slight, nervous laugh. +</p> + +<p> +‘No, no, monsieur, not in the least.’ +</p> + +<p> +He continued staring at her, fighting the battle of inexperience and +bashfulness over again, and fearing that he had been ridiculous. Now that she +no longer trembled before him, had she become contemptuously surprised at +having trembled at all? What! he had not made the slightest attempt at +courtship, not even pressed a kiss on her finger-tips. The young fellow’s +bearish indifference, of which she had assuredly been conscious, must have hurt +her budding womanly feelings. +</p> + +<p> +‘You were saying,’ she resumed, becoming sedate once more, +‘that the cabstand is at the end of the bridge on the opposite +quay?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes; at the spot where there is a clump of trees.’ +</p> + +<p> +She had finished tying her bonnet strings, and stood ready gloved, with her +hands hanging by her side, and yet she did not go, but stared straight in front +of her. As her eyes met the big canvas turned to the wall she felt a wish to +see it, but did not dare to ask. Nothing detained her; still she seemed to be +looking around as if she had forgotten something there, something which she +could not name. At last she stepped towards the door. +</p> + +<p> +Claude was already opening it, and a small loaf placed erect against the post +tumbled into the studio. +</p> + +<p> +‘You see,’ he said, ‘you ought to have stopped to breakfast +with me. My doorkeeper brings the bread up every morning.’ +</p> + +<p> +She again refused with a shake of the head. When she was on the landing she +turned round, and for a moment remained quite still. Her gay smile had come +back; she was the first to hold out her hand. +</p> + +<p> +‘Thank you, thank you very much.’ +</p> + +<p> +He had taken her small gloved hand within his large one, all pastel-stained as +it was. Both hands remained like that for a few moments, closely and cordially +pressed. The young girl was still smiling at him, and he had a question on the +tip of his tongue: ‘When shall I see you again?’ But he felt +ashamed to ask it, and after waiting a while she withdrew her hand. +</p> + +<p> +‘Good-bye, monsieur.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Good-bye, mademoiselle.’ +</p> + +<p> +Christine, without another glance, was already descending the steep ladder-like +stairway whose steps creaked, when Claude turned abruptly into his studio, +closing the door with a bang, and shouting to himself: ‘Ah, those +confounded women!’ +</p> + +<p> +He was furious—furious with himself, furious with everyone. Kicking about +the furniture, he continued to ease his feelings in a loud voice. Was not he +right in never allowing them to cross his threshold? They only turned a +fellow’s head. What proof had he after all that yonder chit with the +innocent look, who had just gone, had not fooled him most abominably? And he +had been silly enough to believe in her cock-and-bull stories! All his +suspicions revived. No one would ever make him swallow that fairy tale of the +general’s widow, the railway accident, and especially the cabman. Did +such things ever happen in real life? Besides, that mouth of hers told a +strange tale, and her looks had been very singular just as she was going. Ah! +if he could only have understood why she had told him all those lies; but no, +they were profitless, inexplicable. It was art for art’s sake. How she +must be laughing at him by this time. +</p> + +<p> +He roughly folded up the screen and sent it flying into a corner. She had no +doubt left all in disorder. And when he found that everything was in its proper +place—basin, towel, and soap—he flew into a rage because she had +not made the bed. With a great deal of fuss he began to make it himself, +lifting the mattress in his arms, banging the pillow about with his fists, and +feeling oppressed by the pure scent of youth that rose from everything. Then he +had a good wash to cool himself, and in the damp towel he found the same virgin +fragrance, which seemed to spread through the studio. Swearing the while, he +drank his chocolate from the saucepan, so excited, so eager to set to work, as +to swallow large mouthfuls of bread without taking breath. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, it’s enough to kill one here,’ he suddenly exclaimed. +‘It must be this confounded heat that’s making me ill.’ +</p> + +<p> +After all, the sun had shifted, and it was far less hot. But he opened a small +window on a level with the roof, and inhaled, with an air of profound relief, +the whiff of warm air that entered. Then he took up his sketch of +Christine’s head and for a long while he lingered looking at it. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"></a> +II</h2> + +<p> +IT had struck twelve, and Claude was working at his picture when there was a +loud, familiar knock at the door. With an instinctive yet involuntary impulse, +the artist slipped the sketch of Christine’s head, by the aid of which he +was remodelling the principal figure of his picture, into a portfolio. After +which he decided to open the door. +</p> + +<p> +‘You, Pierre!’ he exclaimed, ‘already!’ +</p> + +<p> +Pierre Sandoz, a friend of his boyhood, was about twenty-two, very dark, with a +round and determined head, a square nose, and gentle eyes, set in energetic +features, girt round with a sprouting beard. +</p> + +<p> +‘I breakfasted earlier than usual,’ he answered, ‘in order to +give you a long sitting. The devil! you are getting on with it.’ +</p> + +<p> +He had stationed himself in front of the picture, and he added almost +immediately: ‘Hallo! you have altered the character of your woman’s +features!’ +</p> + +<p> +Then came a long pause; they both kept staring at the canvas. It measured about +sixteen feet by ten, and was entirely painted over, though little of the work +had gone beyond the roughing-out. This roughing-out, hastily dashed off, was +superb in its violence and ardent vitality of colour. A flood of sunlight +streamed into a forest clearing, with thick walls of verdure; to the left, +stretched a dark glade with a small luminous speck in the far distance. On the +grass, amidst all the summer vegetation, lay a nude woman with one arm +supporting her head, and though her eyes were closed she smiled amidst the +golden shower that fell around her. In the background, two other women, one +fair, and the other dark, wrestled playfully, setting light flesh tints amidst +all the green leaves. And, as the painter had wanted something dark by way of +contrast in the foreground, he had contented himself with seating there a +gentleman, dressed in a black velveteen jacket. This gentleman had his back +turned and the only part of his flesh that one saw was his left hand, with +which he was supporting himself on the grass. +</p> + +<p> +‘The woman promises well,’ said Sandoz, at last; ‘but, dash +it, there will be a lot of work in all this.’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude, with his eyes blazing in front of his picture, made a gesture of +confidence. ‘I’ve lots of time from now till the Salon. One can get +through a deal of work in six months. And perhaps this time I’ll be able +to prove that I am not a brute.’ +</p> + +<p> +Thereupon he set up a whistle, inwardly pleased at the sketch he had made of +Christine’s head, and buoyed up by one of those flashes of hope whence he +so often dropped into torturing anguish, like an artist whom passion for nature +consumed. +</p> + +<p> +‘Come, no more idling,’ he shouted. ‘As you’re here, +let us set to.’ +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz, out of pure friendship, and to save Claude the cost of a model, had +offered to pose for the gentleman in the foreground. In four or five Sundays, +the only day of the week on which he was free, the figure would be finished. He +was already donning the velveteen jacket, when a sudden reflection made him +stop. +</p> + +<p> +‘But, I say, you haven’t really lunched, since you were working +when I came in. Just go down and have a cutlet while I wait here.’ +</p> + +<p> +The idea of losing time revolted Claude. ‘I tell you I have breakfasted. +Look at the saucepan. Besides, you can see there’s a crust of bread left. +I’ll eat it. Come, to work, to work, lazy-bones.’ +</p> + +<p> +And he snatched up his palette and caught his brushes, saying, as he did so, +‘Dubuche is coming to fetch us this evening, isn’t he?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, about five o’clock.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, that’s all right then. We’ll go down to dinner +directly he comes. Are you ready? The hand more to the left, and your head a +little more forward.’ +</p> + +<p> +Having arranged some cushions, Sandoz settled himself on the couch in the +required attitude. His back was turned, but all the same the conversation +continued for another moment, for he had that very morning received a letter +from Plassans, the little Provençal town where he and the artist had known each +other when they were wearing out their first pairs of trousers on the eighth +form of the local college. However, they left off talking. The one was working +with his mind far away from the world, while the other grew stiff and cramped +with the sleepy weariness of protracted immobility. +</p> + +<p> +It was only when Claude was nine years old that a lucky chance had enabled him +to leave Paris and return to the little place in Provence, where he had been +born. His mother, a hardworking laundress,* whom his ne’er-do-well father +had scandalously deserted, had afterwards married an honest artisan who was +madly in love with her. But in spite of their endeavours, they failed to make +both ends meet. Hence they gladly accepted the offer of an elderly and +well-to-do townsman to send the lad to school and keep him with him. It was the +generous freak of an eccentric amateur of painting, who had been struck by the +little figures that the urchin had often daubed. And thus for seven years +Claude had remained in the South, at first boarding at the college, and +afterwards living with his protector. The latter, however, was found dead in +his bed one morning. He left the lad a thousand francs a year, with the faculty +of disposing of the principal when he reached the age of twenty-five. Claude, +already seized with a passion for painting, immediately left school without +even attempting to secure a bachelor’s degree, and rushed to Paris +whither his friend Sandoz had preceded him. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +* Gervaise of ‘The Dram Shop’(L’Assommoir).—ED. +</p> + +<p> +At the College of Plassans, while still in the lowest form, Claude Lantier, +Pierre Sandoz, and another lad named Louis Dubuche, had been three +inseparables. Sprung from three different classes of society, by no means +similar in character, but simply born in the same year at a few months’ +interval, they had become friends at once and for aye, impelled thereto by +certain secret affinities, the still vague promptings of a common ambition, the +dawning consciousness of possessing greater intelligence than the set of dunces +who maltreated them. Sandoz’s father, a Spaniard, who had taken refuge in +France in consequence of some political disturbances in which he had been mixed +up, had started, near Plassans, a paper mill with new machinery of his own +invention. When he had died, heart-broken by the petty local jealousy that had +sought to hamper him in every way, his widow had found herself in so involved a +position, and burdened with so many tangled law suits, that the whole of her +remaining means were swallowed up. She was a native of Burgundy. Yielding to +her hatred of the Provençals, and laying at their door even the slow paralysis +from which she was suffering, she removed to Paris with her son, who then +supported her out of a meagre clerk’s salary, he himself haunted by the +vision of literary glory. As for Dubuche, he was the son of a baker of +Plassans. Pushed by his mother, a covetous and ambitious woman, he had joined +his friends in Paris later on. He was attending the courses at the School of +Arts as a pupil architect, living as best he might upon the last five-franc +pieces that his parents staked on his chances, with the obstinacy of usurers +discounting the future at the rate of a hundred per cent. +</p> + +<p> +‘Dash it!’ at last exclaimed Sandoz, breaking the intense silence +that hung upon the room. ‘This position isn’t at all easy; my wrist +feels broken. Can I move for a moment?’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude let him stretch himself without answering. He was now working at the +velveteen jacket, laying on the colour with thick strokes, However, stepping +backward and blinking, he suddenly burst into loud laughter at some +reminiscence. +</p> + +<p> +‘I say, do you recollect, when we were in the sixth form, how, one day, +Pouillaud lighted the candles in that idiot Lalubie’s cupboard? And how +frightened Lalubie was when, before going to his desk, he opened the cupboard +to take his books, and found it transformed into a mortuary chapel? Five +hundred lines to every one in the form.’ +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz, unable to withstand the contagion of the other’s gaiety, flung +himself back on the couch. As he resumed his pose, he remarked, ‘Ah, that +brute of a Pouillaud. You know that in his letter this morning he tells me of +Lalubie’s forthcoming marriage. The old hack is marrying a pretty girl. +But you know her, she’s the daughter of Gallissard, the +haberdasher—the little fair-haired girl whom we used to serenade!’ +</p> + +<p> +Once on the subject of their recollections there was no stopping them, though +Claude went on painting with growing feverishness, while Pierre, still turned +towards the wall, spoke over his shoulders, shaking every now and then with +excitement. +</p> + +<p> +First of all came recollections of the college, the old, dank convent, that +extended as far as the town ramparts; the two courtyards with their huge plane +trees; the slimy sedge-covered pond, where they had learned to swim, and the +class-rooms with dripping plaster walls on the ground floor; then the +refectory, with its atmosphere constantly poisoned by the fumes of dish-water; +the dormitory of the little ones, famous for its horrors, the linen room, and +the infirmary, full of gentle sisters, nuns in black gowns who looked so sweet +beneath their white coifs. What a to-do there had been when Sister Angela, she +whose Madonna-like face had turned the heads of all the big fellows, +disappeared one morning with Hermeline, a stalwart first-form lad, who, from +sheer love, purposely cut his hands with his penknife so as to get an +opportunity of seeing and speaking to her while she dressed his self-inflicted +injuries with gold-beater’s skin. +</p> + +<p> +Then they passed the whole college staff in review; a pitiful, grotesque, and +terrible procession it was, with such heads as are seen on meerschaum pipes, +and profiles instinct with hatred and suffering. There was the head master, who +ruined himself in giving parties, in order to marry his daughters—two +tall, elegant girls, the butt of constant and abominable insults, written and +sketched on every wall; there was the comptroller Pifard, whose wonderful nose +betrayed his presence behind every door, when he went eavesdropping; and there +were all the teachers, each befouled with some insulting nickname: the severe +‘Rhadamantus,’ who had never been seen to smile; +‘Filth,’ who by the constant rubbing of his head had left his mark +on the wall behind every professional seat he occupied; +‘Thou-hast-deceived-me-Adèle,’ the professor of physics, at whom +ten generations of schoolboys had tauntingly flung the name of his unfaithful +wife. There were others still: Spontini, the ferocious usher, with his Corsican +knife, rusty with the blood of three cousins; little Chantecaille, who was so +good-natured that he allowed the pupils to smoke when out walking; and also a +scullion and a scullery maid, two ugly creatures who had been nicknamed +Paraboulomenos and Paralleluca, and who were accused of kissing one another +over the vegetable parings. +</p> + +<p> +Then came comical reminiscences; the sudden recollection of practical jokes, at +which they shook with laughter after all those years. Oh! the morning when they +had burned the shoes of Mimi-la-Mort, <i>alias</i> the Skeleton Day Boarder, a +lank lad, who smuggled snuff into the school for the whole of the form. And +then that winter evening when they had bagged some matches lying near the lamp +in the chapel, in order to smoke dry chestnut leaves in reed pipes. Sandoz, who +had been the ringleader on that occasion, now frankly avowed his terror; the +cold perspiration that had come upon him when he had scrambled out of the +choir, wrapt in darkness. And again there was the day when Claude had hit upon +the sublime idea of roasting some cockchafers in his desk to see whether they +were good to eat, as people said they were. So terrible had been the stench, so +dense the smoke that poured from the desk, that the usher had rushed to the +water pitcher, under the impression that the place was on fire. And then their +marauding expeditions; the pillaging of onion beds while they were out walking; +the stones thrown at windows, the correct thing being to make the breakage +resemble a well-known geographical map. Also the Greek exercises, written +beforehand in large characters on the blackboard, so that every dunce might +easily read them though the master remained unaware of it; the wooden seats of +the courtyard sawn off and carried round the basin like so many corpses, the +boys marching in procession and singing funeral dirges. Yes! that had been a +capital prank. Dubuche, who played the priest, had tumbled into the basin while +trying to scoop some water into his cap, which was to serve as a holy water +pot. But the most comical and amusing of all the pranks had perhaps been that +devised by Pouillaud, who one night had fastened all the unmentionable crockery +of the dormitory to one long string passed under the beds. At dawn—it was +the very morning when the long vacation began—he had pulled the string +and skedaddled down the three flights of stairs with this frightful tail of +crockery bounding and smashing to pieces behind him. +</p> + +<p> +At the recollection of this last incident, Claude remained grinning from ear to +ear, his brush suspended in mid-air. ‘That brute of a Pouillaud!’ +he laughed. ‘And so he has written to you. What is he doing now?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, nothing at all, old man,’ answered Sandoz, seating himself +more comfortably on the cushions. ‘His letter is idiotic. He is just +finishing his law studies, and he will inherit his father’s practice as a +solicitor. You ought to see the style he has already assumed—all the +idiotic austerity of a philistine, who has turned over a new leaf.’ +</p> + +<p> +They were silent once more until Sandoz added, ‘You see, old boy, we have +been protected against that sort of thing.’ +</p> + +<p> +Then they relapsed again into reminiscences, but such as made their hearts +thump; the remembrance of the many happy days they had spent far away from the +college, in the open air and the full sunlight. When still very young, and only +in the sixth form, the three inseparables had become passionately fond of +taking long walks. The shortest holidays were eagerly seized upon to tramp for +miles and miles; and, getting bolder as they grew up, they finished by scouring +the whole of the country-side, by making journeys that sometimes lasted for +days. They slept where they could, in the cleft of a rock, on some +threshing-floor, still burning hot, where the straw of the beaten corn made +them a soft couch, or in some deserted hut, the ground of which they covered +with wild thyme and lavender. Those were flights far from the everyday world, +when they became absorbed in healthy mother Nature herself, adoring trees and +streams and mountains; revelling in the supreme joy of being alone and free. +</p> + +<p> +Dubuche, who was a boarder, had only joined them on half-holidays and during +the long vacation. Besides, his legs were heavy, and he had the quiet nature of +a studious lad. But Claude and Sandoz never wearied; they awakened each other +every Sunday morning by throwing stones at their respective shutters. In +summer, above all, they were haunted by the thought of the Viorne, the torrent, +whose tiny stream waters the low-lying pastures of Plassans. When scarcely +twelve they already knew how to swim, and it became a passion with them to +potter about in the holes where the water accumulated; to spend whole days +there, stark naked, drying themselves on the burning sand, and then replunging +into the river, living there as it were, on their backs, on their stomachs, +searching among the reeds on the banks, immersed up to their ears, and watching +the hiding-places of the eels for hours at a stretch. That constant contact of +water beneath a burning sun prolonged their childhood, as it were, and lent +them the joyous laughter of truant urchins, though they were almost young men, +when of an evening they returned to the town amidst the still oppressive heat +of a summer sunset. Later on they became very fond of shooting, but shooting +such as is carried on in a region devoid of game, where they had to trudge a +score of miles to pick off half a dozen pettychaps, or fig-peckers; wonderful +expeditions, whence they returned with their bags empty, or with a mere bat, +which they had managed to bring down while discharging their guns at the +outskirts of the town. Their eyes moistened at the recollection of those happy +days; they once more beheld the white endless roads, covered with layers of +dust, as if there had been a fall of snow. They paced them again and again in +their imagination, happy to hear the fancied creaking of their heavy shoes. +Then they cut across the fields, over the reddish-brown ferruginous soil, +careering madly on and on; and there was a sky of molten lead above them, not a +shadow anywhere, nothing but dwarf olive trees and almond trees with scanty +foliage. And then the delicious drowsiness of fatigue on their return, their +triumphant bravado at having covered yet more ground than on the precious +journey, the delight of being no longer conscious of effort, of advancing +solely by dint of strength acquired, spurring themselves on with some terrible +martial strain which helped to make everything like a dream. +</p> + +<p> +Already at that time Claude, in addition to his powder-flask and +cartridge-belt, took with him an album, in which he sketched little bits of +country, while Sandoz, on his side, always had some favourite poet in his +pocket. They lived in a perfect frenzy of romanticism, winged strophes +alternated with coarse garrison stories, odes were flung upon the burning, +flashing, luminous atmosphere that enwrapt them. And when perchance they came +upon a small rivulet, bordered by half a dozen willows, casting grey shadows on +the soil all ablaze with colour, they at once went into the seventh heaven. +They there by themselves performed the dramas they knew by heart, inflating +their voices when repeating the speeches of the heroes, and reducing them to +the merest whisper when they replied as queens and love-sick maidens. On such +days the sparrows were left in peace. In that remote province, amidst the +sleepy stupidity of that small town, they had thus lived on from the age of +fourteen, full of enthusiasm, devoured by a passion for literature and art. The +magnificent scenarios devised by Victor Hugo, the gigantic phantasies which +fought therein amidst a ceaseless cross-fire of antithesis, had at first +transported them into the fulness of epic glory; gesticulating, watching the +sun decline behind some ruins, seeing life pass by amidst all the superb but +false glitter of a fifth act. Then Musset had come to unman them with his +passion and his tears; they heard their own hearts throb in response to his, a +new world opened to them—a world more human—that conquered them by +its cries for pity, and of eternal misery, which henceforth they were to hear +rising from all things. Besides, they were not difficult to please; they showed +the voracity of youth, a furious appetite for all kinds of literature, good and +bad alike. So eager were they to admire something, that often the most +execrable works threw them into a state of exaltation similar to that which the +purest masterpieces produce. +</p> + +<p> +And as Sandoz now remarked, it was their great love of bodily exercise, their +very revels of literature that had protected them against the numbing influence +of their ordinary surroundings. They never entered a café, they had a horror of +the streets, even pretending to moult in them like caged eagles, whereas their +schoolfellows were already rubbing their elbows over the small marble tables +and playing at cards for drinks. Provincial life, which dragged other lads, +when still young, within its cogged mechanism, that habit of going to +one’s club, of spelling out the local paper from its heading to the last +advertisement, the everlasting game of dominoes no sooner finished than +renewed, the same walk at the self-same hour and ever along the same +roads—all that brutifies the mind, like a grindstone crushing the brain, +filled them with indignation, called forth their protestations. They preferred +to scale the neighbouring hills in search of some unknown solitary spot, where +they declaimed verses even amidst drenching showers, without dreaming of +shelter in their very hatred of town-life. They had even planned an encampment +on the banks of the Viorne, where they were to live like savages, happy with +constant bathing, and the company of five or six books, which would amply +suffice for their wants. Even womankind was to be strictly banished from that +camp. Being very timid and awkward in the presence of the gentler sex, they +pretended to the asceticism of superior intellects. For two years Claude had +been in love with a ‘prentice hat-trimmer, whom every evening he had +followed at a distance, but to whom he had never dared to address a word. +Sandoz nursed dreams of ladies met while travelling, beautiful girls who would +suddenly spring up in some unknown wood, charm him for a whole day, and melt +into air at dusk. The only love adventure which they had ever met with still +evoked their laughter, so silly did it seem to them now. It consisted of a +series of serenades which they had given to two young ladies during the time +when they, the serenaders, had formed part of the college band. They passed +their nights beneath a window playing the clarinet and the cornet-à-piston, and +thus raising a discordant din which frightened all the folk of the +neighbourhood, until one memorable evening the indignant parents had emptied +all the water pitchers of the family over them. +</p> + +<p> +Ah! those were happy days, and how loving was the laughter with which they +recalled them. On the walls of the studio hung a series of sketches, which +Claude, it so happened, had made during a recent trip southward. Thus it seemed +as if they were surrounded by the familiar vistas of bright blue sky +overhanging a tawny country-side. Here stretched a plain dotted with little +greyish olive trees as far as a rosy network of distant hills. There, between +sunburnt russet slopes, the exhausted Viorne was almost running dry beneath the +span of an old dust-bepowdered bridge, without a bit of green, nothing save a +few bushes, dying for want of moisture. Farther on, the mountain gorge of the +Infernets showed its yawning chasm amidst tumbled rocks, struck down by +lightning, a huge chaos, a wild desert, rolling stony billows as far as the eye +could reach. Then came all sorts of well remembered nooks: the valley of +Repentance, narrow and shady, a refreshing oasis amid calcined fields; the wood +of Les Trois Bons-Dieux, with hard, green, varnished pines shedding pitchy +tears beneath the burning sun; the sheep walk of Bouffan, showing white, like a +mosque, amidst a far-stretching blood-red plain. And there were yet bits of +blinding, sinuous roads; ravines, where the heat seemed even to wring bubbling +perspiration from the pebbles; stretches of arid, thirsty sand, drinking up +rivers drop by drop; mole hills, goat paths, and hill crests, half lost in the +azure sky. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hallo!’ exclaimed Sandoz, turning towards one sketch, +‘what’s that?’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude, indignant, waved his palette. ‘What! don’t you remember? We +were very nigh breaking our necks there. Surely you recollect the day we +clambered from the very bottom of Jaumegarde with Dubuche? The rock was as +smooth as your hand, and we had to cling to it with our nails, so that at one +moment we could neither get up nor go down again. When we were once atop and +about to cook our cutlets, we, you and I, nearly came to blows.’ +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz now remembered. ‘Yes, yes; each had to roast his own cutlet on +rosemary sticks, and, as mine took fire, you exasperated me by chaffing my +cutlet, which was being reduced to cinders.’ +</p> + +<p> +They both shook with laughter, until the painter resumed his work, gravely +concluding, ‘That’s all over, old man. There is to be no more +idling at present.’ +</p> + +<p> +He spoke the truth. Since the three inseparables had realised their dream of +meeting together in Paris, which they were bent upon conquering, their life had +been terribly hard. They had tried to renew the long walks of old. On certain +Sunday mornings they had started on foot from the Fontainebleau gate, had +scoured the copses of Verrières, gone as far as the Bièvre, crossed the woods +of Meudon and Bellevue, and returned home by way of Grenelle. But they taxed +Paris with spoiling their legs; they scarcely ever left the pavement now, +entirely taken up as they were with their struggle for fortune and fame. +</p> + +<p> +From Monday morning till Saturday night Sandoz sat fuming and fretting at the +municipal building of the fifth Arrondissement in a dark corner of the registry +office for births, rooted to his stool by the thought of his mother, whom his +salary of a hundred and fifty francs a month helped in some fashion to keep. +Dubuche, anxious to pay his parents the interest of the money placed on his +head, was ever on the look-out for some petty jobs among architects, outside +his studies at the School of Arts. As for Claude, thanks to his thousand francs +a year, he had his full liberty; but the latter days of each month were +terrible enough, especially if he had to share the fag-end of his allowance. +Luckily he was beginning to sell a little; disposing of tiny canvases, at the +rate of ten and twelve francs a-piece, to Papa Malgras, a wary picture dealer. +After all, he preferred starvation to turning his art into mere commerce by +manufacturing portraits of tradesmen and their wives; concocting conventional +religious pictures or daubing blinds for restaurants or sign-boards for +accoucheuses. When first he had returned to Paris, he had rented a very large +studio in the Impasse des Bourdonnais; but he had moved to the Quai de Bourbon +from motives of economy. He lived there like a savage, with an absolute +contempt for everything that was not painting. He had fallen out with his +relatives, who disgusted him; he had even ceased visiting his aunt, who kept a +pork-butcher’s shop near the Central Markets, because she looked too +flourishing and plump.* Respecting the downfall of his mother, who was being +eaten out of doors and driven into the streets, he nursed a secret grief. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +* This aunt is Lisa of ‘The Fat and the Thin’ (Le Ventre de Paris) +in a few chapters of which Claude figures.—ED. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly he shouted to Sandoz, ‘Will you be kind enough not to tumble to +pieces?’ But Sandoz declared that he was getting stiff, and jumped from +the couch to stretch his legs a bit. They took ten minutes’ rest, talking +meanwhile about many things. Claude felt condescendingly good-tempered. When +his work went smoothly he brightened up and became talkative; he, who painted +with his teeth set, and raged inwardly directly he felt that nature was +escaping him. Hence his friend had scarcely resumed his attitude before he went +on chattering, without, however, missing a stroke of his brush. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s going on all right, old boy, isn’t it? You look all +there in it. Oh, the brutes, I’ll just see whether they’ll refuse +me this time. I am more severe for myself than they are for themselves, +I’m sure of it; and whenever I pass one of my own pictures, it’s +more serious than if it had passed before all the hanging committees on earth. +You know my picture of the markets, with the two urchins tumbling about on a +heap of vegetables? Well, I’ve scratched it all out, it didn’t come +right. I found that I had got hold of a beastly machine,* a deal too heavy for +my strength. But, never you fear, I’ll take the subject up again some +day, when I know better, and I’ll take up others, machines which will +knock them all cock-a-hoop with surprise.’ +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +* In familiar conversation, French artists, playwrights, and novelists +invariably call their productions by the slang term +‘machines.’—ED. +</p> + +<p> +He made a magnificent gesture, as if to sweep a whole crowd away; emptied a +tube of cobalt on his palette; and then began to jeer, asking what his first +master would say to a picture like this? His first master indeed, Papa +Belloque, a retired infantry captain, with one arm, who for a quarter of a +century had taught drawing to the youth of Plassans in one of the galleries of +the Museum! Then, in Paris, hadn’t the celebrated Berthou, the painter of +‘Nero in the Circus’—Berthou, whose lessons he had attended +for six long months—told him a score of times that he would never be able +to do anything? How he now regretted those six months wasted in idiotic +efforts, absurd ‘studies,’ under the iron rule of a man whose ideas +differed so much from his own. He at last began to hold forth against working +at the Louvre. He would, he said, sooner chop his hand off than return there to +spoil his perception of nature by undertaking one of those copies which for +ever dim the vision of the world in which one lives. +</p> + +<p> +Was there aught else in art than the rendering of what one felt within oneself? +Was not the whole of art reduced to placing a woman in front of one—and +then portraying her according to the feelings that she inspired? Was not a +bunch of carrots—yes, a bunch of carrots—studied from nature, and +painted unaffectedly, in a personal style, worth all the ever-lasting smudges +of the School of Arts, all that tobacco-juice painting, cooked up according to +certain given recipes? The day would come when one carrot, originally rendered, +would lead to a revolution. It was because of this that he now contented +himself with going to the Boutin studio, a free studio, kept by a former model, +in the Rue de la Huchette. When he had paid his twenty francs he was put in +front of as many men and women as he cared for, and set about his work with a +will, never thinking of eating or drinking, but struggling unrestingly with +nature, mad almost with the excitement of work, by the side of a pack of +dandies who accused him of ignorant laziness, and arrogantly prated about their +‘studies,’ because they copied noses and mouths, under the eye of a +master. +</p> + +<p> +‘Listen to this, old man: when one of those whipper-snappers can build up +a torso like that one over yonder, he may come up and tell me, and we’ll +have a talk together.’ +</p> + +<p> +With the end of his brush he pointed to a study of the nude, suspended from the +wall near the door. It was really magnificent, full of masterly breadth of +colouring. By its side were some other admirable bits, a girl’s feet +exquisite in their delicate truthfulness, and a woman’s trunk with +quivering satin-like skin. In his rare moments of content he felt proud of +those few studies, the only ones which satisfied him, which, as it were, +foretold a great painter, admirably gifted, but hampered by sudden and +inexplicable fits of impotency. +</p> + +<p> +Dealing sabre-like strokes at the velveteen jacket, he continued lashing +himself into excitement with his uncompromising theories which respected +nobody: +</p> + +<p> +‘They are all so many daubers of penny prints, who have stolen their +reputations; a set of idiots or knaves on their knees before public imbecility! +Not one among them dares to give the philistines a slap in the face. And, while +we are about it, you know that old Ingres turns me sick with his glairy +painting. Nevertheless, he’s a brick, and a plucky fellow, and I take off +my hat to him, for he did not care a curse for anybody, and he used to draw +like the very devil. He ended by making the idiots, who nowadays believe they +understand him, swallow that drawing of his. After him there are only two worth +speaking of, Delacroix and Courbet. The others are only numskulls. Oh, that old +romantic lion, the carriage of him! He was a decorator who knew how to make the +colours blaze. And what a grasp he had! He would have covered every wall in +Paris if they had let him; his palette boiled, and boiled over. I know very +well that it was only so much phantasmagoria. Never mind, I like it for all +that, as it was needed to set the School on fire. Then came the other, a stout +workman—that one, the truest painter of the century, and altogether +classical besides, a fact which not one of the dullards understood. They +yelled, of course; they shouted about profanation and realism, when, after all, +the realism was only in the subject. The perception remained that of the old +masters, and the execution resumed and continued the best bits of work one can +find in our public galleries. Both Delacroix and Courbet came at the proper +time. Each made a stride forward. And now—ah, now!’ +</p> + +<p> +He ceased speaking and drew back a few steps to judge of the effect of his +picture, becoming absorbed in contemplation for a moment, and then resuming: +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, nowadays we want something different—what, I don’t +exactly know. If I did, and could do it, I should be clever indeed. No one else +would be in the race with me. All I do know and feel is that Delacroix’s +grand romantic scenes are foundering and splitting, that Courbet’s black +painting already reeks of the mustiness of a studio which the sun never +penetrates. You understand me, don’t you? We, perhaps, want the sun, the +open air, a clear, youthful style of painting, men and things such as they +appear in the real light. In short, I myself am unable to say what our painting +should be; the painting that our eyes of to-day should execute and +behold.’ +</p> + +<p> +His voice again fell; he stammered and found himself unable to explain the +formulas of the future that were rising within him. Deep silence came while he +continued working at the velveteen jacket, quivering all the time. +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz had been listening to him without stirring from his position. His back +was still turned, and he said slowly, as if speaking to the wall in a kind of +dream: +</p> + +<p> +‘No; one does not know, and still we ought to know. But each time a +professor has wanted to impress a truth upon me, I have mistrustfully revolted, +thinking: “He is either deceiving himself or deceiving me.” Their +ideas exasperate me. It seems to me that truth is larger, more general. How +beautiful would it be if one could devote the whole of one’s existence to +one single work, into which one would endeavour to put everything, the beasts +of the field as well as mankind; in short, a kind of immense ark. And not in +the order indicated by manuals of philosophy, or according to the idiotic +hierarchy on which we pride ourselves, but according to the full current of +life; a world in which we should be nothing more than an accident, in which the +passing cur, even the stones of the roads, would complete and explain us. In +sum, the grand whole, without low or high, or clean or unclean, such as it +indeed is in reality. It is certainly to science that poets and novelists ought +to address themselves, for it is the only possible source of inspiration +to-day. But what are we to borrow from it? How are we to march in its company? +The moment I begin to think about that sort of thing I feel that I am +floundering. Ah, if I only knew, what a series of books I would hurl at the +heads of the crowd!’ +</p> + +<p> +He also became silent. The previous winter he had published his first book: a +series of little sketches, brought from Plassans, among which only a few +rougher notes indicated that the author was a mutineer, a passionate lover of +truth and power. And lately he had been feeling his way, questioning himself +while all sorts of confused ideas throbbed in his brain. At first, smitten with +the thought of undertaking something herculean, he had planned a genesis of the +universe, in three phases or parts; the creation narrated according to science; +mankind supervening at the appointed hour and playing its part in the chain of +beings and events; then the future—beings constantly following one +another, and finishing the creation of the world by the endless labour of life. +But he had calmed down in presence of the venturesome hypotheses of this third +phase; and he was now looking out for a more restricted, more human framework, +in which, however, his vast ambition might find room. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah, to be able to see and paint everything,’ exclaimed Claude, +after a long interval. ‘To have miles upon miles of walls to cover, to +decorate the railway stations, the markets, the municipal offices, everything +that will be built, when architects are no longer idiots. Only strong heads and +strong muscles will be wanted, for there will be no lack of subjects. Life such +as it runs about the streets, the life of the rich and the poor, in the market +places, on the race-courses, on the boulevards, in the populous alleys; and +every trade being plied, and every passion portrayed in full daylight, and the +peasants, too, and the beasts of the fields and the landscapes—ah! +you’ll see it all, unless I am a downright brute. My very hands are +itching to do it. Yes! the whole of modern life! Frescoes as high as the +Pantheon! A series of canvases big enough to burst the Louvre!’ +</p> + +<p> +Whenever they were thrown together the painter and the author generally reached +this state of excitement. They spurred each other mutually, they went mad with +dreams of glory; and there was such a burst of youth, such a passion for work +about their plans, that they themselves often smiled afterwards at those great, +proud dreams which seemed to endow them with suppleness, strength, and spirit. +</p> + +<p> +Claude, who had stepped back as far as the wall, remained leaning against it, +and gazing at his work. Seeing which, Sandoz, overcome by fatigue, left the +couch and joined him. Then both looked at the picture without saying a word. +The gentleman in the velveteen jacket was entirely roughed in. His hand, more +advanced than the rest, furnished a pretty fresh patch of flesh colour amid the +grass, and the dark coat stood out so vigorously that the little silhouettes in +the background, the two little women wrestling in the sunlight, seemed to have +retreated further into the luminous quivering of the glade. The principal +figure, the recumbent woman, as yet scarcely more than outlined, floated about +like some aerial creature seen in dreams, some eagerly desired Eve springing +from the earth, with her features vaguely smiling and her eyelids closed. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, now, what are you going to call it?’ asked Sandoz. +</p> + +<p> +‘<i>The Open Air</i>,’ replied Claude, somewhat curtly. +</p> + +<p> +The title sounded rather technical to the writer, who, in spite of himself, was +sometimes tempted to introduce literature into pictorial art. +</p> + +<p> +‘<i>The Open Air</i>! that doesn’t suggest anything.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘There is no occasion for it to suggest anything. Some women and a man +are reposing in a forest in the sunlight. Does not that suffice? Don’t +fret, there’s enough in it to make a masterpiece.’ +</p> + +<p> +He threw back his head and muttered between his teeth: ‘Dash it all! +it’s very black still. I can’t get Delacroix out of my eye, do what +I will. And then the hand, that’s Courbet’s manner. Everyone of us +dabs his brush into the romantic sauce now and then. We had too much of it in +our youth, we floundered in it up to our very chins. We need a jolly good wash +to get clear of it.’ +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz shrugged his shoulders with a gesture of despair. He also bewailed the +fact that he had been born at what he called the confluence of Hugo and Balzac. +Nevertheless, Claude remained satisfied, full of the happy excitement of a +successful sitting. If his friend could give him two or three more Sundays the +man in the jacket would be all there. He had enough of him for the present. +Both began to joke, for, as a rule, Claude almost killed his models, only +letting them go when they were fainting, half dead with fatigue. He himself now +very nigh dropped, his legs bending under him, and his stomach empty. And as +the cuckoo clock struck five, he snatched at his crust of bread and devoured +it. Thoroughly worn out, he broke it with trembling fingers, and scarcely +chewed it, again standing before his picture, pursued by his passion to such a +degree as to be unconscious even that he was eating. +</p> + +<p> +‘Five o’clock,’ said Sandoz, as he stretched himself, with +his arms upraised. ‘Let’s go and have dinner. Ah! here comes +Dubuche, just in time.’ +</p> + +<p> +There was a knock at the door, and Dubuche came in. He was a stout young +fellow, dark, with regular but heavy features, close-cropped hair, and +moustaches already full-blown. He shook hands with both his friends, and +stopped before the picture, looking nonplussed. In reality that harum-scarum +style of painting upset him, such was the even balance of his nature, such his +reverence as a steady student for the established formulas of art; and it was +only his feeling of friendship which, as a rule, prevented him from +criticising. But this time his whole being revolted visibly. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, what’s the matter? Doesn’t it suit you?’ asked +Sandoz, who was watching him. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, oh yes, it’s very well painted—but—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, spit it out. What is it that ruffles you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not much, only the gentleman is fully dressed, and the women are not. +People have never seen anything like that before.’ +</p> + +<p> +This sufficed to make both the others wild. Why, were there not a hundred +pictures in the Louvre composed in precisely the same way? Hadn’t all +Paris and all the painters and tourists of the world seen them? And besides, if +people had never seen anything like it, they would see it now. After all, they +didn’t care a fig for the public! +</p> + +<p> +Not in the least disconcerted by these violent replies, Dubuche repeated +quietly: ‘The public won’t understand—the public will think +it indecorous—and so it is!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You wretched bourgeois philistine!’ exclaimed Claude, exasperated. +‘They are making a famous idiot of you at the School of Arts. You +weren’t such a fool formerly.’ +</p> + +<p> +These were the current amenities of his two friends since Dubuche had attended +the School of Arts. He thereupon beat a retreat, rather afraid of the turn the +dispute was taking, and saved himself by belabouring the painters of the +School. Certainly his friends were right in one respect, the School painters +were real idiots. But as for the architects, that was a different matter. Where +was he to get his tuition, if not there? Besides his tuition would not prevent +him from having ideas of his own, later on. Wherewith he assumed a very +revolutionary air. +</p> + +<p> +‘All right,’ said Sandoz, ‘the moment you apologise, +let’s go and dine.’ +</p> + +<p> +But Claude had mechanically taken up a brush and set to work again. Beside the +gentleman in the velveteen jacket the figure of the recumbent woman seemed to +be fading away. Feverish and impatient, he traced a bold outline round her so +as to bring her forward. +</p> + +<p> +‘Are you coming?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘In a minute; hang it, what’s the hurry? Just let me set this +right, and I’ll be with you.’ +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz shook his head and then remarked very quietly, lest he should still +further annoy him: ‘You do wrong to worry yourself like that, old man. +Yes, you are knocked up, and have had nothing to eat, and you’ll only +spoil your work, as you did the other day.’ +</p> + +<p> +But the painter waved him off with a peevish gesture. It was the old +story—he did not know when to leave off; he intoxicated himself with work +in his craving for an immediate result, in order to prove to himself that he +held his masterpiece at last. Doubts had just driven him to despair in the +midst of his delight at having terminated a successful sitting. Had he done +right, after all, in making the velveteen jacket so prominent, and would he not +afterwards fail to secure the brilliancy which he wished the female figure to +show? Rather than remain in suspense he would have dropped down dead on the +spot. Feverishly drawing the sketch of Christine’s head from the +portfolio where he had hidden it, he compared it with the painting on the +canvas, assisting himself, as it were, by means of this document derived from +life. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hallo!’ exclaimed Dubuche, ‘where did you get that from? Who +is it?’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude, startled by the questions, did not answer; then, without reflecting, he +who usually told them everything, brusquely lied, prompted by a delicate +impulse to keep silent respecting the adventure of the night. +</p> + +<p> +‘Tell us who it is?’ repeated the architect. +</p> + +<p> +‘Nobody at all—a model.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A model! a very young one, isn’t she? She looks very nice. I wish +you would give me her address. Not for myself, but for a sculptor I know +who’s on the look-out for a Psyche. Have you got the address +there?’ +</p> + +<p> +Thereupon Dubuche turned to a corner of the greyish wall on which the addresses +of several models were written in chalk, haphazard. The women particularly left +their cards in that way, in awkward, childish handwriting. Zoé Piedefer, 7 Rue +Campagne-Première, a big brunette, who was getting rather too stout, had +scrawled her sign manual right across the names of little Flore Beauchamp, 32 +Rue de Laval, and Judith Vaquez, 69 Rue du Rocher, a Jewess, both of whom were +too thin. +</p> + +<p> +‘I say, have you got the address?’ resumed Dubuche. +</p> + +<p> +Then Claude flew into a passion. ‘Don’t pester me! I don’t +know and don’t care. You’re a nuisance, worrying like that just +when a fellow wants to work.’ +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz had not said a word. Surprised at first, he had soon smiled. He was +gifted with more penetration than Dubuche, so he gave him a knowing nod, and +they then began to chaff. They begged Claude’s pardon; the moment he +wanted to keep the young person for his personal use, they would not ask him to +lend her. Ha! ha! the scamp went hunting about for pretty models. And where had +he picked up that one? +</p> + +<p> +More and more embarrassed by these remarks, Claude went on fidgetting. +‘What a couple of idiots you are!’ he exclaimed, ‘If you only +knew what fools you are making of yourselves. That’ll do. You really make +me sorry for both of you.’ +</p> + +<p> +His voice sounded so stern that they both became silent immediately, while he, +after once more scratching out the woman’s head, drew it anew and began +to paint it in, following his sketch of Christine, but with a feverish, +unsteady touch which went at random. +</p> + +<p> +‘Just give me another ten minutes, will you?’ he repeated. ‘I +will rough in the shoulders to be ready for to-morrow, and then we’ll go +down.’ +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz and Dubuche, knowing that it was of no use to prevent him from killing +himself in this fashion, resigned themselves to the inevitable. The latter +lighted his pipe, and flung himself on the couch. He was the only one of the +three who smoked; the others had never taken kindly to tobacco, always feeling +qualmish after a cigar. And when Dubuche was stretched on his back, his eyes +turned towards the clouds of smoke he raised, he began to talk about himself in +an interminable monotonous fashion. Ah! that confounded Paris, how one had to +work one’s fingers to the bone in order to get on. He recalled the +fifteen months of apprenticeship he had spent with his master, the celebrated +Dequersonnière, a former grand-prize man, now architect of the Civil Branch of +Public Works, an officer of the Legion of Honour and a member of the Institute, +whose chief architectural performance, the church of St. Mathieu, was a cross +between a pastry-cook’s mould and a clock in the so-called First Empire +style. A good sort of fellow, after all, was this Dequersonnière whom Dubuche +chaffed, while inwardly sharing his reverence for the old classical formulas. +However, but for his fellow-pupils, the young man would not have learnt much at +the studio in the Rue du Four, for the master only paid a running visit to the +place some three times a week. A set of ferocious brutes, were those comrades +of his, who had made his life jolly hard in the beginning, but who, at least, +had taught him how to prepare a surface, outline, and wash in a plan. And how +often had he had to content himself with a cup of chocolate and a roll for +déjeuner in order to pay the necessary five-and-twenty francs to the +superintendent! And the sheets of paper he had laboriously smudged, and the +hours he had spent in poring over books before he had dared to present himself +at the School! And he had narrowly escaped being plucked in spite of all his +assiduous endeavours. He lacked imagination, and the drawings he submitted, a +caryatide and a summer dining-room, both extremely mediocre performances, had +classed him at the bottom of the list. Fortunately, he had made up for this in +his oral examination with his logarithms, geometry, and history of +architecture, for he was very strong in the scientific parts. Now that he was +attending the School as a second-class student, he had to toil and moil in +order to secure a first-class diploma. It was a dog’s life, there was no +end to it, said he. +</p> + +<p> +He stretched his legs apart, high upon the cushions, and smoked vigorously and +regularly. +</p> + +<p> +‘What with their courses of perspective, of descriptive geometry, of +stereotomy, of building, and of the history of art—ah! upon my word, they +do make one blacken paper with notes. And every month there is a competitive +examination in architecture, sometimes a simple sketch, at others a complete +design. There’s no time for pleasure if a fellow wishes to pass his +examinations and secure the necessary honourable mentions, especially if, +besides all that, he has to find time to earn his bread. As for myself, +it’s almost killing me.’ +</p> + +<p> +One of the cushions having slipped upon the floor, he fished it up with his +feet. ‘All the same, I’m lucky. There are so many of us scouring +the town every day without getting the smallest job. The day before yesterday I +discovered an architect who works for a large contractor. You can have no idea +of such an ignoramus of an architect—a downright numskull, incapable even +of tracing a plan. He gives me twenty-five sous an hour, and I set his houses +straight for him. It came just in time, too, for my mother sent me word that +she was quite cleared out. Poor mother, what a lot of money I have to refund +her!’ +</p> + +<p> +As Dubuche was evidently talking to himself, chewing the cud of his everyday +thoughts—his constant thoughts of making a rapid fortune—Sandoz did +not even trouble to listen to him. He had opened the little window, and seated +himself on a level with the roof, for he felt oppressed by the heat in the +studio. But all at once he interrupted the architect. +</p> + +<p> +‘I say, are you coming to dinner on Thursday? All the other fellows will +be there—Fagerolles, Mahoudeau, Jory, Gagnière.’ +</p> + +<p> +Every Thursday, quite a band met at Sandoz’s: friends from Plassans and +others met in Paris—revolutionaries to a man, and all animated by the +same passionate love of art. +</p> + +<p> +‘Next Thursday? No, I think not,’ answered Dubuche. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am obliged to go to a dance at a family’s I know.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Where you expect to get hold of a dowry, I suppose?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, it wouldn’t be such a bad spec.’ +</p> + +<p> +He shook the ashes from his pipe on to his left palm, and then, suddenly +raising his voice—‘I almost forgot. I have had a letter from +Pouillaud.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You, too!—well, I think he’s pretty well done for, +Pouillaud. Another good fellow gone wrong.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why gone wrong? He’ll succeed his father; he’ll spend his +money quietly down there. He writes rationally enough. I always said he’d +show us a thing or two, in spite of all his practical jokes. Ah! that beast of +a Pouillaud.’ +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz, furious, was about to reply, when a despairing oath from Claude stopped +him. The latter had not opened his lips since he had so obstinately resumed his +work. To all appearance he had not even listened. +</p> + +<p> +‘Curse it—I have failed again. Decidedly, I’m a brute, I +shall never do anything.’ And in a fit of mad rage he wanted to rush at +his picture and dash his fist through it. His friends had to hold him back. +Why, it was simply childish to get into such a passion. Would matters be +improved when, to his mortal regret, he had destroyed his work? Still shaking, +he relapsed into silence, and stared at the canvas with an ardent fixed gaze +that blazed with all the horrible agony born of his powerlessness. He could no +longer produce anything clear or life-like; the woman’s breast was +growing pasty with heavy colouring; that flesh which, in his fancy, ought to +have glowed, was simply becoming grimy; he could not even succeed in getting a +correct focus. What on earth was the matter with his brain that he heard it +bursting asunder, as it were, amidst his vain efforts? Was he losing his sight +that he was no longer able to see correctly? Were his hands no longer his own +that they refused to obey him? And thus he went on winding himself up, +irritated by the strange hereditary lesion which sometimes so greatly assisted +his creative powers, but at others reduced him to a state of sterile despair, +such as to make him forget the first elements of drawing. Ah, to feel giddy +with vertiginous nausea, and yet to remain there full of a furious passion to +create, when the power to do so fled with everything else, when everything +seemed to founder around him—the pride of work, the dreamt-of glory, the +whole of his existence! +</p> + +<p> +‘Look here, old boy,’ said Sandoz at last, ‘we don’t +want to worry you, but it’s half-past six, and we are starving. Be +reasonable, and come down with us.’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude was cleaning a corner of his palette. Then he emptied some more tubes on +it, and, in a voice like thunder, replied with one single word, +‘No.’ +</p> + +<p> +For the next ten minutes nobody spoke; the painter, beside himself, wrestled +with his picture, whilst his friends remained anxious at this attack, which +they did not know how to allay. Then, as there came a knock at the door, the +architect went to open it. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hallo, it’s Papa Malgras.’ +</p> + +<p> +Malgras, the picture-dealer, was a thick-set individual, with close-cropped, +brush-like, white hair, and a red splotchy face. He was wrapped in a very dirty +old green coat, that made him look like an untidy cabman. In a husky voice, he +exclaimed: ‘I happened to pass along the quay, on the other side of the +way, and I saw that gentleman at the window. So I came up.’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude’s continued silence made him pause. The painter had turned to his +picture again with an impatient gesture. Not that this silence in any way +embarrassed the new comer, who, standing erect on his sturdy legs and feeling +quite at home, carefully examined the new picture with his bloodshot eyes. +Without any ceremony, he passed judgment upon it in one phrase—half +ironic, half affectionate: ‘Well, well, there’s a machine.’ +</p> + +<p> +Then, seeing that nobody said anything, he began to stroll round the studio, +looking at the paintings on the walls. +</p> + +<p> +Papa Malgras, beneath his thick layer of grease and grime, was really a very +cute customer, with taste and scent for good painting. He never wasted his time +or lost his way among mere daubers; he went straight, as if from instinct, to +individualists, whose talent was contested still, but whose future fame his +flaming, drunkard’s nose sniffed from afar. Added to this he was a +ferocious hand at bargaining, and displayed all the cunning of a savage in his +efforts to secure, for a song, the pictures that he coveted. True, he himself +was satisfied with very honest profits, twenty per cent., thirty at the most. +He based his calculations on quickly turning over his small capital, never +purchasing in the morning without knowing where to dispose of his purchase at +night. As a superb liar, moreover, he had no equal. +</p> + +<p> +Pausing near the door, before the studies from the nude, painted at the Boutin +studio, he contemplated them in silence for a few moments, his eyes glistening +the while with the enjoyment of a connoisseur, which his heavy eyelids tried to +hide. Assuredly, he thought, there was a great deal of talent and sentiment of +life about that big crazy fellow Claude, who wasted his time in painting huge +stretches of canvas which no one would buy. The girl’s pretty legs, the +admirably painted woman’s trunk, filled the dealer with delight. But +there was no sale for that kind of stuff, and he had already made his +choice—a tiny sketch, a nook of the country round Plassans, at once +delicate and violent—which he pretended not to notice. At last he drew +near, and said, in an off-hand way: +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s this? Ah! yes, I know, one of the things you brought back +with you from the South. It’s too crude. I still have the two I bought of +you.’ +</p> + +<p> +And he went on in mellow, long-winded phrases. ‘You’ll perhaps not +believe me, Monsieur Lantier, but that sort of thing doesn’t sell at +all—not at all. I’ve a set of rooms full of them. I’m always +afraid of smashing something when I turn round. I can’t go on like that, +honour bright; I shall have to go into liquidation, and I shall end my days in +the hospital. You know me, eh? my heart is bigger than my pocket, and +there’s nothing I like better than to oblige young men of talent like +yourself. Oh, for the matter of that, you’ve got talent, and I keep on +telling them so—nay, shouting it to them—but what’s the good? +They won’t nibble, they won’t nibble!’ +</p> + +<p> +He was trying the emotional dodge; then, with the spirit of a man about to do +something rash: ‘Well, it sha’n’t be said that I came in to +waste your time. What do you want for that rough sketch?’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude, still irritated, was painting nervously. He dryly answered, without +even turning his head: ‘Twenty francs.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Nonsense; twenty francs! you must be mad. You sold me the others ten +francs a-piece—and to-day I won’t give a copper more than eight +francs.’ +</p> + +<p> +As a rule the painter closed with him at once, ashamed and humbled at this +miserable chaffering, glad also to get a little money now and then. But this +time he was obstinate, and took to insulting the picture-dealer, who, giving +tit for tat, all at once dropped the formal ‘you’ to assume the +glib ‘thou,’ denied his talent, overwhelmed him with invective, and +taxed him with ingratitude. Meanwhile, however, he had taken from his pocket +three successive five-franc pieces, which, as if playing at chuck-farthing, he +flung from a distance upon the table, where they rattled among the crockery. +</p> + +<p> +‘One, two, three—not one more, dost hear? for there is already one +too many, and I’ll take care to get it back; I’ll deduct it from +something else of thine, as I live. Fifteen francs for that! Thou art wrong, my +lad, and thou’lt be sorry for this dirty trick.’ +</p> + +<p> +Quite exhausted, Claude let him take down the little canvas, which disappeared +as if by magic in his capacious green coat. Had it dropped into a special +pocket, or was it reposing on Papa Malgras’ ample chest? Not the +slightest protuberance indicated its whereabouts. +</p> + +<p> +Having accomplished his stroke of business, Papa Malgras abruptly calmed down +and went towards the door. But he suddenly changed his mind and came back. +‘Just listen, Lantier,’ he said, in the honeyest of tones; ‘I +want a lobster painted. You really owe me that much after fleecing me. +I’ll bring you the lobster, you’ll paint me a bit of still life +from it, and keep it for your pains. You can eat it with your friends. +It’s settled, isn’t it?’ +</p> + +<p> +At this proposal Sandoz and Dubuche, who had hitherto listened inquisitively, +burst into such loud laughter that the picture-dealer himself became gay. Those +confounded painters, they did themselves no good, they simply starved. What +would have become of the lazy beggars if he, Papa Malgras, hadn’t brought +a leg of mutton now and then, or a nice fresh plaice, or a lobster, with its +garnish of parsley? +</p> + +<p> +‘You’ll paint me my lobster, eh, Lantier? Much obliged.’ And +he stationed himself anew before the large canvas, with his wonted smile of +mingled derision and admiration. And at last he went off, repeating, +‘Well, well, there’s a machine.’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude wanted to take up his palette and brushes once more. But his legs +refused their service; his arms fell to his side, stiff, as if pinioned there +by some occult force. In the intense melancholy silence that had followed the +din of the dispute he staggered, distracted, bereft of sight before his +shapeless work. +</p> + +<p> +‘I’m done for, I’m done for,’ he gasped. ‘That +brute has finished me off!’ +</p> + +<p> +The clock had just struck seven; he had been at work for eight mortal hours +without tasting anything but a crust of bread, without taking a moment’s +rest, ever on his legs, shaken by feverish excitement. And now the sun was +setting, shadows began to darken the studio, which in the gloaming assumed a +most melancholy aspect. When the light went down like this on the crisis of a +bad day’s work, it seemed to Claude as if the sun would never rise again, +but had for ever carried life and all the jubilant gaiety of colour away. +</p> + +<p> +‘Come,’ implored Sandoz, with all the gentleness of brotherly +compassion. ‘Come, there’s a good fellow.’ +</p> + +<p> +Even Dubuche added, ‘You’ll see more clearly into it to-morrow. +Come and dine.’ +</p> + +<p> +For a moment Claude refused to surrender. He stood rooted to the spot, deaf to +their friendly voices, and fiercely obstinate. +</p> + +<p> +What did he want to do then, since his tired fingers were no longer able to +grasp the brush? He did not know, but, however powerless he might be, he was +gnawed by a mad craving to go on working still and to create in spite of +everything. Even if he did nothing, he would at least stay there, he would not +vacate the spot. All at once, however, he made up his mind, shaken the while as +by a big sob. He clutched firmly hold of his broadest palette-knife, and, with +one deep, slow sweep, he obliterated the woman’s head and bosom. It was +veritable murder, a pounding away of human flesh; the whole disappeared in a +murky, muddy mash. By the side of the gentleman in the dark jacket, amidst the +bright verdure, where the two little wrestlers so lightly tinted were +disporting themselves, there remained naught of the nude, headless, breastless +woman but a mutilated trunk, a vague cadaverous stump, an indistinct, lifeless +patch of visionary flesh. +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz and Dubuche were already descending the stairs with a great clatter, and +Claude followed them, fleeing his work, in agony at having to leave it thus +scarred with a gaping gash. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"></a> +III</h2> + +<p> +THE beginning of the week proved disastrous to Claude. He had relapsed into one +of those periods of self-doubt that made him hate painting, with the hatred of +a lover betrayed, who overwhelms the faithless one with insults although +tortured by an uncontrollable desire to worship her yet again. So on the +Thursday, after three frightful days of fruitless and solitary battling, he +left home as early as eight in the morning, banging his door violently, and +feeling so disgusted with himself that he swore he would never take up a brush +again. When he was unhinged by one of these attacks there was but one remedy, +he had to forget himself, and, to do so, it was needful that he should look up +some comrades with whom to quarrel, and, above all, walk about and trudge +across Paris, until the heat and odour of battle rising from her paving-stones +put heart into him again. +</p> + +<p> +That day, like every other Thursday, he was to dine at Sandoz’s, in +company with their friends. But what was he to do until the evening? The idea +of remaining by himself, of eating his heart out, disgusted him. He would have +gone straight to his friend, only he knew that the latter must be at his +office. Then the thought of Dubuche occurred to him, but he hesitated, for +their old friendship had lately been cooling down. He felt that the fraternity +of the earlier times of effort no longer existed between them. He guessed that +Dubuche lacked intelligence, had become covertly hostile, and was occupied with +ambitions different from his own. However, he, Claude, must go somewhere. So he +made up his mind, and repaired to the Rue Jacob, where the architect rented a +small room on the sixth floor of a big frigid-looking house. +</p> + +<p> +Claude was already on the landing of the second floor, when the doorkeeper, +calling him back, snappishly told him that M. Dubuche was not at home, and had, +in fact, stayed out all night. The young man slowly descended the stairs and +found himself in the street, stupefied, as it were, by so prodigious an event +as an escapade on the part of Dubuche. It was a piece of inconceivable bad +luck. For a moment he strolled along aimlessly; but, as he paused at the corner +of the Rue de Seine, not knowing which way to go, he suddenly recollected what +his friend had told him about a certain night spent at the Dequersonnière +studio—a night of terrible hard work, the eve of the day on which the +pupils’ designs had to be deposited at the School of Arts. At once he +walked towards the Rue du Four, where the studio was situated. Hitherto he had +carefully abstained from calling there for Dubuche, from fear of the yells with +which outsiders were greeted. But now he made straight for the place without +flinching, his timidity disappearing so thoroughly before the anguish of +loneliness that he felt ready to undergo any amount of insult could he but +secure a companion in misfortune. +</p> + +<p> +The studio was situated in the narrowest part of the Rue du Four, at the far +end of a decrepit, tumble-down building. Claude had to cross two evil-smelling +courtyards to reach a third, across which ran a sort of big closed shed, a huge +out-house of board and plaster work, which had once served as a packing-case +maker’s workshop. From outside, through the four large windows, whose +panes were daubed with a coating of white lead, nothing could be seen but the +bare whitewashed ceiling. +</p> + +<p> +Having pushed the door open, Claude remained motionless on the threshold. The +place stretched out before him, with its four long tables ranged lengthwise to +the windows—broad double tables they were, which had swarms of students +on either side, and were littered with moist sponges, paint saucers, iron +candlesticks, water bowls, and wooden boxes, in which each pupil kept his white +linen blouse, his compasses, and colours. In one corner, the stove, neglected +since the previous winter, stood rusting by the side of a pile of coke that had +not been swept away; while at the other end a large iron cistern with a tap was +suspended between two towels. And amidst the bare untidiness of this shed, the +eye was especially attracted by the walls which, above, displayed a litter of +plaster casts ranged in haphazard fashion on shelves, and disappeared lower +down behind forests of T-squares and bevels, and piles of drawing boards, tied +together with webbing straps. Bit by bit, such parts of the partitions as had +remained unoccupied had become covered with inscriptions and drawings, a +constantly rising flotsam and jetsam of scrawls traced there as on the margin +of an ever-open book. There were caricatures of the students themselves, coarse +witticisms fit to make a gendarme turn pale, epigrammatic sentences, addition +sums, addresses, and so forth; while, above all else, written in big letters, +and occupying the most prominent place, appeared this inscription: ‘On +the 7th of June, Gorfu declared that he didn’t care a hang for +Rome.—Signed, Godemard.‘* +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +* The allusion is to the French Art School at Rome, and the competitions into +which students enter to obtain admission to it, or to secure the prizes offered +for the best exhibits which, during their term of residence, they send to +Paris.—ED. +</p> + +<p> +Claude was greeted with a growl like that of wild beasts disturbed in their +lair. What kept him motionless was the strange aspect of this place on the +morning of the ‘truck night,’ as the embryo architects termed the +crucial night of labour. Since the previous evening, the whole studio, some +sixty pupils, had been shut up there; those who had no designs to +exhibit—‘the niggers,’ as they were called remaining to help +the others, the competitors who, being behind time, had to knock off the work +of a week in a dozen hours. Already, at midnight, they had stuffed themselves +with brawn, saveloys, and similar viands, washed down with cheap wine. Towards +one o’clock they had secured the company of some ‘ladies’; +and, without the work abating, the feast had turned into a Roman orgy, blended +with a smoking competition. On the damp, stained floor there remained a great +litter of greasy paper and broken bottles; while the atmosphere reeked of burnt +tallow, musk, highly seasoned sausages, and cheap bluish wine. +</p> + +<p> +And now many voices savagely yelled: ‘Turn him out. Oh, that mug! What +does he want, that guy? Turn him out, turn him out.’ +</p> + +<p> +For a moment Claude, quite dazed, staggered beneath the violence of the +onslaught. But the epithets became viler, for the acme of elegance, even for +the more refined among these young fellows, was to rival one’s friends in +beastly language. He was, nevertheless, recovering and beginning to answer, +when Dubuche recognised him. The latter turned crimson, for he detested that +kind of adventure. He felt ashamed of his friend, and rushed towards him, +amidst the jeers, which were now levelled at himself: +</p> + +<p> +‘What, is it you?’ he gasped. ‘I told you never to come in. +Just wait for me a minute in the yard.’ +</p> + +<p> +At that moment, Claude, who was stepping back, narrowly escaped being knocked +down by a little hand-truck which two big full-bearded fellows brought up at a +gallop. It was from this truck that the night of heavy toil derived its name: +and for the last week the students who had got behindhand with their work, +through taking up petty paid jobs outside, had been repeating the cry, +‘Oh! I’m in the truck and no mistake.’ The moment the vehicle +appeared, a clamour arose. It was a quarter to nine o’clock, there was +barely time to reach the School of Arts. However, a helter-skelter rush emptied +the studio; each brought out his chases, amidst a general jostling; those who +obstinately wished to give their designs a last finishing touch were knocked +about and carried away with their comrades. In less than five minutes every +frame was piled upon the truck, and the two bearded fellows, the most recent +additions to the studio, harnessed themselves to it like cattle and drew it +along with all their strength, the others vociferating, and pushing from +behind. It was like the rush of a sluice; the three courtyards were crossed +amidst a torrential crash, and the street was invaded, flooded by the howling +throng. +</p> + +<p> +Claude, nevertheless, had set up running by the side of Dubuche, who came at +the fag-end, very vexed at not having had another quarter of an hour to finish +a tinted drawing more carefully. +</p> + +<p> +‘What are you going to do afterwards?’ asked Claude. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh! I’ve errands which will take up my whole day.’ +</p> + +<p> +The painter was grieved to see that even this friend escaped him. ‘All +right, then,’ said he; ‘in that case I leave you. Shall we see you +at Sandoz’s to-night?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, I think so; unless I’m kept to dinner elsewhere.’ +</p> + +<p> +Both were getting out of breath. The band of embryo architects, without +slackening their pace, had purposely taken the longest way round for the +pleasure of prolonging their uproar. After rushing down the Rue du Four, they +dashed across the Place Gozlin and swept into the Rue de l’Echaude. +Heading the procession was the truck, drawn and pushed along more and more +vigorously, and constantly rebounding over the rough paving-stones, amid the +jolting of the frames with which it was laden. Its escort galloped along madly, +compelling the passers-by to draw back close to the houses in order to save +themselves from being knocked down; while the shop-keepers, standing +open-mouthed on their doorsteps, believed in a revolution. The whole +neighbourhood seemed topsy-turvy. In the Rue Jacob, such was the rush, so +frightful were the yells, that several house shutters were hastily closed. As +the Rue Bonaparte was, at last, being reached, one tall, fair fellow thought it +a good joke to catch hold of a little servant girl who stood bewildered on the +pavement, and drag her along with them, like a wisp of straw caught in a +torrent. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well,’ said Claude, ‘good-bye, then; I’ll see you +to-night.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, to-night.’ +</p> + +<p> +The painter, out of breath, had stopped at the corner of the Rue des Beaux +Arts. The court gates of the Art School stood wide open in front of him, and +the procession plunged into the yard. +</p> + +<p> +After drawing breath, Claude retraced his steps to the Rue de Seine. His bad +luck was increasing; it seemed ordained that he should not be able to beguile a +chum from work that morning. So he went up the street, and slowly walked on as +far as the Place du Pantheon, without any definite aim. Then it occurred to him +that he might just look into the Municipal Offices, if only to shake hands with +Sandoz. That would, at any rate, mean ten minutes well spent. But he positively +gasped when he was told by an attendant that M. Sandoz had asked for a day off +to attend a funeral. However, he knew the trick of old. His friend always found +the same pretext whenever he wanted to do a good day’s work at home. He +had already made up his mind to join him there, when a feeling of artistic +brotherliness, the scruple of an honest worker, made him pause; yes, it would +be a crime to go and disturb that good fellow, and infect him with the +discouragement born of a difficult task, at the very moment when he was, no +doubt, manfully accomplishing his own work. +</p> + +<p> +So Claude had to resign himself to his fate. He dragged his black melancholy +along the quays until mid-day, his head so heavy, so full of thoughts of his +lack of power, that he only espied the well-loved horizons of the Seine through +a mist. Then he found himself once more in the Rue de la Femme-sans-Tête, where +he breakfasted at Gomard’s wine shop, whose sign ‘The Dog of +Montargis,’ inspired him with interest. Some stonemasons, in their +working blouses, bespattered with mortar, were there at table, and, like them, +and with them, he ate his eight sous’ ‘ordinary’—some +beef broth in a bowl, in which he soaked some bread, followed by a slice of +boiled soup-beef, garnished with haricot beans, and served up on a plate damp +with dish-water. However, it was still too good, he thought, for a brute unable +to earn his bread. Whenever his work miscarried, he undervalued himself, ranked +himself lower than a common labourer, whose sinewy arms could at least perform +their appointed task. For an hour he lingered in the tavern brutifying himself +by listening to the conversation at the tables around him. Once outside he +slowly resumed his walk in haphazard fashion. +</p> + +<p> +When he got to the Place de l’Hôtel de Ville, however, a fresh idea made +him quicken his pace. Why had he not thought of Fagerolles? Fagerolles was a +nice fellow, gay, and by no means a fool, although he studied at the School of +Arts. One could talk with him, even when he defended bad painting. If he had +lunched at his father’s, in the Rue Vieille-du-Temple, he must certainly +still be there. +</p> + +<p> +On entering the narrow street, Claude felt a sensation of refreshing coolness +come over him. In the sun it had grown very warm, and moisture rose from the +pavement, which, however bright the sky, remained damp and greasy beneath the +constant tramping of the pedestrians. Every minute, when a push obliged Claude +to leave the footwalk, he found himself in danger of being knocked down by +trucks or vans. Still the street amused him, with its straggling houses out of +line, their flat frontages chequered with signboards up to the very eaves, and +pierced with small windows, whence came the hum of every kind of handiwork that +can be carried on at home. In one of the narrowest parts of the street a small +newspaper shop made him stop. It was betwixt a hairdresser’s and a +tripeseller’s, and had an outdoor display of idiotic prints, romantic +balderdash mixed with filthy caricatures fit for a barrack-room. In front of +these ‘pictures,’ a lank hobbledehoy stood lost in reverie, while +two young girls nudged each other and jeered. He felt inclined to slap their +faces, but he hurried across the road, for Fagerolles’ house happened to +be opposite. It was a dark old tenement, standing forward from the others, and +was bespattered like them with the mud from the gutters. As an omnibus came up, +Claude barely had time to jump upon the foot pavement, there reduced to the +proportions of a simple ledge; the wheels brushed against his chest, and he was +drenched to his knees. +</p> + +<p> +M. Fagerolles, senior, a manufacturer of artistic zinc-work, had his workshops +on the ground floor of the building, and having converted two large front rooms +on the first floor into a warehouse, he personally occupied a small, dark, +cellar-like apartment overlooking the courtyard. It was there that his son +Henri had grown up, like a true specimen of the flora of the Paris streets, at +the edge of that narrow pavement constantly struck by the omnibus wheels, +always soddened by the gutter water, and opposite the print and newspaper shop, +flanked by the barber’s and tripeseller’s. At first his father had +made an ornamental draughtsman of him for personal use. But when the lad had +developed higher ambition, taking to painting proper, and talking about the +School of Arts, there had been quarrels, blows, a series of separations and +reconciliations. Even now, although Henri had already achieved some successes, +the manufacturer of artistic zinc-work, while letting him have his will, +treated him harshly, like a lad who was spoiling his career. +</p> + +<p> +After shaking off the water, Claude went up the deep archway entrance, to a +courtyard, where the light was quite greenish, and where there was a dank, +musty smell, like that at the bottom of a tank. There was an overhanging +roofing of glass and iron at the foot of the staircase, which was a wide one, +with a wrought-iron railing, eaten with rust. As the painter passed the +warehouse on the first floor, he glanced through a glass door and noticed M. +Fagerolles examining some patterns. Wishing to be polite, he entered, in spite +of the artistic disgust he felt for all that zinc, coloured to imitate bronze, +and having all the repulsive mendacious prettiness of spurious art. +</p> + +<p> +‘Good morning, monsieur. Is Henri still at home?’ +</p> + +<p> +The manufacturer, a stout, sallow-looking man, drew himself straight amidst all +his nosegay vases and cruets and statuettes. He had in his hand a new model of +a thermometer, formed of a juggling girl who crouched and balanced the glass +tube on her nose. +</p> + +<p> +‘Henri did not come in to lunch,’ he answered drily. +</p> + +<p> +This cool reception upset Claude. ‘Ah! he did not come back; I beg pardon +for having disturbed you, then. Good-day, monsieur.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Good-day.’ +</p> + +<p> +Once more outside, Claude began to swear to himself. His ill-luck was complete, +Fagerolles escaped him also. He even felt vexed with himself for having gone +there, and having taken an interest in that picturesque old street; he was +infuriated by the romantic gangrene that ever sprouted afresh within him, do +what he might. It was his malady, perhaps, the false principle which he +sometimes felt like a bar across his skull. And when he had reached the quays +again, he thought of going home to see whether his picture was really so very +bad. But the mere idea made him tremble all over. His studio seemed a chamber +of horrors, where he could no more continue to live, as if, indeed, he had left +the corpse of some beloved being there. No, no; to climb the three flights of +stairs, to open the door, to shut himself up face to face with +‘that,’ would have needed strength beyond his courage. So he +crossed the Seine and went along the Rue St. Jacques. He felt too wretched and +lonely; and, come what might, he would go to the Rue d’Enfer to turn +Sandoz from his work. +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz’s little fourth-floor flat consisted of a dining-room, a bedroom, +and a strip of kitchen. It was tenanted by himself alone; his mother, disabled +by paralysis, occupied on the other side of the landing a single room, where +she lived in morose and voluntary solitude. The street was a deserted one; the +windows of the rooms overlooked the gardens of the Deaf and Dumb Asylum, above +which rose the rounded crest of a lofty tree, and the square tower of St. +Jacques-du-Haut-Pas. +</p> + +<p> +Claude found Sandoz in his room, bending over his table, busy with a page of +‘copy.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am disturbing you?’ said Claude. +</p> + +<p> +‘Not at all. I have been working ever since morning, and I’ve had +enough of it. I’ve been killing myself for the last hour over a sentence +that reads anyhow, and which has worried me all through my lunch.’ +</p> + +<p> +The painter made a gesture of despair, and the other, seeing him so gloomy, at +once understood matters. +</p> + +<p> +‘You don’t get on either, eh? Well, let’s go out. A sharp +walk will take a little of the rust off us. Shall we go?’ +</p> + +<p> +As he was passing the kitchen, however, an old woman stopped him. It was his +charwoman, who, as a rule, came only for two hours in the morning and two hours +in the evening. On Thursdays, however, she remained the whole afternoon in +order to look after the dinner. +</p> + +<p> +‘Then it’s decided, monsieur?’ she asked. ‘It’s +to be a piece of skate and a leg of mutton, with potatoes.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, if you like.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘For how many am I to lay the cloth?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh! as for that, one never knows. Lay for five, at any rate; we’ll +see afterwards. Dinner at seven, eh? we’ll try to be home by then.’ +</p> + +<p> +When they were on the landing, Sandoz, leaving Claude to wait for him, stole +into his mother’s room. When he came out again, in the same discreet +affectionate manner, they both went downstairs in silence. Outside, having +sniffed to right and left, as if to see which way the wind blew, they ended by +going up the street, reached the Place de l’Observatoire, and turned down +the Boulevard du Montparnasse. This was their ordinary promenade; they reached +the spot instinctively, being fond of the wide expanse of the outer boulevards, +where they could roam and lounge at ease. They continued silent, for their +heads were heavy still, but the comfort of being together gradually made them +more serene. Still it was only when they were opposite the Western Railway +Station that Sandoz spoke. +</p> + +<p> +‘I say, suppose we go to Mahoudeau’s, to see how he’s getting +on with his big machine. I know that he has given “his gods and +saints” the slip to-day.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘All right,’ answered Claude. ‘Let’s go to +Mahoudeau’s.’ +</p> + +<p> +They at once turned into the Rue du Cherche-Midi. There, at a few steps from +the boulevard, Mahoudeau, a sculptor, had rented the shop of a fruiterer who +had failed in business, and he had installed his studio therein, contenting +himself with covering the windows with a layer of whitening. At this point, the +street, wide and deserted, has a quiet, provincial aspect, with a somewhat +ecclesiastical touch. Large gateways stand wide open showing a succession of +deep roomy yards; from a cowkeeper’s establishment comes a tepid, pungent +smell of litter; and the dead wall of a convent stretches away for a goodly +length. It was between this convent and a herbalist’s that the shop +transformed into a studio was situated. It still bore on its sign-board the +inscription, ‘Fruit and Vegetables,’ in large yellow letters. +</p> + +<p> +Claude and Sandoz narrowly missed being blinded by some little girls who were +skipping in the street. On the foot pavement sat several families whose +barricades of chairs compelled the friends to step down on to the roadway. +However, they were drawing nigh, when the sight of the herbalist’s shop +delayed them for a moment. Between its windows, decked with enemas, bandages, +and similar things, beneath the dried herbs hanging above the doorway, whence +came a constant aromatic smell, a thin, dark woman stood taking stock of them, +while, behind her, in the gloom of the shop, one saw the vague silhouette of a +little sickly-looking man, who was coughing and expectorating. The friends +nudged each other, their eyes lighted up with bantering mirth; and then they +turned the handle of Mahoudeau’s door. +</p> + +<p> +The shop, though tolerably roomy, was almost filled by a mass of clay: a +colossal Bacchante, falling back upon a rock. The wooden stays bent beneath the +weight of that almost shapeless pile, of which nothing but some huge limbs +could as yet be distinguished. Some water had been spilt on the floor, several +muddy buckets straggled here and there, while a heap of moistened plaster was +lying in a corner. On the shelves, formerly occupied by fruit and vegetables, +were scattered some casts from the antique, covered with a tracery of +cinder-like dust which had gradually collected there. A wash-house kind of +dampness, a stale smell of moist clay, rose from the floor. And the +wretchedness of this sculptor’s studio and the dirt attendant upon the +profession were made still more conspicuous by the wan light that filtered +through the shop windows besmeared with whitening. +</p> + +<p> +‘What! is it you?’ shouted Mahoudeau, who sat before his female +figure, smoking a pipe. +</p> + +<p> +He was small and thin, with a bony face, already wrinkled at twenty-seven. His +black mane-like hair lay entangled over his very low forehead, and his sallow +mask, ugly almost to ferociousness, was lighted up by a pair of childish eyes, +bright and empty, which smiled with winning simplicity. The son of a stonemason +of Plassans, he had achieved great success at the local art competitions, and +had afterwards come to Paris as the town laureate, with an allowance of eight +hundred francs per annum, for a period of four years. In the capital, however, +he had found himself at sea, defenceless, failing in his competitions at the +School of Arts, and spending his allowance to no purpose; so that, at the end +of his term, he had been obliged for a livelihood to enter the employment of a +dealer in church statues, at whose establishment, for ten hours a day, he +scraped away at St. Josephs, St. Rochs, Mary Magdalens, and, in fact, all the +saints of the calendar. For the last six months, however, he had experienced a +revival of ambition, on finding himself once more among his comrades of +Provence, the eldest of whom he was—fellows whom he had known at +Geraud’s boarding-school for little boys, and who had since grown into +savage revolutionaries. At present, through his constant intercourse with +impassioned artists, who troubled his brain with all sorts of wild theories, +his ambition aimed at the gigantic. +</p> + +<p> +‘The devil!’ said Claude, ‘there’s a lump.’ +</p> + +<p> +The sculptor, delighted, gave a long pull at his pipe, and blew a cloud of +smoke. +</p> + +<p> +‘Eh, isn’t it? I am going to give them some flesh, and living +flesh, too; not the bladders of lard that they turn out.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s a woman bathing, isn’t it?’ asked Sandoz. +</p> + +<p> +‘No; I shall put some vine leaves around her head. A Bacchante, you +understand.’ +</p> + +<p> +At this Claude flew into a violent passion. +</p> + +<p> +‘A Bacchante? Do you want to make fools of people? Does such a thing as a +Bacchante exist? A vintaging girl, eh? And quite modern, dash it all. I know +she’s nude, so let her be a peasant woman who has undressed. And that +must be properly conveyed, mind; people must realise that she lives.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mahoudeau, taken aback, listened, trembling. He was afraid of Claude, and bowed +to his ideal of strength and truth. So he even improved upon the +painter’s idea. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, yes, that’s what I meant to say—a vintaging girl. And +you’ll see whether there isn’t a real touch of woman about +her.’ +</p> + +<p> +At that moment Sandoz, who had been making the tour of the huge block of clay, +exclaimed: ‘Why, here’s that sneak of a Chaîne.’ +</p> + +<p> +Behind the pile, indeed, sat Chaîne, a burly fellow who was quietly painting +away, copying the fireless rusty stove on a small canvas. It could be told that +he was a peasant by his heavy, deliberate manner and his bull-neck, tanned and +hardened like leather. His only noticeable feature was his forehead, displaying +all the bumps of obstinacy; for his nose was so small as to be lost between his +red cheeks, while a stiff beard hid his powerful jaws. He came from Saint +Firmin, a village about six miles from Plassans, where he had been a cow-boy, +until he drew for the conscription; and his misfortunes dated from the +enthusiasm that a gentleman of the neighbourhood had shown for the +walking-stick handles which he carved out of roots with his knife. From that +moment, having become a rustic genius, an embryo great man for this local +connoisseur, who happened to be a member of the museum committee, he had been +helped by him, adulated and driven crazy with hopes; but he had successively +failed in everything—his studies and competitions—thus missing the +town’s purse. Nevertheless, he had started for Paris, after worrying his +father, a wretched peasant, into premature payment of his heritage, a thousand +francs, on which he reckoned to live for a twelvemonth while awaiting the +promised victory. The thousand francs had lasted eighteen months. Then, as he +had only twenty francs left, he had taken up his quarters with his friend, +Mahoudeau. They both slept in the same bed, in the dark back shop; they both in +turn cut slices from the same loaves of bread—of which they bought +sufficient for a fortnight at a time, so that it might get very hard, and that +they might thus be able to eat but little of it. +</p> + +<p> +‘I say, Chaîne,’ continued Sandoz, ‘your stove is really very +exact.’ +</p> + +<p> +Chaîne, without answering, gave a chuckle of triumph which lighted up his face +like a sunbeam. By a crowning stroke of imbecility, and to make his misfortunes +perfect, his protector’s advice had thrown him into painting, in spite of +the real taste that he showed for wood carving. And he painted like a +whitewasher, mixing his colours as a hodman mixes his mortar, and managing to +make the clearest and brightest of them quite muddy. His triumph consisted, +however, in combining exactness with awkwardness; he displayed all the naive +minuteness of the primitive painters; in fact, his mind, barely raised from the +clods, delighted in petty details. The stove, with its perspective all awry, +was tame and precise, and in colour as dingy as mire. +</p> + +<p> +Claude approached and felt full of compassion at the sight of that painting, +and though he was as a rule so harsh towards bad painters, his compassion +prompted him to say a word of praise. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! one can’t say that you are a trickster; you paint, at any +rate, as you feel. Very good, indeed.’ +</p> + +<p> +However, the door of the shop had opened, and a good-looking, fair fellow, with +a big pink nose, and large, blue, short-sighted eyes, entered shouting: +</p> + +<p> +‘I say, why does that herbalist woman next door always stand on her +doorstep? What an ugly mug she’s got!’ +</p> + +<p> +They all laughed, except Mahoudeau, who seemed very much embarrassed. +</p> + +<p> +‘Jory, the King of Blunderers,’ declared Sandoz, shaking hands with +the new comer. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why? What? Is Mahoudeau interested in her? I didn’t know,’ +resumed Jory, when he had at length grasped the situation. ‘Well, well, +what does it matter? When everything’s said, they are all +irresistible.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘As for you,’ the sculptor rejoined, ‘I can see you have +tumbled on your lady-love’s finger-nails again. She has dug a bit out of +your cheek!’ +</p> + +<p> +They all burst out laughing anew, while Jory, in his turn, reddened. In fact, +his face was scratched: there were even two deep gashes across it. The son of a +magistrate of Plassans, whom he had driven half-crazy by his dissolute conduct, +he had crowned everything by running away with a music-hall singer under the +pretext of going to Paris to follow the literary profession. During the six +months that they had been camping together in a shady hotel of the Quartier +Latin, the girl had almost flayed him alive each time she caught him paying +attention to anybody else of her sex. And, as this often happened, he always +had some fresh scar to show—a bloody nose, a torn ear, or a damaged eye, +swollen and blackened. +</p> + +<p> +At last they all began to talk, with the exception of Chaîne, who went on +painting with the determined expression of an ox at the plough. Jory had at +once gone into ecstasies over the roughly indicated figure of the vintaging +girl. He worshipped a massive style of beauty. His first writings in his native +town had been some Parnassian sonnets celebrating the copious charms of a +handsome pork-butcheress. In Paris—where he had fallen in with the whole +band of Plassans—he had taken to art criticism, and, for a livelihood, he +wrote articles for twenty francs apiece in a small, slashing paper called +‘The Drummer.’ Indeed, one of these articles, a study on a picture +by Claude exhibited at Papa Malgras’s, had just caused a tremendous +scandal; for Jory had therein run down all the painters whom the public +appreciated to extol his friend, whom he set up as the leader of a new school, +the school of the ‘open air.’ Very practical at heart, he did not +care in reality a rap about anything that did not conduce to his own pleasures; +he simply repeated the theories he heard enunciated by his friends. ‘I +say, Mahoudeau,’ he now exclaimed, ‘you shall have an article; +I’ll launch that woman of yours. What limbs, my boys! She’s +magnificent!’ +</p> + +<p> +Then suddenly changing the conversation: ‘By the way,’ he said, +‘my miserly father has apologised. He is afraid I shall drag his name +through the mud, so he sends me a hundred francs a month now. I am paying my +debts.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Debts! you are too careful to have any,’ muttered Sandoz, with a +smile. +</p> + +<p> +In fact, Jory displayed a hereditary tightness of fist which much amused his +friends. He managed to lead a profligate life without money and without +incurring debts; and with the skill he thus displayed was allied constant +duplicity, a habit of incessantly lying, which he had contracted in the devout +sphere of his family, where his anxiety to hide his vices had made him lie +about everything at all hours, and even without occasion. But he now gave a +superb reply, the cry of a sage of deep experience. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, you fellows, you don’t know the worth of money!’ +</p> + +<p> +This time he was hooted. What a philistine! And the invectives continued, when +some light taps on one of the window-panes suddenly made the din cease. +</p> + +<p> +‘She is really becoming a nuisance,’ said Mahoudeau, with a gesture +of annoyance. +</p> + +<p> +‘Eh? Who is it? The herbalist woman?’ asked Jory. ‘Let her +come in; it will be great fun.’ +</p> + +<p> +The door indeed had already been opened, and Mahoudeau’s neighbour, +Madame Jabouille, or Mathilde, as she was familiarly called, appeared on the +threshold. She was about thirty, with a flat face horribly emaciated, and +passionate eyes, the lids of which had a bluish tinge as if they were bruised. +It was said that some members of the clergy had brought about her marriage with +little Jabouille, at a time when the latter’s business was still +flourishing, thanks to the custom of all the pious folk of the neighbourhood. +The truth was, that one sometimes espied black cassocks stealthily crossing +that mysterious shop, where all the aromatic herbs set a perfume of incense. A +kind of cloistral quietude pervaded the place; the devotees who came in spoke +in low voices, as if in a confessional, slipped their purchases into their bags +furtively, and went off with downcast eyes. Unfortunately, some very horrid +rumours had got abroad—slander invented by the wine-shop keeper opposite, +said pious folks. At any rate, since the widower had re-married, the business +had been going to the dogs. The glass jars seemed to have lost all their +brightness, and the dried herbs, suspended from the ceiling, were tumbling to +dust. Jabouille himself was coughing his life out, reduced to a very skeleton. +And although Mathilde professed to be religious, the pious customers gradually +deserted her, being of opinion that she made herself too conspicuous with young +fellows of the neighbourhood now that Jabouille was almost eaten out of house +and home. +</p> + +<p> +For a moment Mathilde remained motionless, blinking her eyes. A pungent smell +had spread through the shop, a smell of simples, which she brought with her in +her clothes and greasy, tumbled hair; the sickly sweetness of mallow, the sharp +odour of elderseed, the bitter effluvia of rhubarb, but, above all, the hot +whiff of peppermint, which seemed like her very breath. +</p> + +<p> +She made a gesture of feigned surprise. ‘Oh, dear me! you have +company—I did not know; I’ll drop in again.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, do,’ said Mahoudeau, looking very vexed. ‘Besides, I am +going out; you can give me a sitting on Sunday.’ +</p> + +<p> +At this Claude, stupefied, fairly stared at the emaciated Mathilde, and then at +the huge vintaging woman. +</p> + +<p> +‘What?’ he cried, ‘is it madame who poses for that figure? +The dickens, you exaggerate!’ +</p> + +<p> +Then the laughter began again, while the sculptor stammered his explanations. +‘Oh! she only poses for the head and the hands, and merely just to give +me a few indications.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mathilde, however, laughed with the others, with a sharp, brazen-faced +laughter, showing the while the gaping holes in her mouth, where several teeth +were wanting. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes,’ resumed Mahoudeau. ‘I have to go out on some business +now. Isn’t it so, you fellows, we are expected over yonder?’ +</p> + +<p> +He had winked at his friends, feeling eager for a good lounge. They all +answered that they were expected, and helped him to cover the figure of the +vintaging girl with some strips of old linen which were soaking in a pail of +water. +</p> + +<p> +However, Mathilde, looking submissive but sad, did not stir. She merely shifted +from one place to another, when they pushed against her, while Chaîne, who was +no longer painting, glanced at her over his picture. So far, he had not opened +his lips. But as Mahoudeau at last went off with his three friends, he made up +his mind to ask, in his husky voice: +</p> + +<p> +‘Shall you come home to-night?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Very late. Have your dinner and go to bed. Good-bye.’ +</p> + +<p> +Then Chaîne remained alone with Mathilde in the damp shop, amidst the heaps of +clay and the puddles of water, while the chalky light from the whitened windows +glared crudely over all the wretched untidiness. +</p> + +<p> +Meantime the four others, Claude and Mahoudeau, Jory and Sandoz, strolled +along, seeming to take up the whole width of the Boulevard des Invalides. It +was the usual thing, the band was gradually increased by the accession of +comrades picked up on the way, and then came the wild march of a horde upon the +war-path. With the bold assurance of their twenty summers, these young fellows +took possession of the foot pavement. The moment they were together trumpets +seemed to sound in advance of them; they seized upon Paris and quietly dropped +it into their pockets. There was no longer the slightest doubt about their +victory; they freely displayed their threadbare coats and old shoes, like +destined conquerors of to-morrow who disdained bagatelles, and had only to take +the trouble to become the masters of all the luxury surrounding them. And all +this was attended by huge contempt for everything that was not +art—contempt for fortune, contempt for the world at large, and, above +all, contempt for politics. What was the good of all such rubbish? Only a lot +of incapables meddled with it. A warped view of things, magnificent in its very +injustice, exalted them; an intentional ignorance of the necessities of social +life, the crazy dream of having none but artists upon earth. They seemed very +stupid at times, but, all the same, their passion made them strong and brave. +</p> + +<p> +Claude became excited. Faith in himself revived amidst the glow of common +hopes. His worry of the morning had only left a vague numbness behind, and he +now once more began to discuss his picture with Sandoz and Mahoudeau, swearing, +it is true, that he would destroy it the next day. Jory, who was very +short-sighted, stared at all the elderly ladies he met, and aired his theories +on artistic work. A man ought to give his full measure at once in the first +spurt of inspiration; as for himself, he never corrected anything. And, still +discussing, the four friends went on down the boulevard, which, with its +comparative solitude, and its endless rows of fine trees, seemed to have been +expressly designed as an arena for their disputations. When they reached the +Esplanade, the wrangling became so violent that they stopped in the middle of +that large open space. Beside himself, Claude called Jory a numskull; was it +not better to destroy one’s work than to launch a mediocre performance +upon the world? Truckling to trade was really disgusting. Mahoudeau and Sandoz, +on their side, shouted both together at the same time. Some passers-by, feeling +uneasy, turned round to look, and at last gathered round these furious young +fellows, who seemed bent on swallowing each other. But they went off vexed, +thinking that some practical joke had been played upon them, when they suddenly +saw the quartette, all good friends again, go into raptures over a wet-nurse, +dressed in light colours, with long cherry-tinted ribbons streaming from her +cap. There, now! That was something like—what a tint, what a bright note +it set amid the surroundings! Delighted, blinking their eyes, they followed the +nurse under the trees, and then suddenly seemed roused and astonished to find +they had already come so far. The Esplanade, open on all sides, save on the +south, where rose the distant pile of the Hôtel des Invalides, delighted +them—it was so vast, so quiet; they there had plenty of room for their +gestures; and they recovered breath there, although they were always declaring +that Paris was far too small for them, and lacked sufficient air to inflate +their ambitious lungs. +</p> + +<p> +‘Are you going anywhere particular?’ asked Sandoz of Mahoudeau and +Jory. +</p> + +<p> +‘No,’ answered the latter, ‘we are going with you. Where are +<i>you</i> going?’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude, gazing carelessly about him, muttered: ‘I don’t know. That +way, if you like.’ +</p> + +<p> +They turned on to the Quai d’Orsay, and went as far as the Pont de la +Concorde. In front of the Corps Legislatif the painter remarked, with an air of +disgust: ‘What a hideous pile!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Jules Favre made a fine speech the other day. How he did rile +Rouher,’ said Jory. +</p> + +<p> +However, the others left him no time to proceed, the disputes began afresh. +‘Who was Jules Favre? Who was Rouher? Did they exist? A parcel of idiots +whom no one would remember ten years after their death.’ The young men +had now begun to cross the bridge, and they shrugged their shoulders with +compassion. Then, on reaching the Place de la Concorde, they stopped short and +relapsed into silence. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well,’ opined Claude at last, ‘this isn’t bad, by any +means.’ +</p> + +<p> +It was four o’clock, and the day was waning amidst a glorious powdery +shimmer. To the right and left, towards the Madeleine and towards the Corps +Legislatif, lines of buildings stretched away, showing against the sky, while +in the Tuileries Gardens rose gradients of lofty rounded chestnut trees. And +between the verdant borders of the pleasure walks, the avenue of the Champs +Elysées sloped upward as far as the eye could reach, topped by the colossal Arc +de Triomphe, agape in front of the infinite. A double current, a twofold stream +rolled along—horses showing like living eddies, vehicles like retreating +waves, which the reflections of a panel or the sudden sparkle of the glass of a +carriage lamp seemed to tip with white foam. Lower down, the square—with +its vast footways, its roads as broad as lakes—was filled with a constant +ebb and flow, crossed in every direction by whirling wheels, and peopled with +black specks of men, while the two fountains plashed and streamed, exhaling +delicious coolness amid all the ardent life. +</p> + +<p> +Claude, quivering with excitement, kept saying: ‘Ah! Paris! It’s +ours. We have only to take it.’ +</p> + +<p> +They all grew excited, their eyes opened wide with desire. Was it not glory +herself that swept from the summit of that avenue over the whole capital? Paris +was there, and they longed to make her theirs. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, we’ll take her one day,’ said Sandoz, with his +obstinate air. +</p> + +<p> +‘To be sure we shall,’ said Mahoudeau and Jory in the simplest +manner. +</p> + +<p> +They had resumed walking; they still roamed about, found themselves behind the +Madeleine, and went up the Rue Tronchet. At last, as they reached the Place du +Havre, Sandoz exclaimed, ‘So we are going to Baudequin’s, +eh?’ +</p> + +<p> +The others looked as if they had dropped from the sky; in fact, it did seem as +if they were going to Baudequin’s. +</p> + +<p> +‘What day of the week is it?’ asked Claude. ‘Thursday, eh? +Then Fagerolles and Gagnière are sure to be there. Let’s go to +Baudequin’s.’ +</p> + +<p> +And thereupon they went up the Rue d’Amsterdam. They had just crossed +Paris, one of their favourite rambles, but they took other routes at +times—from one end of the quays to the other; or from the Porte St. +Jacques to the Moulineaux, or else to Père-la-Chaise, followed by a roundabout +return along the outer boulevards. They roamed the streets, the open spaces, +the crossways; they rambled on for whole days, as long as their legs would +carry them, as if intent on conquering one district after another by hurling +their revolutionary theories at the house-fronts; and the pavement seemed to be +their property—all the pavement touched by their feet, all that old +battleground whence arose intoxicating fumes which made them forget their +lassitude. +</p> + +<p> +The Café Baudequin was situated on the Boulevard des Batignolles, at the corner +of the Rue Darcet. Without the least why or wherefore, it had been selected by +the band as their meeting-place, though Gagnière alone lived in the +neighbourhood. They met there regularly on Sunday nights; and on Thursday +afternoons, at about five o’clock, those who were then at liberty had +made it a habit to look in for a moment. That day, as the weather was fine and +bright, the little tables outside under the awning were occupied by rows of +customers, obstructing the footway. But the band hated all elbowing and public +exhibition, so they jostled the other people in order to go inside, where all +was deserted and cool. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hallo, there’s Fagerolles by himself,’ exclaimed Claude. +</p> + +<p> +He had gone straight to their usual table at the end of the café, on the left, +where he shook hands with a pale, thin, young man, whose pert girlish face was +lighted up by a pair of winning, satirical grey eyes, which at times flashed +like steel. They all sat down and ordered beer, after which the painter +resumed: +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you know that I went to look for you at your father’s; and a +nice reception he gave me.’ +</p> + +<p> +Fagerolles, who affected a low devil-may-care style, slapped his thighs. +‘Oh, the old fellow plagues me! I hooked it this morning, after a row. He +wants me to draw some things for his beastly zinc stuff. As if I hadn’t +enough zinc stuff at the Art School.’ +</p> + +<p> +This slap at the professors delighted the young man’s friends. He amused +them and made himself their idol by dint of alternate flattery and blame. His +smile went from one to the other, while, by the aid of a few drops of beer +spilt on the table, his long nimble fingers began tracing complicated sketches. +His art evidently came very easily to him; it seemed as if he could do anything +with a turn of the hand. +</p> + +<p> +‘And Gagnière?’ asked Mahoudeau; ‘haven’t you seen +him?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No; I have been here for the last hour.’ +</p> + +<p> +Just then Jory, who had remained silent, nudged Sandoz, and directed his +attention to a girl seated with a gentleman at a table at the back of the room. +There were only two other customers present, two sergeants, who were playing +cards. The girl was almost a child, one of those young Parisian hussies who are +as lank as ever at eighteen. She suggested a frizzy poodle—with the +shower of fair little locks that fell over her dainty little nose, and her +large smiling mouth, set between rosy cheeks. She was turning over the leaves +of an illustrated paper, while the gentleman accompanying her gravely sipped a +glass of Madeira; but every other minute she darted gay glances from over the +newspaper towards the band of artists. +</p> + +<p> +‘Pretty, isn’t she?’ whispered Jory. ‘Who is she +staring at? Why, she’s looking at me.’ +</p> + +<p> +But Fagerolles suddenly broke in: ‘I say, no nonsense. Don’t +imagine that I have been here for the last hour merely waiting for you.’ +</p> + +<p> +The others laughed; and lowering his voice he told them about the girl, who was +named Irma Bécot. She was the daughter of a grocer in the Rue Montorgueil, and +had been to school in the neighbourhood till she was sixteen, writing her +exercises between two bags of lentils, and finishing off her education on her +father’s doorstep, lolling about on the pavement, amidst the jostling of +the throng, and learning all about life from the everlasting tittle-tattle of +the cooks, who retailed all the scandal of the neighbourhood while waiting for +five sous’ worth of Gruyère cheese to be served them. Her mother having +died, her father himself had begun to lead rather a gay life, in such wise that +the whole of the grocery stores—tea, coffee, dried vegetables, and jars +and drawers of sweetstuff—were gradually devoured. Irma was still going +to school, when, one day, the place was sold up. Her father died of a fit of +apoplexy, and Irma sought refuge with a poor aunt, who gave her more kicks than +halfpence, with the result that she ended by running away, and taking her +flight through all the dancing-places of Montmartre and Batignolles. +</p> + +<p> +Claude listened to the story with his usual air of contempt for women. +Suddenly, however, as the gentleman rose and went out after whispering in her +ear, Irma Bécot, after watching him disappear, bounded from her seat with the +impulsiveness of a school girl, in order to join Fagerolles, beside whom she +made herself quite at home, giving him a smacking kiss, and drinking out of his +glass. And she smiled at the others in a very engaging manner, for she was +partial to artists, and regretted that they were generally so miserably poor. +As Jory was smoking, she took his cigarette out of his mouth and set it in her +own, but without pausing in her chatter, which suggested that of a saucy +magpie. +</p> + +<p> +‘You are all painters, aren’t you? How amusing! But why do those +three look as if they were sulking. Just laugh a bit, or I shall make you, +you’ll see!’ +</p> + +<p> +As a matter of fact, Sandoz, Claude, and Mahoudeau, quite taken aback, were +watching her most gravely. She herself remained listening, and, on hearing her +companion come back, she hastily gave Fagerolles an appointment for the morrow. +Then, after replacing the cigarette between Jory’s lips, she strode off +with her arms raised, and making a very comical grimace; in such wise that when +the gentleman reappeared, looking sedate and somewhat pale, he found her in her +former seat, still looking at the same engraving in the newspaper. The whole +scene had been acted so quickly, and with such jaunty drollery, that the two +sergeants who sat nearby, good-natured fellows both of them, almost died of +laughter as they shuffled their cards afresh. +</p> + +<p> +In fact, Irma had taken them all by storm. Sandoz declared that her name of +Bécot was very well suited for a novel; Claude asked whether she would consent +to pose for a sketch; while Mahoudeau already pictured her as a Paris gamin, a +statuette that would be sure to sell. She soon went off, however, and behind +the gentleman’s back she wafted kisses to the whole party, a shower of +kisses which quite upset the impressionable Jory. +</p> + +<p> +It was five o’clock, and the band ordered some more beer. Some of the +usual customers had taken possession of the adjacent tables, and these +philistines cast sidelong glances at the artists’ corner, glances in +which contempt was curiously mingled with a kind of uneasy deference. The +artists were indeed well known; a legend was becoming current respecting them. +They themselves were now talking on common-place subjects: about the heat, the +difficulty of finding room in the omnibus to the Odeon, and the discovery of a +wine-shop where real meat was obtainable. One of them wanted to start a +discussion about a number of idiotic pictures that had lately been hung in the +Luxembourg Museum; but there was only one opinion on the subject, that the +pictures were not worth their frames. Thereupon they left off conversing; they +smoked, merely exchanging a word or a significant smile now and then. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well,’ asked Claude at last, ‘are we going to wait for +Gagnière?’ +</p> + +<p> +At this there was a protest. Gagnière was a bore. Besides, he would turn up as +soon as he smelt the soup. +</p> + +<p> +‘Let’s be off, then,’ said Sandoz. ‘There’s a leg +of mutton this evening, so let’s try to be punctual.’ +</p> + +<p> +Each paid his score, and they all went out. Their departure threw the café into +a state of emotion. Some young fellows, painters, no doubt, whispered together +as they pointed at Claude, much in the same manner as if he were the +redoubtable chieftain of a horde of savages. Jory’s famous article was +producing its effect; the very public was becoming his accomplice, and of +itself was soon to found that school of the open air, which the band had so far +only joked about. As they gaily said, the Café Baudequin was not aware of the +honour they had done it on the day when they selected it to be the cradle of a +revolution. +</p> + +<p> +Fagerolles having reinforced the group, they now numbered five, and slowly they +took their way across Paris, with their tranquil look of victory. The more +numerous they were, the more did they stretch across the pavement, and carry +away on their heels the burning life of the streets. When they had gone down +the Rue de Clichy, they went straight along the Rue de la Chaussée +d’Antin, turned towards the Rue de Richelieu, crossed the Seine by the +Pont des Arts, so as to fling their gibes at the Institute, and finally reached +the Luxembourg by way of the Rue de Seine, where a poster, printed in three +colours, the garish announcement of a travelling circus, made them all shout +with admiration. Evening was coming on; the stream of wayfarers flowed more +slowly; the tired city was awaiting the shadows of night, ready to yield to the +first comer who might be strong enough to take her. +</p> + +<p> +On reaching the Rue d’Enfer, when Sandoz had ushered his four friends +into his own apartments, he once more vanished into his mother’s room. He +remained there for a few moments, and then came out without saying a word, but +with the tender, gentle smile habitual to him on such occasions. And +immediately afterwards a terrible hubbub, of laughter, argument, and mere +shouting, arose in his little flat. Sandoz himself set the example, all the +while assisting the charwoman, who burst into bitter language because it was +half-past seven, and her leg of mutton was drying up. The five companions, +seated at table, were already swallowing their soup, a very good onion soup, +when a new comer suddenly appeared. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hallo! here’s Gagnière,’ was the vociferous chorus. +</p> + +<p> +Gagnière, short, slight, and vague looking, with a doll-like startled face, set +off by a fair curly beard, stood for a moment on the threshold blinking his +green eyes. He belonged to Melun, where his well-to-do parents, who were both +dead, had left him two houses; and he had learnt painting, unassisted, in the +forest of Fontainebleau. His landscapes were at least conscientiously painted, +excellent in intention; but his real passion was music, a madness for music, a +cerebral bonfire which set him on a level with the wildest of the band. +</p> + +<p> +‘Am I in the way?’ he gently asked. +</p> + +<p> +‘Not at all; come in!’ shouted Sandoz. +</p> + +<p> +The charwoman was already laying an extra knife and fork. +</p> + +<p> +‘Suppose she lays a place for Dubuche, while she is about it,’ said +Claude. ‘He told me he would perhaps come.’ +</p> + +<p> +But they were all down upon Dubuche, who frequented women in society. Jory said +that he had seen him in a carriage with an old lady and her daughter, whose +parasols he was holding on his knees. +</p> + +<p> +‘Where have you come from to be so late?’ asked Fagerolles of +Gagnière. +</p> + +<p> +The latter, who was about to swallow his first spoonful of soup, set it in his +plate again. +</p> + +<p> +‘I was in the Rue de Lancry—you know, where they have chamber +music. Oh! my boy, some of Schumann’s machines! You haven’t an idea +of them! They clutch hold of you at the back of your head just as if somebody +were breathing down your back. Yes, yes, it’s something much more +immaterial than a kiss, just a whiff of breath. ‘Pon my honour, a fellow +feels as if he were going to die.’ +</p> + +<p> +His eyes were moistening and he turned pale, as if experiencing some over-acute +enjoyment. +</p> + +<p> +‘Eat your soup,’ said Mahoudeau; ‘you’ll tell us all +about it afterwards.’ +</p> + +<p> +The skate was served, and they had the vinegar bottle put on the table to +improve the flavour of the black butter, which seemed rather insipid. They ate +with a will, and the hunks of bread swiftly disappeared. There was nothing +refined about the repast, and the wine was mere common stuff, which they +watered considerably from a feeling of delicacy, in order to lessen their +host’s expenses. They had just saluted the leg of mutton with a hurrah, +and the host had begun to carve it, when the door opened anew. But this time +there were furious protests. +</p> + +<p> +‘No, no, not another soul! Turn him out, turn him out.’ +</p> + +<p> +Dubuche, out of breath with having run, bewildered at finding himself amidst +such howling, thrust his fat, pallid face forward, whilst stammering +explanations. +</p> + +<p> +‘Really, now, I assure you it was the fault of the omnibuses. I had to +wait for five of them in the Champs Elysées.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, no, he’s lying!—Let him go, he sha’n’t have +any of that mutton. Turn him out, turn him out!’ +</p> + +<p> +All the same, he ended by coming in, and it was then noticed that he was +stylishly attired, all in black, trousers and frock-coat alike, and cravated +and booted in the stiff ceremonious fashion of some respectable member of the +middle classes going out to dinner. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hallo! he has missed his invitation,’ chaffed Fagerolles. +‘Don’t you see that his fine ladies didn’t ask him to stay to +dinner, and so now he’s come to gobble up our leg of mutton, as he +doesn’t know where else to go?’ +</p> + +<p> +At this Dubuche turned red, and stammered: ‘Oh! what an idea! How +ill-natured you are! And, besides, just attend to your own business.’ +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz and Claude, seated next to each other, smiled, and the former, beckoning +to Dubuche, said to him: ‘Lay your own place, bring a plate and a glass, +and sit between us—like that, they’ll leave you alone.’ +</p> + +<p> +However, the chaff continued all the time that the mutton was being eaten. When +the charwoman had brought Dubuche a plate of soup and a piece of skate, he +himself fell in with the jokes good-naturedly. He pretended to be famished, +greedily mopped out his plate, and related a story about a mother having +refused him her daughter because he was an architect. The end of the dinner +thus became very boisterous; they all rattled on together. The only dessert, a +piece of Brie cheese, met with enormous success. Not a scrap of it was left, +and the bread almost ran short. The wine did run short, so they each swallowed +a clear draught of water, smacking their lips the while amidst great laughter. +And, with faces beaming, and well-filled paunches, they passed into the bedroom +with the supreme content of folks who have fared very sumptuously indeed. +</p> + +<p> +Those were Sandoz’s jolly evenings. Even at the times when he was hard up +he had always had some boiled beef and broth to share with his comrades. He +felt delighted at having a number of them around him, all friends, inspired by +the same ideas. Though he was of their own age, he beamed with fatherly +feelings and satisfied good-nature when he saw them in his rooms, around him, +hand in hand, and intoxicated with hope. As he had but two rooms, the bedroom +did duty as a drawing-room, and became as much theirs as his. For lack of +sufficient chairs, two or three had to seat themselves on the bed. And on those +warm summer evenings the window remained wide open to let in the air. From it +two black silhouettes were to be seen rising above the houses, against the +clear sky—the tower of St. Jacques du Haut-Pas and the tree of the Deaf +and Dumb Asylum. When money was plentiful there was beer. Every one brought his +own tobacco, the room soon became full of smoke, and without seeing each other +they ended by conversing far into the night, amidst the deep mournful silence +of that deserted district. +</p> + +<p> +On that particular evening, at about nine o’clock, the charwoman came in. +</p> + +<p> +‘Monsieur, I have done. Can I go?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, go to bed. You have left the kettle on the fire, haven’t you? +I’ll make the tea myself.’ +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz had risen. He went off at the heels of the charwoman, and only returned +a quarter of an hour afterwards. He had no doubt been to kiss his mother, whom +he tucked up every night before she dozed off. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile the voices had risen to a high pitch again. Fagerolles was telling a +story. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, old fellow; at the School they even correct Nature herself. The +other day Mazel comes up to me and says: “Those two arms don’t +correspond”; whereupon I reply: “Look for yourself, +monsieur—the model’s are like that.” It was little Flore +Beauchamp, you know. “Well,” Mazel furiously replies, “if she +has them like that, it’s very wrong of her.”’ +</p> + +<p> +They almost all shrieked, especially Claude, to whom Fagerolles told the story +by way of paying court. For some time previously the younger artist had yielded +to the elder’s influence; and although he continued to paint with purely +tricky skill, he no longer talked of anything but substantial, thickly-painted +work, of bits of nature thrown on to canvas, palpitating with life, such as +they really were. This did not prevent him, though, from elsewhere chaffing the +adepts of the open-air school, whom he accused of impasting with a kitchen +ladle. +</p> + +<p> +Dubuche, who had not laughed, his sense of rectitude being offended, made so +bold as to reply: +</p> + +<p> +‘Why do you stop at the School if you think you are being brutified +there? It’s simple enough, one goes away—Oh, I know you are all +against me, because I defend the School. But, you see, my idea is that, when a +fellow wants to carry on a trade, it is not a bad thing for him to begin by +learning it.’ +</p> + +<p> +Ferocious shouts arose at this, and Claude had need of all his authority to +secure a hearing. +</p> + +<p> +‘He is right. One must learn one’s trade. But it won’t do to +learn it under the ferule of professors who want to cram their own views +forcibly into your nut. That Mazel is a perfect idiot!’ +</p> + +<p> +He flung himself backward on the bed, on which he had been sitting, and with +his eyes raised to the ceiling, he went on, in an excited tone: +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! life! life! to feel it and portray it in its reality, to love it for +itself, to behold in it the only real, lasting, and changing beauty, without +any idiotic idea of ennobling it by mutilation. To understand that all +so-called ugliness is nothing but the mark of individual character, to create +real men and endow them with life—yes, that’s the only way to +become a god!’ +</p> + +<p> +His faith was coming back to him, the march across Paris had spurred him on +once more; he was again seized by his passion for living flesh. They listened +to him in silence. He made a wild gesture, then calmed down. +</p> + +<p> +‘No doubt every one has his own ideas; but the annoyance is that at the +Institute they are even more intolerant than we are. The hanging committee of +the Salon is in their hands. I am sure that that idiot Mazel will refuse my +picture.’ +</p> + +<p> +Thereupon they all broke out into imprecations, for this question of the +hanging committee was the everlasting subject of their wrath. They demanded +reforms; every one had a solution of the problem ready—from universal +suffrage, applied to the election of a hanging committee, liberal in the widest +sense of the word, down to unrestricted liberty, a Salon open to all +exhibitors.* +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +* The reader will bear in mind that all these complaints made by Claude and his +friends apply to the old Salons, as organized under Government control, at the +time of the Second Empire.—ED. +</p> + +<p> +While the others went on discussing the subject, Gagnière drew Mahoudeau to the +open window, where, in a low voice, his eyes the while staring into space, he +murmured: +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, it’s nothing at all, only four bars; a simple impression +jotted down there and then. But what a deal there is in it! To me it’s +first of all a landscape, dwindling away in the distance; a bit of melancholy +road, with the shadow of a tree that one cannot see; and then a woman passes +along, scarcely a silhouette; on she goes and you never meet her again, no, +never more again.’ +</p> + +<p> +Just at that moment, however, Fagerolles exclaimed, ‘I say, Gagnière, +what are you going to send to the Salon this year?’ +</p> + +<p> +Gagnière did not hear, but continued talking, enraptured, as it were. +</p> + +<p> +‘In Schumann one finds everything—the infinite. And Wagner, too, +whom they hissed again last Sunday!’ +</p> + +<p> +But a fresh call from Fagerolles made him start. +</p> + +<p> +‘Eh! what? What am I going to send to the Salon? A small landscape, +perhaps; a little bit of the Seine. It is so difficult to decide; first of all +I must feel pleased with it myself.’ +</p> + +<p> +He had suddenly become timid and anxious again. His artistic scruples, his +conscientiousness, kept him working for months on a canvas the size of +one’s hand. Following the track of the French landscape painters, those +masters who were the first to conquer nature, he worried about correctness of +tone, pondering and pondering over the precise value of tints, till theoretical +scruples ended by making his touch heavy. And he often did not dare to chance a +bright dash of colour, but painted in a greyish gloomy key which was +astonishing, when one remembered his revolutionary passions. +</p> + +<p> +‘For my part,’ said Mahoudeau, ‘I feel delighted at the +prospect of making them squint with my woman.’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude shrugged his shoulders. ‘Oh! you’ll get in, the sculptors +have broader minds than the painters. And, besides, you know very well what you +are about; you have something at your fingers’ ends that pleases. There +will be plenty of pretty bits about your vintaging girl.’ +</p> + +<p> +The compliment made Mahoudeau feel serious. He posed above all for vigour of +execution; he was unconscious of his real vein of talent, and despised +gracefulness, though it ever invincibly sprung from his big, coarse +fingers—the fingers of an untaught working-man—like a flower that +obstinately sprouts from the hard soil where the wind has flung its seed. +</p> + +<p> +Fagerolles, who was very cunning, had decided to send nothing, for fear of +displeasing his masters; and he chaffed the Salon, calling it ‘a foul +bazaar, where all the bad painting made even the good turn musty.’ In his +inmost heart he was dreaming of one day securing the Rome prize, though he +ridiculed it, as he did everything else. +</p> + +<p> +However, Jory stationed himself in the middle of the room, holding up his glass +of beer. Sipping every now and then, he declared: ‘Well, your hanging +committee quite disgusts me! I say, shall I demolish it? I’ll begin +bombarding it in our very next number. You’ll give me some notes, eh? and +we’ll knock it to pieces. That will be fine fun.’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude was at last fully wound up, and general enthusiasm prevailed. Yes, yes, +they must start a campaign. They would all be in it, and, pressing shoulder to +shoulder, march to the battle together. At that moment there was not one of +them who reserved his share of fame, for nothing divided them as yet; neither +the profound dissemblance of their various natures, of which they themselves +were ignorant, nor their rivalries, which would some day bring them into +collision. Was not the success of one the success of all the others? Their +youth was fermenting, they were brimming over with mutual devotion; they +indulged anew in their everlasting dream of gathering into a phalanx to conquer +the world, each contributing his individual effort; this one helping that one +forward, and the whole band reaching fame at once in one row. Claude, as the +acknowledged chief, was already sounding the victory, distributing laurels with +such lyrical abundance that he overlooked himself. Fagerolles himself, gibing +Parisian though he might be, believed in the necessity of forming an army; +while even Jory, although he had a coarser appetite, with a deal of the +provincial still about him, displayed much useful comradeship, catching various +artistic phrases as they fell from his companions’ lips, and already +preparing in his mind the articles which would herald the advent of the band +and make them known. And Mahoudeau purposely exaggerated his intentional +roughness, and clasped his hands like an ogre kneading human flesh; while +Gagnière, in ecstasy, as if freed from the everlasting greyishness of his art, +sought to refine sensation to the utmost limits of intelligence; and Dubuche, +with his matter-of-fact convictions, threw in but a word here and there; words, +however, which were like club-blows in the very midst of the fray. Then Sandoz, +happy and smiling at seeing them so united, ‘all in one shirt,’ as +he put it, opened another bottle of beer. He would have emptied every one in +the house. +</p> + +<p> +‘Eh?’ he cried, ‘we’re agreed, let’s stick to it. +It’s really pleasant to come to an understanding among fellows who have +something in their nuts, so may the thunderbolts of heaven sweep all idiots +away!’ +</p> + +<p> +At that same moment a ring at the bell stupefied him. Amidst the sudden silence +of the others, he inquired—‘Who, to the deuce, can that be—at +eleven o’clock?’ +</p> + +<p> +He ran to open the door, and they heard him utter a cry of delight. He was +already coming back again, throwing the door wide open as he +said—‘Ah! it’s very kind indeed to think of us and surprise +us like this! Bongrand, gentlemen.’ +</p> + +<p> +The great painter, whom the master of the house announced in this respectfully +familiar way, entered, holding out both hands. They all eagerly rose, full of +emotion, delighted with that manly, cordial handshake so willingly bestowed. +Bongrand was then forty-five years old, stout, and with a very expressive face +and long grey hair. He had recently become a member of the Institute, and wore +the rosette of an officer of the Legion of Honour in the top button-hole of his +unpretentious alpaca jacket. He was fond of young people; he liked nothing so +much as to drop in from time to time and smoke a pipe among these beginners, +whose enthusiasm warmed his heart. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am going to make the tea,’ exclaimed Sandoz. +</p> + +<p> +When he came back from the kitchen, carrying the teapot and cups, he found +Bongrand installed astride a chair, smoking his short cutty, amidst the din +which had again arisen. Bongrand himself was holding forth in a stentorian +voice. The grandson of a farmer of the Beauce region, the son of a man risen to +the middle classes, with peasant blood in his veins, indebted for his culture +to a mother of very artistic tastes, he was rich, had no need to sell his +pictures, and retained many tastes and opinions of Bohemian life. +</p> + +<p> +‘The hanging committee? Well, I’d sooner hang myself than belong to +it!’ said he, with sweeping gestures. ‘Am I an executioner to kick +poor devils, who often have to earn their bread, out of doors?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Still, you might render us great service by defending our pictures +before the committee,’ observed Claude. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, dear, no! I should only make matters worse for you—I +don’t count; I’m nobody.’ +</p> + +<p> +There was a chorus of protestations; Fagerolles objected, in a shrill voice: +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, if the painter of “The Village Wedding” does not +count—’ +</p> + +<p> +But Bongrand was getting angry; he had risen, his cheeks afire. +</p> + +<p> +‘Eh? Don’t pester me with “The Wedding”; I warn you I +am getting sick of that picture. It is becoming a perfect nightmare to me ever +since it has been hung in the Luxembourg Museum.’ +</p> + +<p> +This ‘Village Wedding’—a party of wedding guests roaming +through a corn-field, peasants studied from life, with an epic look of the +heroes of Homer about them—had so far remained his masterpiece. The +picture had brought about an evolution in art, for it had inaugurated a new +formula. Coming after Delacroix, and parallel with Courbet, it was a piece of +romanticism tempered by logic, with more correctness of observation, more +perfection in the handling. And though it did not squarely tackle nature amidst +the crudity of the open air, the new school claimed connection with it. +</p> + +<p> +‘There can be nothing more beautiful,’ said Claude, ‘than the +two first groups, the fiddler, and then the bride with the old peasant.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And the strapping peasant girl, too,’ added Mahoudeau; the one who +is turning round and beckoning! I had a great mind to take her for the model of +a statue.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And that gust of wind among the corn,’ added Gagnière, ‘and +the pretty bit of the boy and girl skylarking in the distance.’ +</p> + +<p> +Bongrand sat listening with an embarrassed air, and a smile of inward +suffering; and when Fagerolles asked him what he was doing just then, he +answered, with a shrug of his shoulders: +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, nothing; some little things. But I sha’n’t exhibit +this time. I should like to find a telling subject. Ah, you fellows are happy +at still being at the bottom of the hill. A man has good legs then, he feels so +plucky when it’s a question of getting up. But when once he is a-top, the +deuce take it! the worries begin. A real torture, fisticuffs, efforts which +must be constantly renewed, lest one should slip down too quickly. Really now, +one would prefer being below, for the pleasure of still having everything to +do—Ah, you may laugh, but you’ll see it all for yourselves some +day!’ +</p> + +<p> +They were indeed laughing, thinking it a paradox, or a little piece of +affectation, which they excused. To be hailed, like Bongrand, with the name of +master—was that not the height of bliss? He, with his arms resting on the +back of his chair, listened to them in silence, leisurely puffing his pipe, and +renouncing the idea of trying to make them understand him. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Dubuche, who had rather domesticated tastes, helped Sandoz to hand +the tea round, and the din continued. Fagerolles related a story about Daddy +Malgras and a female cousin by marriage, whom the dealer offered as a model on +conditions that he was given a presentment of her in oils. Then they began to +talk of models. Mahoudeau waxed furious, because the really well-built female +models were disappearing. It was impossible to find one with a decent figure +now. Then suddenly the tumult increased again; Gagnière was being congratulated +about a connoisseur whose acquaintance he had made in the Palais Royal one +afternoon, while the band played, an eccentric gentleman living on a small +income, who never indulged in any other extravagance than that of buying +pictures. The other artists laughed and asked for the gentleman’s +address. Then they fell foul of the picture dealers, dirty black-guards, who +preyed on artists and starved them. It was really a pity that connoisseurs +mistrusted painters to such a degree as to insist upon a middleman under the +impression that they would thus make a better bargain. This question of bread +and butter excited them yet more, though Claude showed magnificent contempt for +it all. The artist was robbed, no doubt, but what did that matter, if he had +painted a masterpiece, and had some water to drink? Jory, having again +expressed some low ideas about lucre, aroused general indignation. Out with the +journalist! He was asked stringent questions. Would he sell his pen? Would he +not sooner chop off his wrist than write anything against his convictions? But +they scarcely waited for his answer, for the excitement was on the increase; it +became the superb madness of early manhood, contempt for the whole world, an +absorbing passion for good work, freed from all human weaknesses, soaring in +the sky like a very sun. Ah! how strenuous was their desire to lose themselves, +consume themselves, in that brazier of their own kindling! +</p> + +<p> +Bongrand, who had not stirred the while, made a vague gesture of suffering at +the sight of that boundless confidence, that boisterous joy at the prospect of +attack. He forgot the hundred paintings which had brought him his glory, he was +thinking of the work which he had left roughed out on his easel now. Taking his +cutty from between his lips, he murmured, his eyes glistening with kindliness, +‘Oh, youth, youth!’ +</p> + +<p> +Until two in the morning, Sandoz, who seemed ubiquitous, kept on pouring fresh +supplies of hot water into the teapot. From the neighbourhood, now asleep, one +now only heard the miawing of an amorous tabby. They all talked at random, +intoxicated by their own words, hoarse with shouting, their eyes scorched, and +when at last they made up their minds to go, Sandoz took the lamp to show them +a light over the banisters, saying very softly: +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t make a noise, my mother is asleep.’ +</p> + +<p> +The hushed tread of their boots on the stairs died away at last, and deep +silence fell upon the house. +</p> + +<p> +It struck four. Claude, who had accompanied Bongrand, still went on talking to +him in the deserted streets. He did not want to go to bed; he was waiting for +daylight, with impatient fury, so that he might set to work at his picture +again. This time he felt certain of painting a masterpiece, exalted as he was +by that happy day of good-fellowship, his mind pregnant with a world of things. +He had discovered at last what painting meant, and he pictured himself +re-entering his studio as one returns into the presence of a woman one adores, +his heart throbbing violently, regretting even this one day’s absence, +which seemed to him endless desertion. And he would go straight to his canvas, +and realise his dream in one sitting. However, at every dozen steps or so, +amidst the flickering light of the gaslamps, Bongrand caught him by a button of +his coat, to repeat to him that, after all, painting was an accursed trade. +Sharp as he, Bongrand, was supposed to be, he did not understand it yet. At +each new work he undertook, he felt as if he were making a debut; it was enough +to make one smash one’s head against the wall. The sky was now +brightening, some market gardeners’ carts began rolling down towards the +central markets; and the pair continued chattering, each talking for himself, +in a loud voice, beneath the paling stars. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"></a> +IV</h2> + +<p> +SIX weeks later, Claude was painting one morning amidst a flood of sunshine +that streamed through the large window of his studio. Constant rain had made +the middle of August very dull, but his courage for work returned with the blue +sky. His great picture did not make much progress, albeit he worked at it +throughout long, silent mornings, like the obstinate, pugnacious fellow he was. +</p> + +<p> +All at once there came a knock at his door. He thought that Madame Joseph, the +doorkeeper, was bringing up his lunch, and as the key was always in the door, +he simply called: ‘Come in!’ +</p> + +<p> +The door had opened; there was a slight rustle, and then all became still. He +went on painting without even turning his head. But the quivering silence, and +the consciousness of some vague gentle breathing near him, at last made him +fidgety. He looked up, and felt amazed; a woman stood there clad in a light +gown, her features half-hidden by a white veil, and he did not know her, and +she was carrying a bunch of roses, which completed his bewilderment. +</p> + +<p> +All at once he recognised her. +</p> + +<p> +‘You, mademoiselle? Well, I certainly didn’t expect you!’ +</p> + +<p> +It was Christine. He had been unable to restrain that somewhat unamiable +exclamation, which was a cry from the heart itself. At first he had certainly +thought of her; then, as the days went by for nearly a couple of months without +sign of life from her, she had become for him merely a fleeting, regretted +vision, a charming silhouette which had melted away in space, and would never +be seen again. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, monsieur, it’s I. I wished to come. I thought it was wrong +not to come and thank you—’ +</p> + +<p> +She blushed and stammered, at a loss for words. She was out of breath, no doubt +through climbing the stairs, for her heart was beating fast. What! was this +long-debated visit out of place after all? It had ended by seeming quite +natural to her. The worst was that, in passing along the quay, she had bought +that bunch of roses with the delicate intention of thereby showing her +gratitude to the young fellow, and the flowers now dreadfully embarrassed her. +How was she to give them to him? What would he think of her? The impropriety of +the whole proceeding had only struck her as she opened the door. +</p> + +<p> +But Claude, more embarrassed still, resorted to exaggerated politeness. He had +thrown aside his palette and was turning the studio upside down in order to +clear a chair. +</p> + +<p> +‘Pray be seated, mademoiselle. This is really a surprise. You are too +kind.’ +</p> + +<p> +Once seated, Christine recovered her equanimity. He looked so droll with his +wild sweeping gestures, and she felt so conscious of his shyness that she began +to smile, and bravely held out the bunch of roses. +</p> + +<p> +‘Look here; I wished to show you that I am not ungrateful.’ +</p> + +<p> +At first he said nothing, but stood staring at her, thunderstruck. When he saw, +though, that she was not making fun of him, he shook both her hands, with +almost sufficient energy to dislocate them. Then he at once put the flowers in +his water-jug, repeating: +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! now you are a good fellow, you really are. This is the first time I +pay that compliment to a woman, honour bright.’ +</p> + +<p> +He came back to her, and, looking straight into her eyes, he asked: +</p> + +<p> +‘Then you have not altogether forgotten me?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You see that I have not,’ she replied, laughing. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, then, did you wait two months before coming to see me?’ +</p> + +<p> +Again she blushed. The falsehood she was about to tell revived her +embarrassment for a moment. +</p> + +<p> +‘But you know that I am not my own mistress,’ she said. ‘Oh, +Madame Vanzade is very kind to me, only she is a great invalid, and never +leaves the house. But she grew anxious as to my health and compelled me to go +out to breathe a little fresh air.’ +</p> + +<p> +She did not allude to the shame which she had felt during the first few days +after her adventure on the Quai de Bourbon. Finding herself in safety, beneath +the old lady’s roof, the recollection of the night she had spent in +Claude’s room had filled her with remorse; but she fancied at last that +she had succeeded in dismissing the matter from her mind. It was no longer +anything but a bad dream, which grew more indistinct each day. Then, how it was +she could not tell, but amidst the profound quietude of her existence, the +image of that young man who had befriended her had returned to her once more, +becoming more and more precise, till at last it occupied her daily thoughts. +Why should she forget him? She had nothing to reproach him with; on the +contrary, she felt she was his debtor. The thought of seeing him again, +dismissed at first, struggled against later on, at last became an all-absorbing +craving. Each evening the temptation to go and see him came strong upon her in +the solitude of her own room. She experienced an uncomfortable irritating +feeling, a vague desire which she could not define, and only calmed down +somewhat on ascribing this troubled state of mind to a wish to evince her +gratitude. She was so utterly alone, she felt so stifled in that sleepy abode, +the exuberance of youth seethed so strongly within her, her heart craved so +desperately for friendship! +</p> + +<p> +‘So I took advantage of my first day out,’ she continued. +‘And besides, the weather was so nice this morning after all the dull +rain.’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude, feeling very happy and standing before her, also confessed himself, but +<i>he</i> had nothing to hide. +</p> + +<p> +‘For my part,’ said he, ‘I dared not think of you any more. +You are like one of the fairies of the story-books, who spring from the floor +and disappear into the walls at the very moment one least expects it; +aren’t you now? I said to myself, “It’s all over: it was +perhaps only in my fancy that I saw her come to this studio.” Yet here +you are. Well, I am pleased at it, very pleased indeed.’ +</p> + +<p> +Smiling, but embarrassed, Christine averted her head, pretending to look around +her. But her smile soon died away. The ferocious-looking paintings which she +again beheld, the glaring sketches of the South, the terrible anatomical +accuracy of the studies from the nude, all chilled her as on the first +occasion. She became really afraid again, and she said gravely, in an altered +voice: +</p> + +<p> +‘I am disturbing you; I am going.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh! not at all, not at all,’ exclaimed Claude, preventing her from +rising. ‘It does me good to have a talk with you, for I was working +myself to death. Oh! that confounded picture; it’s killing me as it +is.’ +</p> + +<p> +Thereupon Christine, lifting her eyes, looked at the large picture, the canvas +that had been turned to the wall on the previous occasion, and which she had +vainly wished to see. +</p> + +<p> +The background—the dark glade pierced by a flood of sunlight—was +still only broadly brushed in. But the two little wrestlers—the fair one +and the dark—almost finished by now, showed clearly in the light. In the +foreground, the gentleman in the velveteen jacket, three times begun afresh, +had now been left in distress. The painter was more particularly working at the +principal figure, the woman lying on the grass. He had not touched the head +again. He was battling with the body, changing his model every week, so +despondent at being unable to satisfy himself that for a couple of days he had +been trying to improve the figure from imagination, without recourse to nature, +although he boasted that he never invented. +</p> + +<p> +Christine at once recognised herself. Yes, that nude girl sprawling on the +grass, one arm behind her head, smiling with lowered eyelids, was herself, for +she had her features. The idea absolutely revolted her, and she was wounded too +by the wildness of the painting, so brutal indeed that she considered herself +abominably insulted. She did not understand that kind of art; she thought it +execrable, and felt a hatred against it, the instinctive hatred of an enemy. +She rose at last, and curtly repeated, ‘I must be going.’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude watched her attentively, both grieved and surprised by her sudden change +of manner. +</p> + +<p> +‘Going already?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, they are waiting for me. Good-bye.’ +</p> + +<p> +And she had already reached the door before he could take her hand, and venture +to ask her: +</p> + +<p> +‘When shall I see you again?’ +</p> + +<p> +She allowed her hand to remain in his. For a moment she seemed to hesitate. +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t know. I am so busy.’ +</p> + +<p> +Then she withdrew her hand and went off, hastily, saying: ‘One of these +days, when I can. Good-bye.’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude remained stock-still on the threshold. He wondered what had come over +her again to cause her sudden coolness, her covert irritation. He closed the +door, and walked about, with dangling arms, and without understanding, seeking +vainly for the phrase, the gesture that could have offended her. And he in his +turn became angry, and launched an oath into space, with a terrific shrug of +the shoulders, as if to rid himself of this silly worry. Did a man ever +understand women? However, the sight of the roses, overlapping the water-jug, +pacified him; they smelt so sweet. Their scent pervaded the whole studio, and +silently he resumed his work amidst the perfume. +</p> + +<p> +Two more months passed by. During the earlier days Claude, at the slightest +stir of a morning, when Madame Joseph brought him up his breakfast or his +letters, quickly turned his head, and could not control a gesture of +disappointment. He no longer went out until after four, and the doorkeeper +having told him one evening, on his return home, that a young person had called +to see him at about five, he had only grown calm on ascertaining that the +visitor was merely a model, Zoé Piedefer. Then, as the days went by, he was +seized with a furious fit of work, becoming unapproachable to every one, +indulging in such violent theories that even his friends did not venture to +contradict him. He swept the world from his path with one gesture; there was no +longer to be anything but painting left. One might murder one’s parents, +comrades, and women especially, and it would all be a good riddance. After this +terrible fever he fell into abominable despondency, spending a week of +impotence and doubt, a whole week of torture, during which he fancied himself +struck silly. But he was getting over it, he had resumed his usual life, his +resigned solitary struggle with his great picture, when one foggy morning, +towards the end of October, he started and hastily set his palette aside. There +had been no knock, but he had just recognised the footfall coming up the +stairs. He opened the door and she walked in. She had come at last. +</p> + +<p> +Christine that day wore a large cloak of grey material which enveloped her from +head to foot. Her little velvet hat was dark, and the fog outside had pearled +her black lace veil. But he thought her looking very cheerful, with the first +slight shiver of winter upon her. She at once began to make excuses for having +so long delayed her return. She smiled at him in her pretty candid manner, +confessed that she had hesitated, and that she had almost made up her mind to +come no more. Yes, she had her own opinions about things, which she felt sure +he understood. As it happened, he did not understand at all—he had no +wish to understand, seeing that she was there. It was quite sufficient that she +was not vexed with him, that she would consent to look in now and then like a +chum. There were no explanations; they kept their respective torments and the +struggles of recent times to themselves. For nearly an hour they chatted +together right pleasantly, with nothing hidden nor antagonistic remaining +between them; it was as if an understanding had been arrived at, unknown to +themselves, and while they were far apart. She did not even appear to notice +the sketches and studies on the walls. For a moment she looked fixedly at the +large picture, at the figure of the woman lying on the grass under the blazing +golden sun. No, it was not like herself, that girl had neither her face nor her +body. How silly to have fancied that such a horrid mess of colour was herself! +And her friendship for the young fellow was heightened by a touch of pity; he +could not even convey a likeness. When she went off, it was she who on the +threshold cordially held out her hand. +</p> + +<p> +‘You know, I shall come back again—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, in two months’ time.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, next week. You’ll see, next Thursday.’ +</p> + +<p> +On the Thursday she punctually returned, and after that she did not miss a +week. At first she had no particular day for calling, simply taking advantage +of her opportunities; but subsequently she selected Monday, the day allowed her +by Madame Vanzade in order that she might have a walk in the fresh, open air of +the Bois de Boulogne. She had to be back home by eleven, and she walked the +whole way very quickly, coming in all aglow from the run, for it was a long +stretch from Passy to the Quai de Bourbon. During four winter months, from +October to February, she came in this fashion, now in drenching rain, now among +the mists from the Seine, now in the pale sunlight that threw a little warmth +over the quays. Indeed, after the first month, she at times arrived +unexpectedly, taking advantage of some errand in town to look in, and then she +could only stay for a couple of minutes; they had barely had time enough to say +‘How do you do?’ when she was already scampering down the stairs +again, exclaiming ‘Good-bye.’ +</p> + +<p> +And now Claude learned to know Christine. With his everlasting mistrust of +woman a suspicion had remained to him, the suspicion of some love adventure in +the provinces; but the girl’s soft eyes and bright laughter had carried +all before them; he felt that she was as innocent as a big child. As soon as +she arrived, quite unembarrassed, feeling fully at her ease, as with a friend, +she began to indulge in a ceaseless flow of chatter. She had told him a score +of times about her childhood at Clermont, and she constantly reverted to it. On +the evening that her father, Captain Hallegrain, had suddenly died, she and her +mother had been to church. She perfectly remembered their return home and the +horrible night that had followed; the captain, very stout and muscular, lying +stretched on a mattress, with his lower jaw protruding to such a degree that in +her girlish memory she could not picture him otherwise. She also had that same +jaw, and when her mother had not known how to master her, she had often cried: +‘Ah, my girl, you’ll eat your heart’s blood out like your +father.’ Poor mother! how she, Christine, had worried her with her love +of horseplay, with her mad turbulent fits. As far back as she could remember, +she pictured her mother ever seated at the same window, quietly painting fans, +a slim little woman with very soft eyes, the only thing she had inherited of +her. When people wanted to please her mother they told her, ‘she has got +your eyes.’ And then she smiled, happy in the thought of having +contributed at least that touch of sweetness to her daughter’s features. +After the death of her husband, she had worked so late as to endanger her +eyesight. But how else could she have lived? Her widow’s +pension—five hundred francs per annum—barely sufficed for the needs +of her child. For five years Christine had seen her mother grow thinner and +paler, wasting away a little bit each day until she became a mere shadow. And +now she felt remorseful at not having been more obedient, at having driven her +mother to despair by lack of application. She had begun each week with +magnificent intentions, promising that she would soon help her to earn money; +but her arms and legs got the fidgets, in spite of her efforts; the moment she +became quiet she fell ill. Then one morning her mother had been unable to get +up, and had died; her voice too weak to make itself heard, her eyes full of big +tears. Ever did Christine behold her thus dead, with her weeping eyes wide open +and fixed on her. +</p> + +<p> +At other times, Christine, when questioned by Claude about Clermont, forgot +those sorrows to recall more cheerful memories. She laughed gaily at the idea +of their encampment, as she called it, in the Rue de l’Éclache; she born +in Strasburg, her father a Gascon, her mother a Parisian, and all three thrown +into that nook of Auvergne, which they detested. The Rue de l’Éclache, +sloping down to the Botanical Gardens, was narrow and dank, gloomy, like a +vault. Not a shop, never a passer-by—nothing but melancholy frontages, +with shutters always closed. At the back, however, their windows, overlooking +some courtyards, were turned to the full sunlight. The dining-room opened even +on to a spacious balcony, a kind of wooden gallery, whose arcades were hung +with a giant wistaria which almost smothered them with foliage. And the girl +had grown up there, at first near her invalid father, then cloistered, as it +were, with her mother, whom the least exertion exhausted. She had remained so +complete a stranger to the town and its neighbourhood, that Claude and herself +burst into laughter when she met his inquiries with the constant answer, +‘I don’t know.’ The mountains? Yes, there were mountains on +one side, they could be seen at the end of the streets; while on the other side +of the town, after passing along other streets, there were flat fields +stretching far away; but she never went there, the distance was too great. The +only height she remembered was the Puy de Dôme, rounded off at the summit like +a hump. In the town itself she could have found her way to the cathedral +blindfold; one had to turn round by the Place de Jaude and take the Rue des +Gras; but more than that she could not tell him; the rest of the town was an +entanglement, a maze of sloping lanes and boulevards; a town of black lava ever +dipping downward, where the rain of the thunderstorms swept by torrentially +amidst formidable flashes of lightning. Oh! those storms; she still shuddered +to think of them. Just opposite her room, above the roofs, the lightning +conductor of the museum was always on fire. In the sitting-room she had her own +window—a deep recess as big as a room itself—where her work-table +and personal nick-nacks stood. It was there that her mother had taught her to +read; it was there that, later on, she had fallen asleep while listening to her +masters, so greatly did the fatigue of learning daze her. And now she made fun +of her own ignorance; she was a well-educated young lady, and no mistake, +unable even to repeat the names of the Kings of France, with the dates of their +accessions; a famous musician too, who had never got further than that +elementary pianoforte exercise, ‘The little boats’; a prodigy in +water-colour painting, who scamped her trees because foliage was too difficult +to imitate. Then she skipped, without any transition, to the fifteen months she +had spent at the Convent of the Visitation after her mother’s +death—a large convent, outside the town, with magnificent gardens. There +was no end to her stories about the good sisters, their jealousies, their +foolish doings, their simplicity, that made one start. She was to have taken +the veil, but she felt stifled the moment she entered a church. It had seemed +to be all over with her, when the Superior, by whom she was treated with great +affection, diverted her from the cloister by procuring her that situation at +Madame Vanzade’s. She had not yet got over the surprise. How had Mother +des Saints Anges been able to read her mind so clearly? For, in fact, since she +had been living in Paris she had dropped into complete indifference about +religion. +</p> + +<p> +When all the reminiscences of Clermont were exhausted, Claude wanted to hear +about her life at Madame Vanzade’s, and each week she gave him fresh +particulars. The life led in the little house at Passy, silent and shut off +from the outer world, was a very regular one, with no more noise about it than +the faint tic-tac of an old-fashioned timepiece. Two antiquated domestics, a +cook and a manservant, who had been with the family for forty years, alone +glided in their slippers about the deserted rooms, like a couple of ghosts. Now +and then, at very long intervals, there came a visitor: some octogenarian +general, so desiccated, so slight of build that he scarcely pressed on the +carpet. The house was also the home of shadows; the sun filtered with the mere +gleam of a night light through the Venetian blinds. Since madame had become +paralysed in the knees and stone blind, so that she no longer left her room, +she had had no other recreation than that of listening to the reading of +religious books. Ah! those endless readings, how they weighed upon the girl at +times! If she had only known a trade, how gladly she would have cut out +dresses, concocted bonnets, or goffered the petals of artificial flowers. And +to think that she was capable of nothing, when she had been taught everything, +and that there was only enough stuff in her to make a salaried drudge, a +semi-domestic! She suffered horribly, too, in that stiff, lonely dwelling which +smelt of the tomb. She was seized once more with the vertigo of her childhood, +as when she had striven to compel herself to work, in order to please her +mother; her blood rebelled; she would have liked to shout and jump about, in +her desire for life. But madame treated her so gently, sending her away from +her room, and ordering her to take long walks, that she felt full of remorse +when, on her return to the Quai de Bourbon, she was obliged to tell a +falsehood; to talk of the Bois de Boulogne or invent some ceremony at church +where she now never set foot. Madame seemed to take to her more and more every +day; there were constant presents, now a silk dress, now a tiny gold watch, +even some underlinen. She herself was very fond of Madame Vanzade; she had wept +one day when the latter had called her daughter; she had sworn never to leave +her, such was her heart-felt pity at seeing her so old and helpless. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well,’ said Claude one morning, ‘you’ll be rewarded; +she’ll leave you her money.’ +</p> + +<p> +Christine looked astonished. ‘Do you think so? It is said that she is +worth three millions of francs. No, no, I have never dreamt of such a thing, +and I won’t. What would become of me?’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude had averted his head, and hastily replied, ‘Well, you’d +become rich, that’s all. But no doubt she’ll first of all marry you +off—’ +</p> + +<p> +On hearing this, Christine could hold out no longer, but burst into laughter. +‘To one of her old friends, eh? perhaps the general who has a silver +chin. What a good joke!’ +</p> + +<p> +So far they had gone no further than chumming like old friends. He was almost +as new to life as she, having had nothing but chance adventures, and living in +an ideal world of his own, fanciful amid romantic amours. To see each other in +secret like this, from pure friendship, without anything more tender passing +between them than a cordial shake of the hand at her arrival, and another one +when she left, seemed to them quite natural. Still for her part she scented +that he was shy, and at times she looked at him fixedly, with the wondering +perturbation of unconscious passion. But as yet nothing ardent or agitating +spoilt the pleasure they felt in being together. Their hands remained cool; +they spoke cheerfully on all subjects; they sometimes argued like friends, who +feel sure they will not fall out. Only, this friendship grew so keen that they +could no longer live without seeing one another. +</p> + +<p> +The moment Christine came, Claude took the key from outside the door. She +herself insisted upon this, lest somebody might disturb them. After a few +visits she had taken absolute possession of the studio. She seemed to be at +home there. She was tormented by a desire to make the place a little more tidy, +for such disorder worried her and made her uncomfortable. But it was not an +easy matter. The painter had strictly forbidden Madame Joseph to sweep up +things, lest the dust should get on the fresh paint. So, on the first occasions +when his companion attempted to clean up a bit, he watched her with anxious +entreating eyes. What was the good of changing the place of things? +Didn’t it suffice to have them at hand? However, she exhibited such gay +determination, she seemed so happy at playing the housewife, that he let her +have her own way at last. And now, the moment she had arrived and taken off her +gloves, she pinned up her dress to avoid soiling it, and set the big studio in +order in the twinkling of an eye. There was no longer a pile of cinders before +the stove; the screen hid the bedstead and the washstand; the couch was +brushed, the wardrobe polished; the deal table was cleared of the crockery, and +had not a stain of paint; and above the chairs, which were symmetrically +arranged, and the spanned easels propped against the walls, the big cuckoo +clock, with full-blown pink flowers on its dial, seemed to tick more +sonorously. Altogether it was magnificent; one would not have recognised the +place. He, stupefied, watched her trotting to and fro, twisting about and +singing as she went. Was this then the lazybones who had such dreadful +headaches at the least bit of work? But she laughed; at headwork, yes; but +exertion with her hands and feet did her good, seemed to straighten her like a +young sapling. She confessed, even as she would have confessed some depraved +taste, her liking for lowly household cares; a liking which had greatly worried +her mother, whose educational ideal consisted of accomplishments, and who would +have made her a governess with soft hands, touching nothing vulgar. How +Christine had been chided indeed whenever she was caught, as a little girl, +sweeping, dusting, and playing delightedly at being cook! Even nowadays, if she +had been able to indulge in a bout with the dust at Madame Vanzade’s, she +would have felt less bored. But what would they have said to that? She would no +longer have been considered a lady. And so she came to satisfy her longings at +the Quai de Bourbon, panting with the exercise, all aglow, her eyes glistening +with a woman’s delight at biting into forbidden fruit. +</p> + +<p> +Claude by this time grew conscious of having a woman’s care around him. +In order to make her sit down and chat quietly, he would ask her now and then +to sew a torn cuff or coat-tail. She herself had offered to look over his +linen; but it was no longer with the ardour of a housewife, eager to be up and +doing. First of all, she hardly knew how to work; she held her needle like a +girl brought up in contempt of sewing. Besides, the enforced quiescence and the +attention that had to be given to such work, the small stitches which had to be +looked to one by one, exasperated her. Thus the studio was bright with +cleanliness like a drawing-room, but Claude himself remained in rags, and they +both joked about it, thinking it great fun. +</p> + +<p> +How happy were those months that they spent together, those four months of +frost and rain whiled away in the studio, where the red-hot stove roared like +an organ-pipe! The winter seemed to isolate them from the world still more. +When the snow covered the adjacent roofs, when the sparrows fluttered against +the window, they smiled at feeling warm and cosy, at being lost, as it were, +amidst the great silent city. But they did not always confine themselves to +that one little nook, for she allowed him at last to see her home. For a long +while she had insisted upon going away by herself, feeling ashamed of being +seen in the streets on a man’s arm. Then, one day when the rain fell all +of a sudden, she was obliged to let him come downstairs with an umbrella. The +rain having ceased almost immediately, she sent him back when they reached the +other side of the Pont Louis-Philippe. They only remained a few moments beside +the parapet, looking at the Mail, and happy at being together in the open air. +Down below, large barges, moored against the quay, and full of apples, were +ranged four rows deep, so close together that the planks thrown across them +made a continuous path for the women and children running to and fro. They were +amused by the sight of all that fruit, those enormous piles littering the +banks, the round baskets which were carried hither and thither, while a strong +odour, suggestive of cider in fermentation, mingled with the moist gusts from +the river. +</p> + +<p> +A week later, when the sun again showed itself, and Claude extolled the +solitude of the quays round the Isle Saint Louis, Christine consented to take a +walk. They strolled up the Quai de Bourbon and the Quai d’Anjou, pausing +at every few steps and growing interested in the various scenes of river life; +the dredger whose buckets grated against their chains, the floating wash-house, +which resounded with the hubbub of a quarrel, and the steam cranes busy +unloading the lighters. She did not cease to wonder at one thought which came +to her. Was it possible that yonder Quai des Ormes, so full of life across the +stream, that this Quai Henri IV., with its broad embankment and lower shore, +where bands of children and dogs rolled over in the sand, that this panorama of +an active, densely-populated capital was the same accursed scene that had +appeared to her for a moment in a gory flash on the night of her arrival? They +went round the point of the island, strolling more leisurely still to enjoy the +solitude and tranquillity which the old historic mansions seem to have +implanted there. They watched the water seething between the wooden piles of +the Estacade, and returned by way of the Quai de Béthune and the Quai +d’Orléans, instinctively drawn closer to each other by the widening of +the stream, keeping elbow to elbow at sight of the vast flow, with their eyes +fixed on the distant Halle aux Vins and the Jardin des Plantes. In the pale +sky, the cupolas of the public buildings assumed a bluish hue. When they +reached the Pont St. Louis, Claude had to point out Notre-Dame by name, for +Christine did not recognise the edifice from the rear, where it looked like a +colossal creature crouching down between its flying buttresses, which suggested +sprawling paws, while above its long leviathan spine its towers rose like a +double head. Their real find that day, however, was at the western point of the +island, that point like the prow of a ship always riding at anchor, afloat +between two swift currents, in sight of Paris, but ever unable to get into +port. They went down some very steep steps there, and discovered a solitary +bank planted with lofty trees. It was a charming refuge—a hermitage in +the midst of a crowd. Paris was rumbling around them, on the quays, on the +bridges, while they at the water’s edge tasted the delight of being +alone, ignored by the whole world. From that day forth that bank became a +little rustic coign of theirs, a favourite open-air resort, where they took +advantage of the sunny hours, when the great heat of the studio, where the +red-hot stove kept roaring, oppressed them too much, filling their hands with a +fever of which they were afraid. +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless, Christine had so far objected to be accompanied farther than the +Mail. At the Quai des Ormes she always bade Claude go back, as if Paris, with +her crowds and possible encounters, began at the long stretch of quays which +she had to traverse on her way home. But Passy was so far off, and she felt so +dull at having to go such a distance alone, that gradually she gave way. She +began by allowing Claude to see her as far as the Hôtel de Ville; then as far +as the Pont-Neuf; at last as far as the Tuileries. She forgot the danger; they +walked arm in arm like a young married couple; and that constantly repeated +promenade, that leisurely journey over the self-same ground by the river side, +acquired an infinite charm, full of a happiness such as could scarcely be +surpassed in after-times. They truly belonged to each other, though they had +not erred. It seemed as if the very soul of the great city, rising from the +river, wrapped them around with all the love that had throbbed behind the grey +stone walls through the long lapse of ages. +</p> + +<p> +Since the nipping colds of December, Christine only came in the afternoon, and +it was about four o’clock, when the sun was sinking, that Claude escorted +her back on his arm. On days when the sky was clear, they could see the long +line of quays stretching away into space directly they had crossed the Pont +Louis-Philippe. From one end to the other the slanting sun powdered the houses +on the right bank with golden dust, while, on the left, the islets, the +buildings, stood out in a black line against the blazing glory of the sunset. +Between the sombre and the brilliant margin, the spangled river sparkled, cut +in twain every now and then by the long bars of its bridges; the five arches of +the Pont Notre-Dame showing under the single span of the Pont d’Arcole; +then the Pont-au-Change and the Pont-Neuf, beyond each of whose shadows +appeared a luminous patch, a sheet of bluish satiny water, growing paler here +and there with a mirror-like reflection. And while the dusky outlines on the +left terminated in the silhouettes of the pointed towers of the Palais de +Justice, sharply and darkly defined against the sky, a gentle curve undulated +on the right, stretching away so far that the Pavillon de Flore, who stood +forth like a citadel at the curve’s extreme end, seemed a fairy castle, +bluey, dreamlike and vague, amidst the rosy mist on the horizon. But Claude and +Christine, with the sunlight streaming on them, athwart the leafless plane +trees, turned away from the dazzlement, preferring to gaze at certain spots, +one above all—a block of old houses just above the Mail. Below, there was +a series of one-storied tenements, little huckster and fishing-tackle shops, +with flat terrace roofs, ornamented with laurel and Virginia creeper. And in +the rear rose loftier, but decrepit, dwellings, with linen hung out to dry at +their windows, a collection of fantastic structures, a confused mass of +woodwork and masonry, overtoppling walls, and hanging gardens, in which +coloured glass balls shone out like stars. They walked on, leaving behind them +the big barracks and the Hôtel de Ville, and feeling much more interest in the +Cité which appeared across the river, pent between lofty smooth embankments +rising from the water. Above the darkened houses rose the towers of Notre-Dame, +as resplendent as if they had been newly gilt. Then the second-hand bookstalls +began to invade the quays. Down below a lighter full of charcoal struggled +against the strong current beneath an arch of the Pont Notre-Dame. And then, on +the days when the flower market was held, they stopped, despite the inclement +weather, to inhale the scent of the first violets and the early gillyflowers. +On their left a long stretch of bank now became visible; beyond the +pepper-caster turrets of the Palais de Justice, the small, murky tenements of +the Quai de l’Horloge showed as far as the clump of trees midway across +the Pont-Neuf; then, as they went farther on, other quays emerged from the +mist, in the far distance: the Quai Voltaire, the Quai Malaquais, the dome of +the Institute of France, the square pile of the Mint, a long grey line of +frontages of which they could not even distinguish the windows, a promontory of +roofs, which, with their stacks of chimney-pots, looked like some rugged cliff, +dipping down into a phosphorescent sea. In front, however, the Pavillon de +Flore lost its dreamy aspect, and became solidified in the final sun blaze. +Then right and left, on either bank of the river, came the long vistas of the +Boulevard de Sebastopol and the Boulevard du Palais; the handsome new buildings +of the Quai de la Megisserie, with the new Prefecture of Police across the +water; and the old Pont-Neuf, with its statue of Henri IV. looking like a +splash of ink. The Louvre, the Tuileries followed, and beyond Grenelle there +was a far-stretching panorama of the slopes of Sevres, the country steeped in a +stream of sun rays. Claude never went farther. Christine always made him stop +just before they reached the Pont Royal, near the fine trees beside +Vigier’s swimming baths; and when they turned round to shake hands once +more in the golden sunset now flushing into crimson, they looked back and, on +the horizon, espied the Isle Saint Louis, whence they had come, the indistinct +distance of the city upon which night was already descending from the +slate-hued eastern sky. +</p> + +<p> +Ah! what splendid sunsets they beheld during those weekly strolls. The sun +accompanied them, as it were, amid the throbbing gaiety of the quays, the river +life, the dancing ripples of the currents; amid the attractions of the shops, +as warm as conservatories, the flowers sold by the seed merchants, and the +noisy cages of the bird fanciers; amid all the din of sound and wealth of +colour which ever make a city’s waterside its youthful part. As they +proceeded, the ardent blaze of the western sky turned to purple on their left, +above the dark line of houses, and the orb of day seemed to wait for them, +falling gradually lower, slowly rolling towards the distant roofs when once +they had passed the Pont Notre-Dame in front of the widening stream. In no +ancient forest, on no mountain road, beyond no grassy plain will there ever be +such triumphal sunsets as behind the cupola of the Institute. It is there one +sees Paris retiring to rest in all her glory. At each of their walks the aspect +of the conflagration changed; fresh furnaces added their glow to the crown of +flames. One evening, when a shower had surprised them, the sun, showing behind +the downpour, lit up the whole rain cloud, and upon their heads there fell a +spray of glowing water, irisated with pink and azure. On the days when the sky +was clear, however, the sun, like a fiery ball, descended majestically in an +unruffled sapphire lake; for a moment the black cupola of the Institute seemed +to cut away part of it and make it look like the waning moon; then the globe +assumed a violet tinge and at last became submerged in the lake, which had +turned blood-red. Already, in February, the planet described a wider curve, and +fell straight into the Seine, which seemed to seethe on the horizon as at the +contact of red-hot iron. However, the grander scenes, the vast fairy pictures +of space only blazed on cloudy evenings. Then, according to the whim of the +wind, there were seas of sulphur splashing against coral reefs; there were +palaces and towers, marvels of architecture, piled upon one another, burning +and crumbling, and throwing torrents of lava from their many gaps; or else the +orb which had disappeared, hidden by a veil of clouds, suddenly transpierced +that veil with such a press of light that shafts of sparks shot forth from one +horizon to the other, showing as plainly as a volley of golden arrows. And then +the twilight fell, and they said good-bye to each other, while their eyes were +still full of the final dazzlement. They felt that triumphal Paris was the +accomplice of the joy which they could not exhaust, the joy of ever resuming +together that walk beside the old stone parapets. +</p> + +<p> +One day, however, there happened what Claude had always secretly feared. +Christine no longer seemed to believe in the possibility of meeting anybody who +knew her. In fact, was there such a person? She would always pass along like +this, remaining altogether unknown. He, however, thought of his own friends, +and at times felt a kind of tremor when he fancied he recognised in the +distance the back of some acquaintance. He was troubled by a feeling of +delicacy; the idea that somebody might stare at the girl, approach them, and +perhaps begin to joke, gave him intolerable worry. And that very evening, as +she was close beside him on his arm, and they were approaching the Pont des +Arts, he fell upon Sandoz and Dubuche, who were coming down the steps of the +bridge. It was impossible to avoid them, they were almost face to face; +besides, his friends must have seen him, for they smiled. Claude, very pale, +kept advancing, and he thought it all up on seeing Dubuche take a step towards +him; but Sandoz was already holding the architect back, and leading him away. +They passed on with an indifferent air and disappeared into the courtyard of +the Louvre without as much as turning round. They had both just recognised the +original of the crayon sketch, which the painter hid away with all the jealousy +of a lover. Christine, who was chattering, had noticed nothing. Claude, with +his heart throbbing, answered her in monosyllables, moved to tears, brimming +over with gratitude to his old chums for their discreet behaviour. +</p> + +<p> +A few days later, however, he had another shock. He did not expect Christine, +and had therefore made an appointment with Sandoz. Then, as she had run up to +spend an hour—it was one of those surprises that delighted +them—they had just withdrawn the key, as usual, when there came a +familiar knock with the fist on the door. Claude at once recognised the rap, +and felt so upset at the mishap that he overturned a chair. After that it was +impossible to pretend to be out. But Christine turned so pale, and implored him +with such a wild gesture, that he remained rooted to the spot, holding his +breath. The knocks continued, and a voice called, ‘Claude, Claude!’ +He still remained quite still, debating with himself, however, with ashen lips +and downcast eyes. Deep silence reigned, and then footsteps were heard, making +the stairs creak as they went down. Claude’s breast heaved with intense +sadness; he felt it bursting with remorse at the sound of each retreating step, +as if he had denied the friendship of his whole youth. +</p> + +<p> +However, one afternoon there came another knock, and Claude had only just time +to whisper despairingly, ‘The key has been left in the door.’ +</p> + +<p> +In fact, Christine had forgotten to take it out. She became quite scared and +darted behind the screen, with her handkerchief over her mouth to stifle the +sound of her breathing. +</p> + +<p> +The knocks became louder, there was a burst of laughter, and the painter had to +reply, ‘Come in.’ +</p> + +<p> +He felt more uncomfortable still when he saw Jory, who gallantly ushered in +Irma Bécot, whose acquaintance he had made through Fagerolles, and who was +flinging her youth about the Paris studios. +</p> + +<p> +‘She insisted upon seeing your studio, so I brought her,’ explained +the journalist. +</p> + +<p> +The girl, however, without waiting, was already walking about and making +remarks, with perfect freedom of manner. ‘Oh! how funny it is here. And +what funny painting. Come, there’s a good fellow, show me everything. I +want to see everything.’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude, apprehensively anxious, was afraid that she might push the screen +aside. He pictured Christine behind it, and felt distracted already at what she +might hear. +</p> + +<p> +‘You know what she has come to ask of you?’ resumed Jory +cheerfully. ‘What, don’t you remember? You promised that she might +pose for something. And she’ll do so if you like.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Of course I will,’ said Irma. +</p> + +<p> +‘The fact is,’ replied Claude, in an embarrassed tone, ‘my +picture here will take up all my time till the Salon. I have a figure in it +that gives me a deal of trouble. It’s impossible to perfect it with those +confounded models.’ +</p> + +<p> +Irma had stationed herself in front of the picture, and looked at it with a +knowing air. ‘Oh! I see,’ she said, ‘that woman in the grass, +eh? Do you think I could be of any use to you?’ +</p> + +<p> +Jory flared up in a moment, warmly approving the idea, but Claude with the +greatest energy replied, ‘No, no madame wouldn’t suit. She is not +at all what I want for this picture; not at all.’ +</p> + +<p> +Then he went on stammering excuses. He would be only too pleased later on, but +just now he was afraid that another model would quite complete his confusion +over that picture; and Irma responded by shrugging her shoulders, and looking +at him with an air of smiling contempt. +</p> + +<p> +Jory, however, now began to chat about their friends. Why had not Claude come +to Sandoz’s on the previous Thursday? One never saw him now. Dubuche +asserted all sorts of things about him. There had been a row between Fagerolles +and Mahoudeau on the subject whether evening dress was a thing to be reproduced +in sculpture. Then on the previous Sunday Gagnière had returned home from a +Wagner concert with a black eye. He, Jory, had nearly had a duel at the Café +Baudequin on account of one of his last articles in ‘The Drummer.’ +The fact was he was giving it hot to the twopenny-halfpenny painters, the men +with the usurped reputations! The campaign against the hanging committee of the +Salon was making a deuce of a row; not a shred would be left of those guardians +of the ideal, who wanted to prevent nature from entering their show. +</p> + +<p> +Claude listened to him with impatient irritation. He had taken up his palette +and was shuffling about in front of his picture. The other one understood at +last. +</p> + +<p> +‘You want to work, I see; all right, we’ll leave you.’ +</p> + +<p> +Irma, however, still stared at the painter, with her vague smile, astonished at +the stupidity of this simpleton, who did not seem to appreciate her, and seized +despite herself with a whim to please him. His studio was ugly, and he himself +wasn’t handsome; but why should he put on such bugbear airs? She chaffed +him for a moment, and on going off again offered to sit for him, emphasising +her offer by warmly pressing his hand. +</p> + +<p> +‘Whenever you like,’ were her parting words. +</p> + +<p> +They had gone at last, and Claude was obliged to pull the screen aside, for +Christine, looking very white, remained seated behind it, as if she lacked the +strength to rise. She did not say a word about the girl, but simply declared +that she had felt very frightened; and—trembling lest there should come +another knock—she wanted to go at once, carrying away with her, as her +startled looks testified, the disturbing thought of many things which she did +not mention. +</p> + +<p> +In fact, for a long time that sphere of brutal art, that studio full of glaring +pictures, had caused her a feeling of discomfort. Wounded in all her feelings, +full of repugnance, she could not get used to it all. She had grown up full of +affectionate admiration for a very different style of art—her +mother’s fine water-colours, those fans of dreamy delicacy, in which +lilac-tinted couples floated about in bluish gardens—and she quite failed +to understand Claude’s work. Even now she often amused herself by +painting tiny girlish landscapes, two or three subjects repeated over and over +again—a lake with a ruin, a water-mill beating a stream, a chalet and +some pine trees, white with snow. And she felt surprised that an intelligent +young fellow should paint in such an unreasonable manner, so ugly and so +untruthful besides. For she not only thought Claude’s realism monstrously +ugly, but considered it beyond every permissible truth. In fact, she thought at +times that he must be mad. +</p> + +<p> +One day Claude absolutely insisted upon seeing a small sketch-book which she +had brought away from Clermont, and which she had spoken about. After objecting +for a long while, she brought it with her, flattered at heart and feeling very +curious to know what he would say. He turned over the leaves, smiling all the +while, and as he did not speak, she was the first to ask: +</p> + +<p> +‘You think it very bad, don’t you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not at all,’ he replied. ‘It’s innocent.’ +</p> + +<p> +The reply hurt her, despite Claude’s indulgent tone, which aimed at +making it amiable. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, you see I had so few lessons from mamma. I like painting to be +well done, and pleasing.’ +</p> + +<p> +Thereupon he burst into frank laughter. +</p> + +<p> +‘Confess now that my painting makes you feel ill! I have noticed it. You +purse your lips and open your eyes wide with fright. Certainly it is not the +style of painting for ladies, least of all for young girls. But you’ll +get used to it; it’s only a question of educating your eyes and +you’ll end by seeing that what I am doing is very honest and +healthy.’ +</p> + +<p> +Indeed, Christine slowly became used to it. But, at first, artistic conviction +had nothing to do with the change, especially as Claude, with his contempt for +female opinion, did not take the trouble to indoctrinate her. On the contrary, +in her company he avoided conversing about art, as if he wished to retain for +himself that passion of his life, apart from the new passion which was +gradually taking possession of him. Still, Christine glided into the habit of +the thing, and became familiarised with it; she began to feel interested in +those abominable pictures, on noticing the important place they held in the +artist’s existence. This was the first stage on the road to conversion; +she felt greatly moved by his rageful eagerness to be up and doing, the +whole-heartedness with which he devoted himself to his work. Was it not very +touching? Was there not something very creditable in it? Then, on noticing his +joy or suffering, according to the success or the failure of the day’s +work, she began to associate herself with his efforts. She felt saddened when +she found him sad, she grew cheerful when he received her cheerfully; and from +that moment her worry was—had he done a lot of work? was he satisfied +with what he had done since they had last seen each other? At the end of the +second month she had been gained over; she stationed herself before his +pictures to judge whether they were progressing or not. She no longer felt +afraid of them. She still did not approve particularly of that style of +painting, but she began to repeat the artistic expressions which she had heard +him use; declared this bit to be ‘vigorous in tone,’ ‘well +built up,’ or ‘just in the light it should be.’ He seemed to +her so good-natured, and she was so fond of him, that after finding excuses for +him for daubing those horrors, she ended by discovering qualities in them in +order that she might like them a little also. +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless, there was one picture, the large one, the one intended for the +Salon, to which for a long while she was quite unable to reconcile herself. She +already looked without dislike at the studies made at the Boutin studio and the +sketches of Plassans, but she was still irritated by the sight of the woman +lying in the grass. It was like a personal grudge, the shame of having +momentarily thought that she could detect in it a likeness of herself, and +silent embarrassment, too, for that big figure continued to wound her feelings, +although she now found less and less of a resemblance in it. At first she had +protested by averting her eyes. Now she remained for several minutes looking at +it fixedly, in mute contemplation. How was it that the likeness to herself had +disappeared? The more vigorously that Claude struggled on, never satisfied, +touching up the same bit a hundred times over, the more did that likeness to +herself gradually fade away. And, without being able to account for it, without +daring to admit as much to herself, she, whom the painting had so greatly +offended when she had first seen it, now felt a growing sorrow at noticing that +nothing of herself remained. +</p> + +<p> +Indeed it seemed to her as if their friendship suffered from this obliteration; +she felt herself further away from him as trait after trait vanished. +Didn’t he care for her that he thus allowed her to be effaced from his +work? And who was the new woman, whose was the unknown indistinct face that +appeared from beneath hers? +</p> + +<p> +Claude, in despair at having spoilt the figure’s head, did not know +exactly how to ask her for a few hours’ sitting. She would merely have +had to sit down, and he would only have taken some hints. But he had previously +seen her so pained that he felt afraid of irritating her again. Moreover, after +resolving in his own mind to ask her this favour in a gay, off-hand way, he had +been at a loss for words, feeling all at once ashamed at the notion. +</p> + +<p> +One afternoon he quite upset her by one of those bursts of anger which he found +it impossible to control, even in her presence. Everything had gone wrong that +week; he talked of scraping his canvas again, and he paced up and down, beside +himself, and kicking the furniture about. Then all of a sudden he caught her by +the shoulders, and made her sit down on the couch. +</p> + +<p> +‘I beg of you, do me this favour, or it’ll kill me, I swear it +will.’ +</p> + +<p> +She did not understand him. +</p> + +<p> +‘What—what is it you want?’ +</p> + +<p> +Then as soon as she saw him take up his brushes, she added, without heeding +what she said, ‘Ah, yes! Why did not you ask me before?’ +</p> + +<p> +And of her own accord she threw herself back on a cushion and slipped her arm +under her neck. But surprise and confusion at having yielded so quickly made +her grave, for she did not know that she was prepared for this kind of thing; +indeed, she could have sworn that she would never serve him as a model again. +Her compliance already filled her with remorse, as if she were lending herself +to something wrong by letting him impart her own countenance to that big +creature, lying refulgent under the sun. +</p> + +<p> +However, in two sittings, Claude worked in the head all right. He exulted with +delight, and exclaimed that it was the best bit of painting he had ever done; +and he was right, never had he thrown such a play of real light over such a +life-like face. Happy at seeing him so pleased, Christine also became gay, +going as far as to express approval of her head, which, though not extremely +like her, had a wonderful expression. They stood for a long while before the +picture, blinking at it, and drawing back as far as the wall. +</p> + +<p> +‘And now,’ he said at last, ‘I’ll finish her off with a +model. Ah! so I’ve got her at last.’ +</p> + +<p> +In a burst of childish glee, he took the girl round the waist, and they +performed ‘a triumphant war dance,’ as he called it. She laughed +very heartily, fond of romping as she was, and no longer feeling aught of her +scruples and discomfort. +</p> + +<p> +But the very next week Claude became gloomy again. He had chosen Zoé Piedefer +as a model, but she did not satisfy him. Christine’s delicate head, as he +expressed it, did not set well on the other’s shoulders. He, +nevertheless, persisted, scratched out, began anew, and worked so hard that he +lived in a constant state of fever. Towards the middle of January, seized with +despair, he abandoned his picture and turned it against the wall, swearing that +he would not finish it. But a fortnight later, he began to work at it again +with another model, and then found himself obliged to change the whole tone of +it. Thus matters got still worse; so he sent for Zoé again; became altogether +at sea, and quite ill with uncertainty and anguish. And the pity of it was, +that the central figure alone worried him, for he was well satisfied with the +rest of the painting, the trees of the background, the two little women and the +gentleman in the velvet coat, all finished and vigorous. February was drawing +to a close; he had only a few days left to send his picture to the Salon; it +was quite a disaster. +</p> + +<p> +One evening, in Christine’s presence, he began swearing, and all at once +a cry of fury escaped him: ‘After all, by the thunder of heaven, is it +possible to stick one woman’s head on another’s shoulders? I ought +to chop my hand off.’ +</p> + +<p> +From the depths of his heart a single idea now rose to his brain: to obtain her +consent to pose for the whole figure. It had slowly sprouted, first as a simple +wish, quickly discarded as absurd; then had come a silent, constantly-renewed +debate with himself; and at last, under the spur of necessity, keen and +definite desire. The recollection of the morning after the storm, when she had +accepted his hospitality, haunted and tortured him. It was she whom he needed; +she alone could enable him to realise his dream, and he beheld her again in all +her youthful freshness, beaming and indispensable. If he could not get her to +pose, he might as well give up his picture, for no one else would ever satisfy +him. At times, while he remained seated for hours, distracted in front of the +unfinished canvas, so utterly powerless that he no longer knew where to give a +stroke of the brush, he formed heroic resolutions. The moment she came in he +would throw himself at her feet; he would tell her of his distress in such +touching words that she would perhaps consent. But as soon as he beheld her, he +lost all courage, he averted his eyes, lest she might decipher his thoughts in +his instinctive glances. Such a request would be madness. One could not expect +such a service from a friend; he would never have the audacity to ask. +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless, one evening as he was getting ready to accompany her, and as she +was putting on her bonnet, with her arms uplifted, they remained for a moment +looking into each other’s eyes, he quivering, and she suddenly becoming +so grave, so pale, that he felt himself detected. All along the quays they +scarcely spoke; the matter remained unmentioned between them while the sun set +in the coppery sky. Twice afterwards he again read in her looks that she was +aware of his all-absorbing thought. In fact, since he had dreamt about it, she +had began to do the same, in spite of herself, her attention roused by his +involuntary allusions. They scarcely affected her at first, though she was +obliged at last to notice them; still the question seemed to her to be beyond +the range of possibility, to be one of those unavowable ideas which people do +not even speak of. The fear that he would dare to ask her did not even occur to +her; she knew him well by now; she could have silenced him with a gesture, +before he had stammered the first words, and in spite of his sudden bursts of +anger. It was simple madness. Never, never! +</p> + +<p> +Days went by, and between them that fixed idea grew in intensity. The moment +they were together they could not help thinking of it. Not a word was spoken on +the subject, but their very silence was eloquent; they no longer made a +movement, no longer exchanged a smile without stumbling upon that thought, +which they found impossible to put into words, though it filled their minds. +Soon nothing but that remained in their fraternal intercourse. And the +perturbation of heart and senses which they had so far avoided in the course of +their familiar intimacy, came at last, under the influence of the all-besetting +thought. And then the anguish which they left unmentioned, but which they could +not hide from one another, racked and stifled them, left them heaving +distressfully with painful sighs. +</p> + +<p> +Towards the middle of March, Christine, at one of her visits, found Claude +seated before his picture, overcome with sorrow. He had not even heard her +enter. He remained motionless, with vacant, haggard eyes staring at his +unfinished work. In another three days the delay for sending in exhibits for +the Salon would expire. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well,’ she inquired gently, after standing for a long time behind +him, grief-stricken at seeing him in such despair. +</p> + +<p> +He started and turned round. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, it’s all up. I sha’n’t exhibit anything this +year. Ah! I who relied so much upon this Salon!’ +</p> + +<p> +Both relapsed into despondency—a despondency and agitation full of +confused thoughts. Then she resumed, thinking aloud as it were: +</p> + +<p> +‘There would still be time.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Time? Oh! no indeed. A miracle would be needed. Where am I to find a +model so late in the day? Do you know, since this morning I have been worrying, +and for a moment I thought I had hit upon an idea: Yes, it would be to go and +fetch that girl, that Irma who came while you were here. I know well enough +that she is short and not at all such as I thought of, and so I should perhaps +have to change everything once more; but all the same it might be possible to +make her do. Decidedly, I’ll try her—’ +</p> + +<p> +He stopped short. The glowing eyes with which he gazed at her clearly said: +‘Ah! there’s you! ah! it would be the hoped-for miracle, and +triumph would be certain, if you were to make this supreme sacrifice for me. I +beseech you, I ask you devoutly, as a friend, the dearest, the most beauteous, +the most pure.’ +</p> + +<p> +She, erect, looking very pale, seemed to hear each of those words, though all +remained unspoken, and his ardently beseeching eyes overcame her. She herself +did not speak. She simply did as she was desired, acting almost like one in a +dream. Beneath it all there lurked the thought that he must not ask elsewhere, +for she was now conscious of her earlier jealous disquietude and wished to +share his affections with none. Yet it was in silence and all chastity that she +stretched herself on the couch, and took up the pose, with one arm under her +head, her eyes closed. +</p> + +<p> +And Claude? Startled, full of gratitude, he had at last found again the sudden +vision that he had so often evoked. But he himself did not speak; he began to +paint in the deep solemn silence that had fallen upon them both. For two long +hours he stood to his work with such manly energy that he finished right off a +superb roughing out of the whole figure. Never before had he felt such +enthusiasm in his art. It seemed to him as if he were in the presence of some +saint; and at times he wondered at the transfiguration of Christine’s +face, whose somewhat massive jaws seemed to have receded beneath the gentle +placidity which her brow and cheeks displayed. During those two hours she did +not stir, she did not speak, but from time to time she opened her clear eyes, +fixing them on some vague, distant point, and remaining thus for a moment, then +closing them again, and relapsing into the lifelessness of fine marble, with +the mysterious fixed smile required by the pose. +</p> + +<p> +It was by a gesture that Claude apprized her he had finished. He turned away, +and when they stood face to face again, she ready to depart, they gazed at one +another, overcome by emotion which still prevented them from speaking. Was it +sadness, then, unconscious, unnameable sadness? For their eyes filled with +tears, as if they had just spoilt their lives and dived to the depths of human +misery. Then, moved and grieved, unable to find a word, even of thanks, he +kissed her religiously upon the brow. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"></a> +V</h2> + +<p> +ON the 15th May, a Friday, Claude, who had returned at three o’clock in +the morning from Sandoz’s, was still asleep at nine, when Madame Joseph +brought him up a large bouquet of white lilac which a commissionaire had just +left downstairs. He understood at once. Christine had wished to be beforehand +in celebrating the success of his painting. For this was a great day for him, +the opening day of the ‘Salon of the Rejected,’ which was first +instituted that year,* and at which his picture—refused by the hanging +committee of the official Salon—was to be exhibited. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +* This was in 1863.—ED. +</p> + +<p> +That delicate attention on Christine’s part, that fresh and fragrant +lilac, affected him greatly, as if presaging a happy day. Still in his +nightshirt, with his feet bare, he placed the flowers in his water-jug on the +table. Then, with his eyes still swollen with sleep, almost bewildered, he +dressed, scolding himself the while for having slept so long. On the previous +night he had promised Dubuche and Sandoz to call for them at the latter’s +place at eight o’clock, in order that they might all three go together to +the Palais de l’Industrie, where they would find the rest of the band. +And he was already an hour behind time. +</p> + +<p> +Then, as luck would have it, he could not lay his hands upon anything in his +studio, which had been turned topsy-turvy since the despatch of the big +picture. For more than five minutes he hunted on his knees for his shoes, among +a quantity of old chases. Some particles of gold leaf flew about, for, not +knowing where to get the money for a proper frame, he had employed a joiner of +the neighbourhood to fit four strips of board together, and had gilded them +himself, with the assistance of his friend Christine, who, by the way, had +proved a very unskilful gilder. At last, dressed and shod, and having his soft +felt hat bespangled with yellow sparks of the gold, he was about to go, when a +superstitious thought brought him back to the nosegay, which had remained alone +on the centre of the table. If he did not kiss the lilac he was sure to suffer +an affront. So he kissed it and felt perfumed by its strong springtide aroma. +</p> + +<p> +Under the archway, he gave his key as usual to the doorkeeper. ‘Madame +Joseph,’ he said, ‘I shall not be home all day.’ +</p> + +<p> +In less than twenty minutes he was in the Rue d’Enfer, at Sandoz’s. +But the latter, whom he feared would have already gone, was equally late in +consequence of a sudden indisposition which had come upon his mother. It was +nothing serious. She had merely passed a bad night, but it had for a while +quite upset him with anxiety. Now, easy in mind again, Sandoz told Claude that +Dubuche had written saying that they were not to wait for him, and giving an +appointment at the Palais. They therefore started off, and as it was nearly +eleven, they decided to lunch in a deserted little <i>crèmerie</i> in the Rue +St. Honoré, which they did very leisurely, seized with laziness amidst all +their ardent desire to see and know; and enjoying, as it were, a kind of sweet, +tender sadness from lingering awhile and recalling memories of their youth. +</p> + +<p> +One o’clock was striking when they crossed the Champs Elysées. It was a +lovely day, with a limpid sky, to which the breeze, still somewhat chilly, +seemed to impart a brighter azure. Beneath the sun, of the hue of ripe corn, +the rows of chestnut trees showed new foliage of a delicate and seemingly +freshly varnished green; and the fountains with their leaping sheafs of water, +the well-kept lawns, the deep vistas of the pathways, and the broad open +spaces, all lent an air of luxurious grandeur to the panorama. A few carriages, +very few at that early hour, were ascending the avenue, while a stream of +bewildered, bustling people, suggesting a swarm of ants, plunged into the huge +archway of the Palais de l’Industrie. +</p> + +<p> +When they were inside, Claude shivered slightly while crossing the gigantic +vestibule, which was as cold as a cellar, with a damp pavement which resounded +beneath one’s feet, like the flagstones of a church. He glanced right and +left at the two monumental stairways, and asked contemptuously: ‘I say, +are we going through their dirty Salon?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh! no, dash it!’ answered Sandoz. ‘Let’s cut through +the garden. The western staircase over there leads to “the +Rejected.”’ +</p> + +<p> +Then they passed disdainfully between the two little tables of the catalogue +vendors. Between the huge red velvet curtains and beyond a shady porch appeared +the garden, roofed in with glass. At that time of day it was almost deserted; +there were only some people at the buffet under the clock, a throng of people +lunching. The crowd was in the galleries on the first floor, and the white +statues alone edged the yellow-sanded pathways which with stretches of crude +colour intersected the green lawns. There was a whole nation of motionless +marble there steeped in the diffuse light falling from the glazed roof on high. +Looking southwards, some holland screens barred half of the nave, which showed +ambery in the sunlight and was speckled at both ends by the dazzling blue and +crimson of stained-glass windows. Just a few visitors, tired already, occupied +the brand-new chairs and seats, shiny with fresh paint; while the flights of +sparrows, who dwelt above, among the iron girders, swooped down, quite at home, +raking up the sand and twittering as they pursued each other. +</p> + +<p> +Claude and Sandoz made a show of walking very quickly without giving a glance +around them. A stiff classical bronze statue, a Minerva by a member of the +Institute, had exasperated them at the very door. But as they hastened past a +seemingly endless line of busts, they recognised Bongrand, who, all alone, was +going slowly round a colossal, overflowing, recumbent figure, which had been +placed in the middle of the path. With his hands behind his back, quite +absorbed, he bent his wrinkled face every now and then over the plaster. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hallo, it’s you?’ he said, as they held out their hands to +him. ‘I was just looking at our friend Mahoudeau’s figure, which +they have at least had the intelligence to admit, and to put in a good +position.’ Then, breaking off: ‘Have you been upstairs?’ he +asked. +</p> + +<p> +‘No, we have just come in,’ said Claude. +</p> + +<p> +Thereupon Bongrand began to talk warmly about the Salon of the Rejected. He, +who belonged to the Institute, but who lived apart from his colleagues, made +very merry over the affair; the everlasting discontent of painters; the +campaign conducted by petty newspapers like ‘The Drummer’; the +protestations, the constant complaints that had at last disturbed the Emperor, +and the artistic <i>coup d’etat</i> carried out by that silent dreamer, +for this Salon of the Rejected was entirely his work. Then the great painter +alluded to all the hubbub caused by the flinging of such a paving-stone into +that frog’s pond, the official art world. +</p> + +<p> +‘No,’ he continued, ‘you can have no idea of the rage and +indignation among the members of the hanging committee. And remember I’m +distrusted, they generally keep quiet when I’m there. But they are all +furious with the realists. It was to them that they systematically closed the +doors of the temple; it is on account of them that the Emperor has allowed the +public to revise their verdict; and finally it is they, the realists, who +triumph. Ah! I hear some nice things said; I wouldn’t give a high price +for your skins, youngsters.’ +</p> + +<p> +He laughed his big, joyous laugh, stretching out his arms the while as if to +embrace all the youthfulness that he divined rising around him. +</p> + +<p> +‘Your disciples are growing,’ said Claude, simply. +</p> + +<p> +But Bongrand, becoming embarrassed, silenced him with a wave of his hand. He +himself had not sent anything for exhibition, and the prodigious mass of work +amidst which he found himself—those pictures, those statues, all those +proofs of creative effort—filled him with regret. It was not jealousy, +for there lived not a more upright and better soul; but as a result of +self-examination, a gnawing fear of impotence, an unavowed dread haunted him. +</p> + +<p> +‘And at “the Rejected,”’ asked Sandoz; ‘how goes +it there?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Superb; you’ll see.’ +</p> + +<p> +Then turning towards Claude, and keeping both the young man’s hands in +his own, ‘You, my good fellow, you are a trump. Listen! they say I am +clever: well, I’d give ten years of my life to have painted that big +hussy of yours.’ +</p> + +<p> +Praise like that, coming from such lips, moved the young painter to tears. +Victory had come at last, then? He failed to find a word of thanks, and +abruptly changed the conversation, wishing to hide his emotion. +</p> + +<p> +‘That good fellow Mahoudeau!’ he said, ‘why his +figure’s capital! He has a deuced fine temperament, hasn’t +he?’ +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz and Claude had begun to walk round the plaster figure. Bongrand replied +with a smile. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, yes; there’s too much fulness and massiveness in parts. But +just look at the articulations, they are delicate and really pretty. Come, +good-bye, I must leave you. I’m going to sit down a while. My legs are +bending under me.’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude had raised his head to listen. A tremendous uproar, an incessant +crashing that had not struck him at first, careered through the air; it was +like the din of a tempest beating against a cliff, the rumbling of an untiring +assault, dashing forward from endless space. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hallow, what’s that?’ he muttered. +</p> + +<p> +‘That,’ said Bongrand, as he walked away, ‘that’s the +crowd upstairs in the galleries.’ +</p> + +<p> +And the two young fellows, having crossed the garden, then went up to the Salon +of the Rejected. +</p> + +<p> +It had been installed in first-rate style. The officially received pictures +were not lodged more sumptuously: lofty hangings of old tapestry at the doors; +‘the line’ set off with green baize; seats of crimson velvet; white +linen screens under the large skylights of the roof. And all along the suite of +galleries the first impression was the same—there were the same gilt +frames, the same bright colours on the canvases. But there was a special kind +of cheerfulness, a sparkle of youth which one did not altogether realise at +first. The crowd, already compact, increased every minute, for the official +Salon was being deserted. People came stung by curiosity, impelled by a desire +to judge the judges, and, above all, full of the conviction that they were +going to see some very diverting things. It was very hot; a fine dust arose +from the flooring; and certainly, towards four o’clock people would +stifle there. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hang it!’ said Sandoz, trying to elbow his way, ‘it will be +no easy job to move about and find your picture.’ +</p> + +<p> +A burst of fraternal feverishness made him eager to get to it. That day he only +lived for the work and glory of his old chum. +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t worry!’ exclaimed Claude; ‘we shall get to it +all right. My picture won’t fly off.’ +</p> + +<p> +And he affected to be in no hurry, in spite of the almost irresistible desire +that he felt to run. He raised his head and looked around him; and soon, amidst +the loud voices of the crowd that had bewildered him, he distinguished some +restrained laughter, which was almost drowned by the tramp of feet and the +hubbub of conversation. Before certain pictures the public stood joking. This +made him feel uneasy, for despite all his revolutionary brutality he was as +sensitive and as credulous as a woman, and always looked forward to martyrdom, +though he was ever grieved and stupefied at being repulsed and railed at. +</p> + +<p> +‘They seem gay here,’ he muttered. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, there’s good reason,’ remarked Sandoz. ‘Just +look at those extravagant jades!’ +</p> + +<p> +At the same moment, while still lingering in the first gallery, Fagerolles ran +up against them without seeing them. He started, being no doubt annoyed by the +meeting. However, he recovered his composure immediately, and behaved very +amiably. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hallo! I was just thinking of you. I have been here for the last +hour.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Where have they put Claude’s picture?’ asked Sandoz. +Fagerolles, who had just remained for twenty minutes in front of that picture +studying it and studying the impression which it produced on the public, +answered without wincing, ‘I don’t know; I haven’t been able +to find it. We’ll look for it together if you like.’ +</p> + +<p> +And he joined them. Terrible wag as he was, he no longer affected low-bred +manners to the same degree as formerly; he already began to dress well, and +although with his mocking nature he was still disposed to snap at everybody as +of old, he pursed his lips into the serious expression of a fellow who wants to +make his way in the world. With an air of conviction he added: ‘I must +say that I now regret not having sent anything this year! I should be here with +all the rest of you, and have my share of success. And there are really some +astonishing things, my boys! those horses, for instance.’ +</p> + +<p> +He pointed to a huge canvas in front of them, before which the crowd was +gathering and laughing. It was, so people said, the work of an erstwhile +veterinary surgeon, and showed a number of life-size horses in a meadow, +fantastic horses, blue, violet, and pink, whose astonishing anatomy +transpierced their sides. +</p> + +<p> +‘I say, don’t you humbug us,’ exclaimed Claude, suspiciously. +</p> + +<p> +But Fagerolles pretended to be enthusiastic. ‘What do you mean? The +picture’s full of talent. The fellow who painted it understands horses +devilish well. No doubt he paints like a brute. But what’s the odds if +he’s original, and contributes a document?’ +</p> + +<p> +As he spoke Fagerolles’ delicate girlish face remained perfectly grave, +and it was impossible to tell whether he was joking. There was but the +slightest yellow twinkle of spitefulness in the depths of his grey eyes. And he +finished with a sarcastic allusion, the drift of which was as yet patent to him +alone. ‘Ah, well! if you let yourself be influenced by the fools who +laugh, you’ll have enough to do by and by.’ +</p> + +<p> +The three friends had gone on again, only advancing, however, with infinite +difficulty amid that sea of surging shoulders. On entering the second gallery +they gave a glance round the walls, but the picture they sought was not there. +In lieu thereof they perceived Irma Bécot on the arm of Gagnière, both of them +pressed against a hand-rail, he busy examining a small canvas, while she, +delighted at being hustled about, raised her pink little mug and laughed at the +crowd. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hallo!’ said Sandoz, surprised, ‘here she is with Gagnière +now!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, just a fancy of hers!’ exclaimed Fagerolles quietly. +‘She has a very swell place now. Yes, it was given her by that young +idiot of a marquis, whom the papers are always talking about. She’s a +girl who’ll make her way; I’ve always said so! But she seems to +retain a weakness for painters, and every now and then drops into the Café +Baudequin to look up old friends!’ +</p> + +<p> +Irma had now seen them, and was making gestures from afar. They could but go to +her. When Gagnière, with his light hair and little beardless face, turned +round, looking more grotesque than over, he did not show the least surprise at +finding them there. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s wonderful,’ he muttered. +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s wonderful?’ asked Fagerolles. +</p> + +<p> +‘This little masterpiece—and withal honest and naif, and full of +conviction.’ +</p> + +<p> +He pointed to a tiny canvas before which he had stood absorbed, an absolutely +childish picture, such as an urchin of four might have painted; a little +cottage at the edge of a little road, with a little tree beside it, the whole +out of drawing, and girt round with black lines. Not even a corkscrew imitation +of smoke issuing from the roof was forgotten. +</p> + +<p> +Claude made a nervous gesture, while Fagerolles repeated phlegmatically: +</p> + +<p> +‘Very delicate, very delicate. But your picture, Gagnière, where is +it?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘My picture, it is there.’ +</p> + +<p> +In fact, the picture he had sent happened to be very near the little +masterpiece. It was a landscape of a pearly grey, a bit of the Seine banks, +painted carefully, pretty in tone, though somewhat heavy, and perfectly +ponderated without a sign of any revolutionary splash. +</p> + +<p> +‘To think that they were idiotic enough to refuse that!’ said +Claude, who had approached with an air of interest. But why, I ask you, +why?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Because it’s realistic,’ said Fagerolles, in so sharp a +voice that one could not tell whether he was gibing at the jury or at the +picture. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Irma, of whom no one took any notice, was looking fixedly at Claude +with the unconscious smile which the savage loutishness of that big fellow +always brought to her lips. To think that he had not even cared to see her +again. She found him so much altered since the last time she had seen him, so +funny, and not at all prepossessing, with his hair standing on end, and his +face wan and sallow, as if he had had a severe fever. Pained that he did not +seem to notice her, she wanted to attract his attention, and touched his arm +with a familiar gesture. +</p> + +<p> +‘I say, isn’t that one of your friends over there, looking for +you?’ +</p> + +<p> +It was Dubuche, whom she knew from having seen him on one occasion at the Café +Baudequin. He was, with difficulty, elbowing his way through the crowd, and +staring vaguely at the sea of heads around him. But all at once, when Claude +was trying to attract his notice by dint of gesticulations, the other turned +his back to bow very low to a party of three—the father short and fat, +with a sanguine face; the mother very thin, of the colour of wax, and devoured +by anemia; and the daughter so physically backward at eighteen, that she +retained all the lank scragginess of childhood. +</p> + +<p> +‘All right!’ muttered the painter. ‘There he’s caught +now. What ugly acquaintances the brute has! Where can he have fished up such +horrors?’ +</p> + +<p> +Gagnière quietly replied that he knew the strangers by sight. M. Margaillan was +a great masonry contractor, already a millionaire five or six times over, and +was making his fortune out of the great public works of Paris, running up whole +boulevards on his own account. No doubt Dubuche had become acquainted with him +through one of the architects he worked for. +</p> + +<p> +However, Sandoz, compassionating the scragginess of the girl, whom he kept +watching, judged her in one sentence. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! the poor little flayed kitten. One feels sorry for her.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Let them alone!’ exclaimed Claude, ferociously. ‘They have +all the crimes of the middle classes stamped on their faces; they reek of +scrofula and idiocy. It serves them right. But hallo! our runaway friend is +making off with them. What grovellers architects are! Good riddance. +He’ll have to look for us when he wants us!’ +</p> + +<p> +Dubuche, who had not seen his friends, had just offered his arm to the mother, +and was going off, explaining the pictures with gestures typical of exaggerated +politeness. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, let’s proceed then,’ said Fagerolles; and, addressing +Gagnière, he asked, ‘Do you know where they have put Claude’s +picture?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I? no, I was looking for it—I am going with you.’ +</p> + +<p> +He accompanied them, forgetting Irma Bécot against the ‘line.’ It +was she who had wanted to visit the Salon on his arm, and he was so little used +to promenading a woman about, that he had constantly lost her on the way, and +was each time stupefied to find her again beside him, no longer knowing how or +why they were thus together. She ran after them, and took his arm once more in +order to follow Claude, who was already passing into another gallery with +Fagerolles and Sandoz. +</p> + +<p> +Then the five roamed about in Indian file, with their noses in the air, now +separated by a sudden crush, now reunited by another, and ever carried along by +the stream. An abomination of Chaîne’s, a ‘Christ pardoning the +Woman taken in Adultery,’ made them pause; it was a group of dry figures +that looked as if cut out of wood, very bony of build, and seemingly painted +with mud. But close by they admired a very fine study of a woman, seen from +behind, with her head turned sideways. The whole show was a mixture of the best +and the worst, all styles were mingled together, the drivellers of the +historical school elbowed the young lunatics of realism, the pure simpletons +were lumped together with those who bragged about their originality. A dead +Jezabel, that seemed to have rotted in the cellars of the School of Arts, was +exhibited near a lady in white, the very curious conception of a future great +artist*; then a huge shepherd looking at the sea, a weak production, faced a +little painting of some Spaniards playing at rackets, a dash of light of +splendid intensity. Nothing execrable was wanting, neither military scenes full +of little leaden soldiers, nor wan antiquity, nor the middle ages, smeared, as +it were, with bitumen. But from amidst the incoherent ensemble, and especially +from the landscapes, all of which were painted in a sincere, correct key, and +also from the portraits, most of which were very interesting in respect to +workmanship, there came a good fresh scent of youth, bravery and passion. If +there were fewer bad pictures in the official Salon, the average there was +assuredly more commonplace and mediocre. Here one found the smell of battle, of +cheerful battle, given jauntily at daybreak, when the bugle sounds, and when +one marches to meet the enemy with the certainty of beating him before sunset. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +* Edouard Manet.—ED. +</p> + +<p> +Claude, whose spirits had revived amidst that martial odour, grew animated and +pugnacious as he listened to the laughter of the public. He looked as defiant, +indeed, as if he had heard bullets whizzing past him. Sufficiently discreet at +the entrance of the galleries, the laughter became more boisterous, more +unrestrained, as they advanced. In the third room the women ceased concealing +their smiles behind their handkerchiefs, while the men openly held their sides +the better to ease themselves. It was the contagious hilarity of people who had +come to amuse themselves, and who were growing gradually excited, bursting out +at a mere trifle, diverted as much by the good things as by the bad. Folks +laughed less before Chaîne’s Christ than before the back view of the nude +woman, who seemed to them very comical indeed. The ‘Lady in White’ +also stupefied people and drew them together; folks nudged each other and went +into hysterics almost; there was always a grinning group in front of it. Each +canvas thus had its particular kind of success; people hailed each other from a +distance to point out something funny, and witticisms flew from mouth to mouth; +to such a degree indeed that, as Claude entered the fourth gallery, lashed into +fury by the tempest of laughter that was raging there as well, he all but +slapped the face of an old lady whose chuckles exasperated him. +</p> + +<p> +‘What idiots!’ he said, turning towards his friends. ‘One +feels inclined to throw a lot of masterpieces at their heads.’ +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz had become fiery also, and Fagerolles continued praising the most +dreadful daubs, which only tended to increase the laughter, while Gagnière, at +sea amid the hubbub, dragged on the delighted Irma, whose skirts somehow wound +round the legs of all the men. +</p> + +<p> +But of a sudden Jory stood before them. His fair handsome face absolutely +beamed. He cut his way through the crowd, gesticulated, and exulted, as if over +a personal victory. And the moment he perceived Claude, he shouted: +</p> + +<p> +‘Here you are at last! I have been looking for you this hour. A success, +old fellow, oh! a success—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What success?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, the success of your picture. Come, I must show it you. You’ll +see, it’s stunning.’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude grew pale. A great joy choked him, while he pretended to receive the +news with composure. Bongrand’s words came back to him. He began to +believe that he possessed genius. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hallo, how are you?’ continued Jory, shaking hands with the +others. +</p> + +<p> +And, without more ado, he, Fagerolles and Gagnière surrounded Irma, who smiled +on them in a good-natured way. +</p> + +<p> +‘Perhaps you’ll tell us where the picture is,’ said Sandoz, +impatiently. ‘Take us to it.’ +</p> + +<p> +Jory assumed the lead, followed by the band. They had to fight their way into +the last gallery. But Claude, who brought up the rear, still heard the laughter +that rose on the air, a swelling clamour, the roll of a tide near its full. And +as he finally entered the room, he beheld a vast, swarming, closely packed +crowd pressing eagerly in front of his picture. All the laughter arose, spread, +and ended there. And it was his picture that was being laughed at. +</p> + +<p> +‘Eh!’ repeated Jory, triumphantly, ‘there’s a success +for you.’ +</p> + +<p> +Gagnière, intimidated, as ashamed as if he himself had been slapped, muttered: +‘Too much of a success—I should prefer something different.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What a fool you are,’ replied Jory, in a burst of exalted +conviction. ‘That’s what I call success. Does it matter a curse if +they laugh? We have made our mark; to-morrow every paper will talk about +us.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The idiots,’ was all that Sandoz could gasp, choking with grief. +</p> + +<p> +Fagerolles, disinterested and dignified like a family friend following a +funeral procession, said nothing. Irma alone remained gay, thinking it all very +funny. And, with a caressing gesture, she leant against the shoulder of the +derided painter, and whispered softly in his ear: ‘Don’t fret, my +boy. It’s all humbug, be merry all the same.’ +</p> + +<p> +But Claude did not stir. An icy chill had come over him. For a moment his heart +had almost ceased to beat, so cruel had been the disappointment And with his +eyes enlarged, attracted and fixed by a resistless force, he looked at his +picture. He was surprised, and scarcely recognised it; it certainly was not +such as it had seemed to be in his studio. It had grown yellow beneath the +livid light of the linen screens; it seemed, moreover, to have become smaller; +coarser and more laboured also; and whether it was the effect of the light in +which it now hung, or the contrast of the works beside it, at all events he now +at the first glance saw all its defects, after having remained blind to them, +as it were, for months. With a few strokes of the brush he, in thought, altered +the whole of it, deepened the distances, set a badly drawn limb right, and +modified a tone. Decidedly, the gentleman in the velveteen jacket was worth +nothing at all, he was altogether pasty and badly seated; the only really good +bit of work about him was his hand. In the background the two little +wrestlers—the fair and the dark one—had remained too sketchy, and +lacked substance; they were amusing only to an artist’s eye. But he was +pleased with the trees, with the sunny glade; and the nude woman—the +woman lying on the grass appeared to him superior to his own powers, as if some +one else had painted her, and as if he had never yet beheld her in such +resplendency of life. +</p> + +<p> +He turned to Sandoz, and said simply: +</p> + +<p> +‘They do right to laugh; it’s incomplete. Never mind, the woman is +all right! Bongrand was not hoaxing me.’ +</p> + +<p> +His friend wished to take him away, but he became obstinate, and drew nearer +instead. Now that he had judged his work, he listened and looked at the crowd. +The explosion continued—culminated in an ascending scale of mad laughter. +No sooner had visitors crossed the threshold than he saw their jaws part, their +eyes grow small, their entire faces expand; and he heard the tempestuous +puffing of the fat men, the rusty grating jeers of the lean ones, amidst all +the shrill, flute-like laughter of the women. Opposite him, against the +hand-rails, some young fellows went into contortions, as if somebody had been +tickling them. One lady had flung herself on a seat, stifling and trying to +regain breath with her handkerchief over her mouth. Rumours of this picture, +which was so very, very funny, must have been spreading, for there was a rush +from the four corners of the Salon, bands of people arrived, jostling each +other, and all eagerness to share the fun. ‘Where is it?’ +‘Over there.’ ‘Oh, what a joke!’ And the witticisms +fell thicker than elsewhere. It was especially the subject that caused +merriment; people failed to understand it, thought it insane, comical enough to +make one ill with laughter. ‘You see the lady feels too hot, while the +gentleman has put on his velveteen jacket for fear of catching cold.’ +‘Not at all; she is already blue; the gentleman has pulled her out of a +pond, and he is resting at a distance, holding his nose.’ ‘I tell +you it’s a young ladies’ school out for a ramble. Look at the two +playing at leap-frog.’ ‘Hallo! washing day; the flesh is blue; the +trees are blue; he’s dipped his picture in the blueing tub!’ +</p> + +<p> +Those who did not laugh flew into a rage: that bluish tinge, that novel +rendering of light seemed an insult to them. Some old gentlemen shook their +sticks. Was art to be outraged like this? One grave individual went away very +wroth, saying to his wife that he did not like practical jokes. But another, a +punctilious little man, having looked in the catalogue for the title of the +work, in order to tell his daughter, read out the words, ‘<i>In the Open +Air</i>,’ whereupon there came a formidable renewal of the clamour, +hisses and shouts, and what not else besides. The title sped about; it was +repeated, commented on. ‘<i>In the Open Air</i>! ah, yes, the open air, +the nude woman in the air, everything in the air, tra la la laire.’ The +affair was becoming a scandal. The crowd still increased. People’s faces +grew red with congestion in the growing heat. Each had the stupidly gaping +mouth of the ignoramus who judges painting, and between them they indulged in +all the asinine ideas, all the preposterous reflections, all the stupid +spiteful jeers that the sight of an original work can possibly elicit from +bourgeois imbecility. +</p> + +<p> +At that moment, as a last blow, Claude beheld Dubuche reappear, dragging the +Margaillans along. As soon as he came in front of the picture, the architect, +ill at ease, overtaken by cowardly shame, wished to quicken his pace and lead +his party further on, pretending that he saw neither the canvas nor his +friends. But the contractor had already drawn himself up on his short, squat +legs, and was staring at the picture, and asking aloud in his thick hoarse +voice: +</p> + +<p> +‘I say, who’s the blockhead that painted this?’ +</p> + +<p> +That good-natured bluster, that cry of a millionaire parvenu resuming the +average opinion of the assembly, increased the general merriment; and he, +flattered by his success, and tickled by the strange style of the painting, +started laughing in his turn, so sonorously that he could be heard above all +the others. This was the hallelujah, a final outburst of the great organ of +opinion. +</p> + +<p> +‘Take my daughter away,’ whispered pale-faced Madame Margaillan in +Dubuche’s ear. +</p> + +<p> +He sprang forward and freed Régine, who had lowered her eyelids, from the +crowd; displaying in doing so as much muscular energy as if it had been a +question of saving the poor creature from imminent death. Then having taken +leave of the Margaillans at the door, with a deal of handshaking and bows, he +came towards his friends, and said straightway to Sandoz, Fagerolles, and +Gagnière: +</p> + +<p> +‘What would you have? It isn’t my fault—I warned him that the +public would not understand him. It’s improper; yes, you may say what you +like, it’s improper.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘They hissed Delacroix,’ broke in Sandoz, white with rage, and +clenching his fists. ‘They hissed Courbet. Oh, the race of enemies! Oh, +the born idiots!’ +</p> + +<p> +Gagnière, who now shared this artistic vindictiveness, grew angry at the +recollection of his Sunday battles at the Pasdeloup Concerts in favour of real +music. +</p> + +<p> +‘And they hiss Wagner too; they are the same crew. I recognise them. You +see that fat fellow over there—’ +</p> + +<p> +Jory had to hold him back. The journalist for his part would rather have urged +on the crowd. He kept on repeating that it was famous, that there was a hundred +thousand francs’ worth of advertisements in it. And Irma, left to her own +devices once more, went up to two of her friends, young Bourse men who were +among the most persistent scoffers, but whom she began to indoctrinate, forcing +them, as it were, into admiration, by rapping them on the knuckles. +</p> + +<p> +Fagerolles, however, had not opened his lips. He kept on examining the picture, +and glancing at the crowd. With his Parisian instinct and the elastic +conscience of a skilful fellow, he at once fathomed the misunderstanding. He +was already vaguely conscious of what was wanted for that style of painting to +make the conquest of everybody—a little trickery perhaps, some +attenuations, a different choice of subject, a milder method of execution. In +the main, the influence that Claude had always had over him persisted in making +itself felt; he remained imbued with it; it had set its stamp upon him for +ever. Only he considered Claude to be an arch-idiot to have exhibited such a +thing as that. Wasn’t it stupid to believe in the intelligence of the +public? What was the meaning of that nude woman beside that gentleman who was +fully dressed? And what did those two little wrestlers in the background mean? +Yet the picture showed many of the qualities of a master. There wasn’t +another bit of painting like it in the Salon! And he felt a great contempt for +that artist, so admirably endowed, who through lack of tact made all Paris roar +as if he had been the worst of daubers. +</p> + +<p> +This contempt became so strong that he was unable to hide it. In a moment of +irresistible frankness he exclaimed: +</p> + +<p> +‘Look here, my dear fellow, it’s your own fault, you are too +stupid.’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude, turning his eyes from the crowd, looked at him in silence. He had not +winced, he had only turned pale amidst the laughter, and if his lips quivered +it was merely with a slight nervous twitching; nobody knew him, it was his work +alone that was being buffeted. Then for a moment he glanced again at his +picture, and slowly inspected the other canvases in the gallery. And amidst the +collapse of his illusions, the bitter agony of his pride, a breath of courage, +a whiff of health and youth came to him from all that gaily-brave painting +which rushed with such headlong passion to beat down classical conventionality. +He was consoled and inspirited by it all; he felt no remorse nor contrition, +but, on the contrary, was impelled to fight the popular taste still more. No +doubt there was some clumsiness and some puerility of effort in his work, but +on the other hand what a pretty general tone, what a play of light he had +thrown into it, a silvery grey light, fine and diffuse, brightened by all the +dancing sunbeams of the open air. It was as if a window had been suddenly +opened amidst all the old bituminous cookery of art, amidst all the stewing +sauces of tradition, and the sun came in and the walls smiled under that +invasion of springtide. The light note of his picture, the bluish tinge that +people had been railing at, flashed out among the other paintings also. Was +this not the expected dawn, a new aurora rising on art? He perceived a critic +who stopped without laughing, some celebrated painters who looked surprised and +grave, while Papa Malgras, very dirty, went from picture to picture with the +pout of a wary connoisseur, and finally stopped short in front of his canvas, +motionless, absorbed. Then Claude turned round to Fagerolles, and surprised him +by this tardy reply: +</p> + +<p> +‘A fellow can only be an idiot according to his own lights, my dear chap, +and it looks as if I am going to remain one. So much the better for you if you +are clever!’ +</p> + +<p> +Fagerolles at once patted him on the shoulder, like a chum who had only been in +fun, and Claude allowed Sandoz to take his arm. They led him off at last. The +whole band left the Salon of the Rejected, deciding that they would pass on +their way through the gallery of architecture; for a design for a museum by +Dubuche had been accepted, and for some few minutes he had been fidgeting and +begging them with so humble a look, that it seemed difficult indeed to deny him +this satisfaction. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah!’ said Jory, jocularly, on entering the gallery, ‘what an +ice-well! One can breathe here.’ +</p> + +<p> +They all took off their hats and wiped their foreheads, with a feeling of +relief, as if they had reached some big shady trees after a long march in full +sunlight. The gallery was empty. From the roof, shaded by a white linen screen, +there fell a soft, even, rather sad light, which was reflected like quiescent +water by the well-waxed, mirror-like floor. On the four walls, of a faded red, +hung the plans and designs in large and small chases, edged with pale blue +borders. Alone—absolutely alone—amidst this desert stood a very +hirsute gentleman, who was lost in the contemplation of the plan of a charity +home. Three ladies who appeared became frightened and fled across the gallery +with hasty steps. +</p> + +<p> +Dubuche was already showing and explaining his work to his comrades. It was +only a drawing of a modest little museum gallery, which he had sent in with +ambitious haste, contrary to custom and against the wishes of his master, who, +nevertheless, had used his influence to have it accepted, thinking himself +pledged to do so. +</p> + +<p> +‘Is your museum intended for the accommodation of the paintings of the +“open air” school?’ asked Fagerolles, very gravely. +</p> + +<p> +Gagnière pretended to admire the plan, nodding his head, but thinking of +something else; while Claude and Sandoz examined it with sincere interest. +</p> + +<p> +‘Not bad, old boy,’ said the former. ‘The ornamentation is +still bastardly traditional; but never mind; it will do.’ +</p> + +<p> +Jory, becoming impatient at last, cut him short. +</p> + +<p> +‘Come along, let’s go, eh? I’m catching my death of cold +here.’ +</p> + +<p> +The band resumed its march. The worst was that to make a short cut they had to +go right through the official Salon, and they resigned themselves to doing so, +notwithstanding the oath they had taken not to set foot in it, as a matter of +protest. Cutting their way through the crowd, keeping rigidly erect, they +followed the suite of galleries, casting indignant glances to right and left. +There was none of the gay scandal of their Salon, full of fresh tones and an +exaggeration of sunlight, here. One after the other came gilt frames full of +shadows; black pretentious things, nude figures showing yellowish in a +cellar-like light, the frippery of so-called classical art, historical, genre +and landscape painting, all showing the same conventional black grease. The +works reeked of uniform mediocrity, they were characterised by a muddy +dinginess of tone, despite their primness—the primness of impoverished, +degenerate blood. And the friends quickened their steps: they ran to escape +from that reign of bitumen, condemning everything in one lump with their superb +sectarian injustice, repeating that there was nothing in the place worth +looking at—nothing, nothing at all! +</p> + +<p> +At last they emerged from the galleries, and were going down into the garden +when they met Mahoudeau and Chaîne. The former threw himself into +Claude’s arms. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah, my dear fellow, your picture; what artistic temperament it +shows!’ +</p> + +<p> +The painter at once began to praise the ‘Vintaging Girl.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And you, I say, you have thrown a nice big lump at their heads!’ +</p> + +<p> +But the sight of Chaîne, to whom no one spoke about the ‘Woman taken in +Adultery,’ and who went silently wandering around, awakened +Claude’s compassion. He thought there was something very sad about that +execrable painting, and the wasted life of that peasant who was a victim of +middle-class admiration. He always gave him the delight of a little praise; so +now he shook his hand cordially, exclaiming: +</p> + +<p> +‘Your machine’s very good too. Ah, my fine fellow, draughtsmanship +has no terrors for you!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, indeed,’ declared Chaîne, who had grown purple with vanity +under his black bushy beard. +</p> + +<p> +He and Mahoudeau joined the band, and the latter asked the others whether they +had seen Chambouvard’s ‘Sower.’ It was marvellous; the only +piece of statuary worth looking at in the Salon. Thereupon they all followed +him into the garden, which the crowd was now invading. +</p> + +<p> +‘There,’ said Mahoudeau, stopping in the middle of the central +path: ‘Chambouvard is standing just in front of his +“Sower.”’ +</p> + +<p> +In fact, a portly man stood there, solidly planted on his fat legs, and +admiring his handiwork. With his head sunk between his shoulders, he had the +heavy, handsome features of a Hindu idol. He was said to be the son of a +veterinary surgeon of the neighbourhood of Amiens. At forty-five he had already +produced twenty masterpieces: statues all simplicity and life, flesh modern and +palpitating, kneaded by a workman of genius, without any pretension to +refinement; and all this was chance production, for he furnished work as a +field bears harvest, good one day, bad the next, in absolute ignorance of what +he created. He carried the lack of critical acumen to such a degree that he +made no distinction between the most glorious offspring of his hands and the +detestably grotesque figures which now and then he chanced to put together. +Never troubled by nervous feverishness, never doubting, always solid and +convinced, he had the pride of a god. +</p> + +<p> +‘Wonderful, the “Sower”!’ whispered Claude. ‘What +a figure! and what an attitude!’ +</p> + +<p> +Fagerolles, who had not looked at the statue, was highly amused by the great +man, and the string of young, open-mouthed disciples whom as usual he dragged +at his tail. +</p> + +<p> +‘Just look at them, one would think they are taking the sacrament, +‘pon my word—and he himself, eh? What a fine brutish face he +has!’ +</p> + +<p> +Isolated, and quite at his ease, amidst the general curiosity, Chambouvard +stood there wondering, with the stupefied air of a man who is surprised at +having produced such a masterpiece. He seemed to behold it for the first time, +and was unable to get over his astonishment. Then an expression of delight +gradually stole over his broad face, he nodded his head, and burst into soft, +irresistible laughter, repeating a dozen times, ‘It’s comical, +it’s really comical!’ +</p> + +<p> +His train of followers went into raptures, while he himself could find nothing +more forcible to express how much he worshipped himself. All at once there was +a slight stir. Bongrand, who had been walking about with his hands behind his +back, glancing vaguely around him, had just stumbled on Chambouvard, and the +public, drawing back, whispered, and watched the two celebrated artists shaking +hands; the one short and of a sanguine temperament, the other tall and +restless. Some expressions of good-fellowship were overheard. ‘Always +fresh marvels.’ ‘Of course! And you, nothing this year?’ +‘No, nothing; I am resting, seeking—’ ‘Come, you joker! +There’s no need to seek, the thing comes by itself.’ +‘Good-bye.’ ‘Good-bye.’ And Chambouvard, followed by +his court, was already moving slowly away among the crowd, with the glances of +a king, who enjoys life, while Bongrand, who had recognised Claude and his +friends, approached them with outstretched feverish hands, and called attention +to the sculptor with a nervous jerk of the chin, saying, ‘There’s a +fellow I envy! Ah! to be confident of always producing masterpieces!’ +</p> + +<p> +He complimented Mahoudeau on his ‘Vintaging Girl’; showed himself +paternal to all of them, with that broad-minded good-nature of his, the free +and easy manner of an old Bohemian of the romantic school, who had settled down +and was decorated. Then, turning to Claude: +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, what did I tell you? Did you see upstairs? You have become the +chief of a school.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! yes,’ replied Claude. ‘They are giving it me nicely. You +are the master of us all.’ +</p> + +<p> +But Bongrand made his usual gesture of vague suffering and went off, saying, +‘Hold your tongue! I am not even my own master.’ +</p> + +<p> +For a few moments longer the band wandered through the garden. They had gone +back to look at the ‘Vintaging Girl,’ when Jory noticed that +Gagnière no longer had Irma Bécot on his arm. Gagnière was stupefied; where the +deuce could he have lost her? But when Fagerolles had told him that she had +gone off in the crowd with two gentlemen, he recovered his composure, and +followed the others, lighter of heart now that he was relieved of that girl who +had bewildered him. +</p> + +<p> +People now only moved about with difficulty. All the seats were taken by storm; +groups blocked up the paths, where the promenaders paused every now and then, +flowing back around the successful bits of bronze and marble. From the crowded +buffet there arose a loud buzzing, a clatter of saucers and spoons which +mingled with the throb of life pervading the vast nave. The sparrows had flown +up to the forest of iron girders again, and one could hear their sharp little +chirps, the twittering with which they serenaded the setting sun, under the +warm panes of the glass roof. The atmosphere, moreover, had become heavy, there +was a damp greenhouse-like warmth; the air, stationary as it was, had an odour +as of humus, freshly turned over. And rising above the garden throng, the din +of the first-floor galleries, the tramping of feet on their iron-girdered +flooring still rolled on with the clamour of a tempest beating against a cliff. +</p> + +<p> +Claude, who had a keen perception of that rumbling storm, ended by hearing +nothing else; it had been let loose and was howling in his ears. It was the +merriment of the crowd whose jeers and laughter swept hurricane-like past his +picture. With a weary gesture he exclaimed: +</p> + +<p> +‘Come, what are we messing about here for? I sha’n’t take +anything at the refreshment bar, it reeks of the Institute. Let’s go and +have a glass of beer outside, eh?’ +</p> + +<p> +They all went out, with sinking legs and tired faces, expressive of contempt. +Once outside, on finding themselves again face to face with healthy mother +Nature in her springtide season, they breathed noisily with an air of delight. +It had barely struck four o’clock, the slanting sun swept along the +Champs Elysées and everything flared: the serried rows of carriages, like the +fresh foliage of the trees, and the sheaf-like fountains which spouted up and +whirled away in golden dust. With a sauntering step they went hesitatingly down +the central avenue, and finally stranded in a little café, the Pavillon de la +Concorde, on the left, just before reaching the Place. The place was so small +that they sat down outside it at the edge of the footway, despite the chill +which fell from a vault of leaves, already fully grown and gloomy. But beyond +the four rows of chestnut-trees, beyond the belt of verdant shade, they could +see the sunlit roadway of the main avenue where Paris passed before them as in +a nimbus, the carriages with their wheels radiating like stars, the big yellow +omnibuses, looking even more profusely gilded than triumphal chariots, the +horsemen whose steeds seemed to raise clouds of sparks, and the foot passengers +whom the light enveloped in splendour. +</p> + +<p> +And during nearly three hours, with his beer untasted before him, Claude went +on talking and arguing amid a growing fever, broken down as he was in body, and +with his mind full of all the painting he had just seen. It was the usual +winding up of their visit to the Salon, though this year they were more +impassioned on account of the liberal measure of the Emperor. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, and what of it, if the public does laugh?’ cried Claude. +‘We must educate the public, that’s all. In reality it’s a +victory. Take away two hundred grotesque canvases, and our Salon beats theirs. +We have courage and audacity—we are the future. Yes, yes, you’ll +see it later on; we shall kill their Salon. We shall enter it as conquerors, by +dint of producing masterpieces. Laugh, laugh, you big stupid Paris—laugh +until you fall on your knees before us!’ +</p> + +<p> +And stopping short, he pointed prophetically to the triumphal avenue, where the +luxury and happiness of the city went rolling by in the sunlight. His arms +stretched out till they embraced even the Place de la Concorde, which could be +seen slantwise from where they sat under the trees—the Place de la +Concorde, with the plashing water of one of its fountains, a strip of +balustrade, and two of its statues—Rouen, with the gigantic bosom, and +Lille, thrusting forward her huge bare foot. +</p> + +<p> +‘“In the open air”—it amuses them, eh?’ he +resumed. ‘All right, since they are bent on it, the “open +air” then, the school of the “open air!” Eh! it was a thing +strictly between us, it didn’t exist yesterday beyond the circle of a few +painters. But now they throw the word upon the winds, and they found the +school. Oh! I’m agreeable. Let it be the school of the “open +air!”’ +</p> + +<p> +Jory slapped his thighs. +</p> + +<p> +‘Didn’t I tell you? I felt sure of making them bite with those +articles of mine, the idiots that they are. Ah! how we’ll plague them +now.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mahoudeau also was singing victory, constantly dragging in his ‘Vintaging +Girl,’ the daring points of which he explained to the silent Chaîne, the +only one who listened to him; while Gagnière, with the sternness of a timid man +waxing wroth over questions of pure theory, spoke of guillotining the +Institute; and Sandoz, with the glowing sympathy of a hard worker, and Dubuche, +giving way to the contagion of revolutionary friendship, became exasperated, +and struck the table, swallowing up Paris with each draught of beer. +Fagerolles, very calm, retained his usual smile. He had accompanied them for +the sake of amusement, for the singular pleasure which he found in urging his +comrades into farcical affairs that were bound to turn out badly. At the very +moment when he was lashing their spirit of revolt, he himself formed the firm +resolution to work in future for the Prix de Rome. That day had decided him; he +thought it idiotic to compromise his prospects any further. +</p> + +<p> +The sun was declining on the horizon, there was now only a returning stream of +carriages, coming back from the Bois in the pale golden shimmer of the sunset. +And the exodus from the Salon must have been nearly over; a long string of +pedestrians passed by, gentlemen who looked like critics, each with a catalogue +under his arm. +</p> + +<p> +But all at once Gagnière became enthusiastic: ‘Ah! Courajod, there was +one who had his share in inventing landscape painting! Have you seen his +“Pond of Gagny” at the Luxembourg?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A marvel!’ exclaimed Claude. ‘It was painted thirty years +ago, and nothing more substantial has been turned out since. Why is it left at +the Luxembourg? It ought to be in the Louvre.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But Courajod isn’t dead,’ said Fagerolles. +</p> + +<p> +‘What! Courajod isn’t dead! No one ever sees him or speaks of him +now.’ +</p> + +<p> +There was general stupefaction when Fagerolles assured them that the great +landscape painter, now seventy years of age, lived somewhere in the +neighbourhood of Montmartre, in a little house among his fowls, ducks, and +dogs. So one might outlive one’s own glory! To think that there were such +melancholy instances of old artists disappearing before their death! Silence +fell upon them all; they began to shiver when they perceived Bongrand pass by +on a friend’s arm, with a congestive face and a nervous air as he waved +his hand to them; while almost immediately behind him, surrounded by his +disciples, came Chambouvard, laughing very loudly, and tapping his heels on the +pavement with the air of absolute mastery that comes from confidence in +immortality. +</p> + +<p> +‘What! are you going?’ said Mahoudeau to Chaîne, who was rising +from his chair. +</p> + +<p> +The other mumbled some indistinct words in his beard, and went off after +distributing handshakes among the party. +</p> + +<p> +‘I know,’ said Jory to Mahoudeau. ‘I believe he has a +weakness for your neighbour, the herbalist woman. I saw his eyes flash all at +once; it comes upon him like toothache. Look how he’s running over +there.’ +</p> + +<p> +The sculptor shrugged his shoulders amidst the general laughter. +</p> + +<p> +But Claude did not hear. He was now discussing architecture with Dubuche. No +doubt, that plan of a museum gallery which he exhibited wasn’t bad; only +there was nothing new in it. It was all so much patient marquetry of the school +formulas. Ought not all the arts to advance in one line of battle? Ought not +the evolution that was transforming literature, painting, even music itself, to +renovate architecture as well? If ever the architecture of a period was to have +a style of its own, it was assuredly the architecture of the period they would +soon be entering, a new period when they would find the ground freshly swept, +ready for the rebuilding of everything. Down with the Greek temples! there was +no reason why they should continue to exist under our sky, amid our society! +down with the Gothic cathedrals, since faith in legend was dead! down with the +delicate colonnades, the lace-like work of the Renaissance—that revival +of the antique grafted on mediaevalism—precious art-jewellery, no doubt, +but in which democracy could not dwell. And he demanded, he called with violent +gestures for an architectural formula suited to democracy; such work in stone +as would express its tenets; edifices where it would really be at home; +something vast and strong, great and simple at the same time; the something +that was already being indicated in the new railway stations and markets, whose +ironwork displayed such solid elegance, but purified and raised to a standard +of beauty, proclaiming the grandeur of the intellectual conquests of the age. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! yes, ah! yes,’ repeated Dubuche, catching Claude’s +enthusiasm; ‘that’s what I want to accomplish, you’ll see +some day. Give me time to succeed, and when I’m my own master—ah! +when I’m my own master.’ +</p> + +<p> +Night was coming on apace, and Claude was growing more and more animated and +passionate, displaying a fluency, an eloquence which his comrades had not known +him to possess. They all grew excited in listening to him, and ended by +becoming noisily gay over the extraordinary witticisms he launched forth. He +himself, having returned to the subject of his picture, again discussed it with +a deal of gaiety, caricaturing the crowd he had seen looking at it, and +imitating the imbecile laughter. Along the avenue, now of an ashy hue, one only +saw the shadows of infrequent vehicles dart by. The side-walk was quite black; +an icy chill fell from the trees. Nothing broke the stillness but the sound of +song coming from a clump of verdure behind the café; there was some rehearsal +at the Concert de l’Horloge, for one heard the sentimental voice of a +girl trying a love-song. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! how they amused me, the idiots!’ exclaimed Claude, in a last +burst. ‘Do you know, I wouldn’t take a hundred thousand francs for +my day’s pleasure!’ +</p> + +<p> +Then he relapsed into silence, thoroughly exhausted. Nobody had any saliva +left; silence reigned; they all shivered in the icy gust that swept by. And +they separated in a sort of bewilderment, shaking hands in a tired fashion. +Dubuche was going to dine out; Fagerolles had an appointment; in vain did Jory, +Mahoudeau, and Gagnière try to drag Claude to Foucart’s, a twenty-five +sous’ restaurant; Sandoz was already taking him away on his arm, feeling +anxious at seeing him so excited. +</p> + +<p> +‘Come along, I promised my mother to be back for dinner. You’ll +take a bit with us. It will be nice; we’ll finish the day +together.’ +</p> + +<p> +They both went down the quay, past the Tuileries, walking side by side in +fraternal fashion. But at the Pont des Saints-Pères the painter stopped short. +</p> + +<p> +‘What, are you going to leave me?’ exclaimed Sandoz. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, I thought you were going to dine with me?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, thanks; I’ve too bad a headache—I’m going home to +bed.’ +</p> + +<p> +And he obstinately clung to this excuse. +</p> + +<p> +‘All right, old man,’ said Sandoz at last, with a smile. ‘One +doesn’t see much of you nowadays. You live in mystery. Go on, old boy, I +don’t want to be in your way.’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude restrained a gesture of impatience; and, letting his friend cross the +bridge, he went his way along the quays by himself. He walked on with his arms +hanging beside him, with his face turned towards the ground, seeing nothing, +but taking long strides like a somnambulist who is guided by instinct. On the +Quai de Bourbon, in front of his door, he looked up, full of surprise on seeing +a cab waiting at the edge of the foot pavement, and barring his way. And it was +with the same automatical step that he entered the doorkeeper’s room to +take his key. +</p> + +<p> +‘I have given it to that lady,’ called Madame Joseph from the back +of the room. ‘She is upstairs.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What lady?’ he asked in bewilderment. +</p> + +<p> +‘That young person. Come, you know very well, the one who always +comes.’ +</p> + +<p> +He had not the remotest idea whom she meant. Still, in his utter confusion of +mind, he decided to go upstairs. The key was in the door, which he slowly +opened and closed again. +</p> + +<p> +For a moment Claude stood stock still. Darkness had invaded the studio; a +violet dimness, a melancholy gloom fell from the large window, enveloping +everything. He could no longer plainly distinguish either the floor, or the +furniture, or the sketches; everything that was lying about seemed to be +melting in the stagnant waters of a pool. But on the edge of the couch there +loomed a dark figure, stiff with waiting, anxious and despairing amid the last +gasp of daylight. It was Christine; he recognised her. +</p> + +<p> +She held out her hands, and murmured in a low, halting voice: +</p> + +<p> +‘I have been here for three hours; yes, for three hours, all alone, and +listening. I took a cab on leaving there, and I only wanted to stay a minute, +and get back as soon as possible. But I should have stayed all night; I could +not go away without shaking hands with you.’ +</p> + +<p> +She continued, and told him of her mad desire to see the picture; her prank of +going to the Salon, and how she had tumbled into it amidst the storm of +laughter, amidst the jeers of all those people. It was she whom they had hissed +like that; it was on herself that they had spat. And seized with wild terror, +distracted with grief and shame, she had fled, as if she could feel that +laughter lashing her like a whip, until the blood flowed. But she now forgot +about herself in her concern for him, upset by the thought of the grief he must +feel, for her womanly sensibility magnified the bitterness of the repulse, and +she was eager to console. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, friend, don’t grieve! I wished to see and tell you that they +are jealous of it all, that I found the picture very nice, and that I feel very +proud and happy at having helped you—at being, if ever so little, a part +of it.’ +</p> + +<p> +Still, motionless, he listened to her as she stammered those tender words in an +ardent voice, and suddenly he sank down at her feet, letting his head fall upon +her knees, and bursting into tears. All his excitement of the afternoon, all +the bravery he had shown amidst the jeering, all his gaiety and violence now +collapsed, in a fit of sobs which well nigh choked him. From the gallery where +the laughter had buffeted him, he heard it pursuing him through the Champs +Elysées, then along the banks of the Seine, and now in his very studio. His +strength was utterly spent; he felt weaker than a child; and rolling his head +from one side to another he repeated in a stifled voice: +</p> + +<p> +‘My God! how I do suffer!’ +</p> + +<p> +Then she, with both hands, raised his face to her lips in a transport of +passion. She kissed him, and with her warm breath she blew to his very heart +the words: ‘Be quiet, be quiet, I love you!’ +</p> + +<p> +They adored each other; it was inevitable. Near them, on the centre of the +table, the lilac she had sent him that morning embalmed the night air, and, +alone shiny with lingering light, the scattered particles of gold leaf, wafted +from the frame of the big picture, twinkled like a swarming of stars. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"></a> +VI</h2> + +<p> +THE very next morning, at seven o’clock, Christine was at the studio, her +face still flushed by the falsehood which she had told Madame Vanzade about a +young friend from Clermont whom she was to meet at the station, and with whom +she should spend the day. +</p> + +<p> +Claude, overjoyed by the idea of spending a whole day with her, wanted to take +her into the country, far away under the glorious sunlight, so as to have her +entirely to himself. She was delighted; they scampered off like lunatics, and +reached the St. Lazare Station just in time to catch the Havre train. He knew, +beyond Mantes, a little village called Bennecourt, where there was an +artists’ inn which he had at times invaded with some comrades; and +careless as to the two hours’ rail, he took her to lunch there, just as +he would have taken her to Asnières. She made very merry over this journey, to +which there seemed no end. So much the better if it were to take them to the +end of the world! It seemed to them as if evening would never come. +</p> + +<p> +At ten o’clock they alighted at Bonnières; and there they took the +ferry—an old ferry-boat that creaked and grated against its +chain—for Bennecourt is situated on the opposite bank of the Seine. It +was a splendid May morning, the rippling waters were spangled with gold in the +sunlight, the young foliage showed delicately green against the cloudless +azure. And, beyond the islets situated at this point of the river, how +delightful it was to find the country inn, with its little grocery business +attached, its large common room smelling of soapsuds, and its spacious yard +full of manure, on which the ducks disported themselves. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hallo, Faucheur! we have come to lunch. An omelette, some sausages, and +some cheese, eh?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Are you going to stay the night, Monsieur Claude?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, no; another time. And some white wine; eh? you know that pinky wine, +that grates a bit in the throat.’ +</p> + +<p> +Christine had already followed mother Faucheur to the barn-yard, and when the +latter came back with her eggs, she asked Claude with her artful +peasant’s laugh: +</p> + +<p> +‘And so now you’re married?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well,’ replied the painter without hesitation, ‘it looks +like it since I’m with my wife.’ +</p> + +<p> +The lunch was exquisite: the omelette overdone, the sausages too greasy, and +the bread so hard that he had to cut it into fingers for Christine lest she +should hurt her wrist. They emptied two bottles of wine, and began a third, +becoming so gay and noisy that they ended by feeling bewildered in the long +room, where they partook of the meal all alone. She, with her cheeks aflame, +declared that she was tipsy; it had never happened to her before, and she +thought it very funny. Oh! so funny, and she burst into uncontrollable +laughter. +</p> + +<p> +‘Let us get a breath of air,’ she said at last. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, let’s take a stroll. We must start back at four +o’clock; so we have three hours before us.’ +</p> + +<p> +They went up the village of Bennecourt, whose yellow houses straggle along the +river bank for about a couple of thousand yards. All the villagers were in the +fields; they only met three cows, led by a little girl. He, with an +outstretched arm, told her all about the locality; seemed to know whither he +was going, and when they had reached the last house—an old building, +standing on the bank of the Seine, just opposite the slopes of +Jeufosse—turned round it, and entered a wood of oak trees. It was like +the end of the world, roofed in with foliage, through which the sun alone +penetrated in narrow tongues of flame. And there they could stroll and talk and +kiss in freedom. +</p> + +<p> +When at last it became necessary for them to retrace their steps, they found a +peasant standing at the open doorway of the house by the wood-side. Claude +recognised the man and called to him: +</p> + +<p> +‘Hallo, Porrette! Does that shanty belong to you?’ +</p> + +<p> +At this the old fellow, with tears in his eyes, related that it did, and that +his tenants had gone away without paying him, leaving their furniture behind. +And he invited them inside. +</p> + +<p> +‘There’s no harm in looking; you may know somebody who would like +to take the place. There are many Parisians who’d be glad of it. Three +hundred francs a year, with the furniture; it’s for nothing, eh?’ +</p> + +<p> +They inquisitively followed him inside. It was a rambling old place that seemed +to have been cut out of a barn. Downstairs they found an immense kitchen and a +dining-room, in which one might have given a dance; upstairs were two rooms +also, so vast that one seemed lost in them. As for the furniture, it consisted +of a walnut bedstead in one of the rooms, and of a table and some household +utensils in the kitchen. But in front of the house the neglected garden was +planted with magnificent apricot trees, and overgrown with large rose-bushes in +full bloom; while at the back there was a potato field reaching as far as the +oak wood, and surrounded by a quick-set hedge. +</p> + +<p> +‘I’d leave the potatoes as they are,’ said old Porrette. +</p> + +<p> +Claude and Christine looked at each other with one of those sudden cravings for +solitude and forgetfulness common to lovers. Ah! how sweet it would be to love +one another there in the depths of that nook, so far away from everybody else! +But they smiled. Was such a thing to be thought of? They had barely time to +catch the train that was to take them back to Paris. And the old peasant, who +was Madame Faucheur’s father, accompanied them along the river bank, and +as they were stepping into the ferry-boat, shouted to them, after quite an +inward struggle: +</p> + +<p> +‘You know, I’ll make it two hundred and fifty francs—send me +some people.’ +</p> + +<p> +On reaching Paris, Claude accompanied Christine to Madame Vanzade’s door. +They had grown very sad. They exchanged a long handshake, silent and +despairing, not daring to kiss each other there. +</p> + +<p> +A life of torment then began. In the course of a fortnight she was only able to +call on three occasions; and she arrived panting, having but a few minutes at +her disposal, for it so happened that the old lady had just then become very +exacting. Claude questioned her, feeling uneasy at seeing her look so pale and +out of sorts, with her eyes bright with fever. Never had that pious house, that +vault, without air or light, where she died of boredom, caused her so much +suffering. Her fits of giddiness had come upon her again; the want of exercise +made the blood throb in her temples. She owned to him that she had fainted one +evening in her room, as if she had been suddenly strangled by a leaden hand. +Still she did not say a word against her employer; on the contrary, she +softened on speaking of her: the poor creature, so old and so infirm, and so +kind-hearted, who called her daughter! She felt as if she were committing a +wicked act each time that she forsook her to hurry to her lover’s. +</p> + +<p> +Two more weeks went by, and the falsehoods with which Christine had to buy, as +it were, each hour of liberty became intolerable to her. She loved, she would +have liked to proclaim it aloud, and her feelings revolted at having to hide +her love like a crime, at having to lie basely, like a servant afraid of being +sent away. +</p> + +<p> +At last, one evening in the studio, at the moment when she was leaving, she +threw herself with a distracted gesture into Claude’s arms, sobbing with +suffering and passion. ‘Ah! I cannot, I cannot—keep me with you; +prevent me from going back.’ +</p> + +<p> +He had caught hold of her, and was almost smothering her with kisses. +</p> + +<p> +‘You really love me, then! Oh, my darling! But I am so very poor, and you +would lose everything. Can I allow you to forego everything like this?’ +</p> + +<p> +She sobbed more violently still; her halting words were choked by her tears. +</p> + +<p> +‘The money, eh? which she might leave me? Do you think I calculate? I +have never thought of it, I swear it to you! Ah! let her keep everything and +let me be free! I have no ties, no relatives; can’t I be allowed to do as +I like?’ +</p> + +<p> +Then, in a last sob of agony: ‘Ah, you are right; it’s wrong to +desert the poor woman. Ah! I despise myself. I wish I had the strength. But I +love you too much, I suffer too much; surely you won’t let me die?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh!’ he cried in a passionate transport. ‘Let others die, +there are but we two on earth.’ +</p> + +<p> +It was all so much madness. Christine left Madame Vanzade in the most brutal +fashion. She took her trunk away the very next morning. She and Claude had at +once remembered the deserted old house at Bennecourt, the giant rose-bushes, +the immense rooms. Ah! to go away, to go away without the loss of an hour, to +live at the world’s end in all the bliss of their passion! She clapped +her hands for very joy. He, still smarting from his defeat, at the Salon, and +anxious to recover from it, longed for complete rest in the country; yonder he +would find the real ‘open air,’ he would work away with grass up to +his neck and bring back masterpieces. In a couple of days everything was ready, +the studio relinquished, the few household chattels conveyed to the railway +station. Besides, they met with a slice of luck, for Papa Malgras gave some +five hundred francs for a score of sketches, selected from among the waifs and +strays of the removal. Thus they would be able to live like princes. Claude +still had his income of a thousand francs a year; Christine, too, had saved +some money, besides having her outfit and dresses. And away they went; it was +perfect flight, friends avoided and not even warned by letter, Paris despised +and forsaken amid laughter expressive of relief. +</p> + +<p> +June was drawing to a close, and the rain fell in torrents during the week they +spent in arranging their new home. They discovered that old Porrette had taken +away half the kitchen utensils before signing the agreement. But that matter +did not affect them. They took a delight in dabbling about amidst the showers; +they made journeys three leagues long, as far as Vernon, to buy plates and +saucepans, which they brought back with them in triumph. At last they got +shipshape, occupying one of the upstairs rooms, abandoning the other to the +mice, and transforming the dining-room into a studio; and, above all, as happy +as children at taking their meals in the kitchen off a deal table, near the +hearth where the soup sang in the pot. To wait upon them they engaged a girl +from the village, who came every morning and went home at night. She was called +Mélie, she was a niece of the Faucheurs, and her stupidity delighted them. In +fact, one could not have found a greater idiot in the whole region. +</p> + +<p> +The sun having shown itself again, some delightful days followed, the months +slipping away amid monotonous felicity. They never knew the date, they were for +ever mixing up the days of the week. Every day, after the second breakfast, +came endless strolls, long walks across the tableland planted with apple trees, +over the grassy country roads, along the banks of the Seine through the meadows +as far as La Roche-Guyon; and there were still more distant explorations, +perfect journeys on the opposite side of the river, amid the cornfields of +Bonnières and Jeufosse. A person who was obliged to leave the neighbourhood +sold them an old boat for thirty francs, so that they also had the river at +their disposal, and, like savages, became seized with a passion for it, living +on its waters for days together, rowing about, discovering new countries, and +lingering for hours under the willows on the banks, or in little creeks, dark +with shade. Betwixt the eyots scattered along the stream there was a shifting +and mysterious city, a network of passages along which, with the lower branches +of the trees caressingly brushing against them, they softly glided, alone, as +it were, in the world, with the ringdoves and the kingfishers. He at times had +to spring out upon the sand, with bare legs, to push off the skiff. She bravely +plied the oars, bent on forcing her way against the strongest currents, and +exulting in her strength. And in the evening they ate cabbage soup in the +kitchen, laughing at Mélie’s stupidity, as they had laughed at it the day +before; to begin the morrow just in the same fashion. +</p> + +<p> +Every evening, however, Christine said to Claude: +</p> + +<p> +‘Now, my dear, you must promise me one thing—that you’ll set +to work to-morrow.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, to-morrow; I give you my word.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And you know if you don’t, I shall really get angry this time. Is +it I who prevent you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You! what an idea. Since I came here to work—dash it all! +you’ll see to-morrow.’ +</p> + +<p> +On the morrow they started off again in the skiff; she looked at him with an +embarrassed smile when she saw that he took neither canvas nor colours. Then +she kissed him, laughing, proud of her power, moved by the constant sacrifice +he made to her. And then came fresh affectionate remonstrances: +‘To-morrow, ah! to-morrow she would tie him to his easel!’ +</p> + +<p> +However, Claude did make some attempts at work. He began a study of the slopes +of Jeufosse, with the Seine in the foreground; but Christine followed him to +the islet where he had installed himself, and sat down on the grass close to +him with parted lips, her eyes watching the blue sky. And she looked so pretty +there amidst the verdure, in that solitude, where nothing broke the silence but +the rippling of the water, that every minute he relinquished his palette to +nestle by her side. On another occasion, he was altogether charmed by an old +farmhouse, shaded by some antiquated apple trees which had grown to the size of +oaks. He came thither two days in succession, but on the third Christine took +him to the market at Bonnières to buy some hens. The next day was also lost; +the canvas had dried; then he grew impatient in trying to work at it again, and +finally abandoned it altogether. Throughout the warm weather he thus made but a +pretence to work—barely roughing out little bits of painting, which he +laid aside on the first pretext, without an effort at perseverance. His passion +for toil, that fever of former days that had made him rise at daybreak to +battle with his rebellious art, seemed to have gone; a reaction of indifference +and laziness had set in, and he vegetated delightfully, like one who is +recovering from some severe illness. +</p> + +<p> +But Christine lived indeed. All the latent passion of her nature burst into +being. She was indeed an amorosa, a child of nature and of love. +</p> + +<p> +Thus their days passed by and solitude did not prove irksome to them. No desire +for diversion, of paying or receiving visits, as yet made them look beyond +themselves. Such hours as she did not spend near him, she employed in household +cares, turning the house upside down with great cleanings, which Mélie executed +under her supervision, and falling into fits of reckless activity, which led +her to engage in personal combats with the few saucepans in the kitchen. The +garden especially occupied her; provided with pruning shears, careless of the +thorns which lacerated her hands, she reaped harvests of roses from the giant +rose-bushes; and she gave herself a thorough back-ache in gathering the +apricots, which she sold for two hundred francs to some of the Englishmen who +scoured the district every year. She was very proud of her bargain, and +seriously talked of living upon the garden produce. Claude cared less for +gardening; he had placed his couch in the large dining-room, transformed into a +studio; and he stretched himself upon it, and through the open window watched +her sow and plant. There was profound peace, the certainty that nobody would +come, that no ring at the bell would disturb them at any moment of the day. +Claude carried this fear of coming into contact with people so far as to avoid +passing Faucheur’s inn, for he dreaded lest he might run against some +party of chums from Paris. Not a soul came, however, throughout the livelong +summer. And every night as they went upstairs, he repeated that, after all, it +was deuced lucky. +</p> + +<p> +There was, however, a secret sore in the depths of his happiness. After their +flight from Paris, Sandoz had learnt their address, and had written to ask +whether he might go to see Claude, but the latter had not answered the letter, +and so coolness had followed, and the old friendship seemed dead. Christine was +grieved at this, for she realised well enough that he had broken off all +intercourse with his comrades for her sake. She constantly reverted to the +subject; she did not want to estrange him from his friends, and indeed she +insisted that he should invite them. But, though he promised to set matters +right, he did nothing of the kind. It was all over; what was the use of raking +up the past? +</p> + +<p> +However, money having become scarce towards the latter days of July, he was +obliged to go to Paris to sell Papa Malgras half a dozen of his old studies, +and Christine, on accompanying him to the station, made him solemnly promise +that he would go to see Sandoz. In the evening she was there again, at the +Bonnières Station, waiting for him. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, did you see him? did you embrace each other?’ +</p> + +<p> +He began walking by her side in silent embarrassment. Then he answered in a +husky voice: +</p> + +<p> +‘No; I hadn’t time.’ +</p> + +<p> +Thereupon, sorely distressed, with two big tears welling to her eyes, she +replied: +</p> + +<p> +‘You grieve me very much indeed.’ +</p> + +<p> +Then, as they were walking under the trees, he kissed her, crying also, and +begging her not to make him sadder still. ‘Could people alter life? Did +it not suffice that they were happy together?’ +</p> + +<p> +During the earlier months they only once met some strangers. This occurred a +little above Bennecourt, in the direction of La Roche-Guyon. They were +strolling along a deserted, wooded lane, one of those delightful dingle paths +of the region, when, at a turning, they came upon three middle-class people out +for a walk—father, mother, and daughter. It precisely happened that, +believing themselves to be quite alone, Claude and Christine had passed their +arms round each other’s waists; she, bending towards him, was offering +her lips; while he laughingly protruded his; and their surprise was so sudden +that they did not change their attitude, but, still clasped together, advanced +at the same slow pace. The amazed family remained transfixed against one of the +side banks, the father stout and apoplectic, the mother as thin as a +knife-blade, and the daughter, a mere shadow, looking like a sick bird +moulting—all three of them ugly, moreover, and but scantily provided with +the vitiated blood of their race. They looked disgraceful amidst the throbbing +life of nature, beneath the glorious sun. And all at once the sorry girl, who +with stupefied eyes thus watched love passing by, was pushed off by her father, +dragged along by her mother, both beside themselves, exasperated by the sight +of that embrace, and asking whether there was no longer any country police, +while, still without hurrying, the lovers went off triumphantly in their glory. +</p> + +<p> +Claude, however, was wondering and searching his memory. Where had he +previously seen those heads, so typical of bourgeois degeneracy, those +flattened, crabbed faces reeking of millions earned at the expense of the poor? +It was assuredly in some important circumstance of his life. And all at once he +remembered; they were the Margaillans, the man was that building contractor +whom Dubuche had promenaded through the Salon of the Rejected, and who had +laughed in front of his picture with the roaring laugh of a fool. A couple of +hundred steps further on, as he and Christine emerged from the lane and found +themselves in front of a large estate, where a big white building stood, girt +with fine trees, they learnt from an old peasant woman that La Richaudière, as +it was called, had belonged to the Margaillans for three years past. They had +paid fifteen hundred thousand francs for it, and had just spent more than a +million in improvements. +</p> + +<p> +‘That part of the country won’t see much of us in future,’ +said Claude, as they returned to Bennecourt. ‘Those monsters spoil the +landscape.’ +</p> + +<p> +Towards the end of the summer, an important event changed the current of their +lives. Christine was <i>enceinte</i>. At first, both she and Claude felt amazed +and worried. Now for the first time they seemed to dread some terrible +complications in their life. Later on, however, they gradually grew accustomed +to the thought of what lay before them and made all necessary preparations. But +the winter proved a terribly inclement one, and Christine was compelled to +remain indoors, whilst Claude went walking all alone over the frost-bound, +clanking roads. And he, finding himself in solitude during these walks, after +months of constant companionship, wondered at the way his life had turned, +against his own will, as it were. He had never wished for home life even with +her; had he been consulted, he would have expressed his horror of it; it had +come about, however, and could not be undone, for—without mentioning the +child—he was one of those who lack the courage to break off. This fate +had evidently been in store for him, he felt; he had been destined to succumb +to the first woman who did not feel ashamed of him. The hard ground resounded +beneath his wooden-soled shoes, and the blast froze the current of his reverie, +which lingered on vague thoughts, on his luck of having, at any rate, met with +a good and honest girl, on how cruelly he would have suffered had it been +otherwise. And then his love came back to him; he hurried home to take +Christine in his trembling arms as if he had been in danger of losing her. +</p> + +<p> +The child, a boy, was born about the middle of February, and at once began to +revolutionise the home, for Christine, who had shown herself such an active +housewife, proved to be a very awkward nurse. She failed to become motherly, +despite her kind heart and her distress at the sight of the slightest pimple. +She soon grew weary, gave in, and called for Mélie, who only made matters worse +by her gaping stupidity. The father had to come to the rescue, and proved still +more awkward than the two women. The discomfort which needlework had caused +Christine of old, her want of aptitude as regards the usual occupations of her +sex, revived amid the cares that the baby required. The child was ill-kept, and +grew up anyhow in the garden, or in the large rooms left untidy in sheer +despair, amidst broken toys, uncleanliness and destruction. And when matters +became too bad altogether, Christine could only throw herself upon the neck of +the man she loved. She was pre-eminently an amorosa and would have sacrificed +her son for his father twenty times over. +</p> + +<p> +It was at this period, however, that Claude resumed work a little. The winter +was drawing to a close; he did not know how to spend the bright sunny mornings, +since Christine could no longer go out before mid-day on account of Jacques, +whom they had named thus after his maternal grandfather, though they neglected +to have him christened. Claude worked in the garden, at first, in a random way: +made a rough sketch of the lines of apricot trees, roughed out the giant +rose-bushes, composed some bits of ‘still life,’ out of four +apples, a bottle, and a stoneware jar, disposed on a table-napkin. This was +only to pass his time. But afterwards he warmed to his work; the idea of +painting a figure in the full sunlight ended by haunting him; and from that +moment his wife became his victim, she herself agreeable enough, offering +herself, feeling happy at affording him pleasure, without as yet understanding +what a terrible rival she was giving herself in art. He painted her a score of +times, dressed in white, in red, amidst the verdure, standing, walking, or +reclining on the grass, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, or bare-headed, under +a parasol, the cherry-tinted silk of which steeped her features in a pinky +glow. He never felt wholly satisfied; he scratched out the canvases after two +or three sittings, and at once began them afresh, obstinately sticking to the +same subject. Only a few studies, incomplete, but charmingly indicated in a +vigorous style, were saved from the palette-knife, and hung against the walls +of the dining-room. +</p> + +<p> +And after Christine it became Jacques’ turn to pose. They stripped him to +the skin, like a little St. John the Baptist, on warm days, and stretched him +on a blanket, where he was told not to stir. But devil a bit could they make +him keep still. Getting frisky, in the sunlight, he crowed and kicked with his +tiny pink feet in the air, rolling about and turning somersaults. The father, +after laughing, became angry, and swore at the tiresome mite, who would not +keep quiet for a minute. Who ever heard of trifling with painting? Then the +mother made big eyes at the little one, and held him while the painter quickly +sketched an arm or a leg. Claude obstinately kept at it for weeks, tempted as +he felt by the pretty tones of that childish skin. It was not as a father, but +as an artist, that he gloated over the boy as the subject for a masterpiece, +blinking his eyes the while, and dreaming of some wonderful picture he would +paint. And he renewed the experiment again and again, watching the lad for +days, and feeling furious when the little scamp would not go to sleep at times +when he, Claude, might so well have painted him. +</p> + +<p> +One day, when Jacques was sobbing, refusing to keep still, Christine gently +remarked: +</p> + +<p> +‘My dear, you tire the poor pet.’ +</p> + +<p> +At this Claude burst forth, full of remorse: +</p> + +<p> +‘After all! you are right; I’m a fool with this painting of mine. +Children are not intended for that sort of thing.’ +</p> + +<p> +The spring and summer sped by amidst great quietude. They went out less often; +they had almost given up the boat, which finished rotting against the bank, for +it was quite a job to take the little one with them among the islets. But they +often strolled along the banks of the Seine, without, however, going farther +afield than a thousand yards or so. Claude, tired of the everlasting views in +the garden, now attempted some sketches by the river-side, and on such days +Christine went to fetch him with the child, sitting down to watch him paint, +until they all three returned home with flagging steps, beneath the ashen dusk +of waning daylight. One afternoon Claude was surprised to see Christine bring +with her the old album which she had used as a young girl. She joked about it, +and explained that to sit behind him like that had roused in her a wish to work +herself. Her voice was a little unsteady as she spoke; the truth was that she +felt a longing to share his labour, since this labour took him away from her +more and more each day. She drew and ventured to wash in two or three +water-colours in the careful style of a school-girl. Then, discouraged by his +smiles, feeling that no community of ideas would be arrived at on that ground, +she once more put her album aside, making him promise to give her some lessons +in painting whenever he should have time. +</p> + +<p> +Besides, she thought his more recent pictures very pretty. After that year of +rest in the open country, in the full sunlight, he painted with fresh and +clearer vision, as it were, with a more harmonious and brighter colouring. He +had never before been able to treat reflections so skilfully, or possessed a +more correct perception of men and things steeped in diffuse light. And +henceforth, won over by that feast of colours, she would have declared it all +capital if he would only have condescended to finish his work a little more, +and if she had not remained nonplussed now and then before a mauve ground or a +blue tree, which upset all her preconceived notions of colour. One day when she +ventured upon a bit of criticism, precisely about an azure-tinted poplar, he +made her go to nature and note for herself the delicate bluishness of the +foliage. It was true enough, the tree was blue; but in her inmost heart she did +not surrender, and condemned reality; there ought not to be any blue trees in +nature. +</p> + +<p> +She no longer spoke but gravely of the studies hanging in the dining-room. Art +was returning into their lives, and it made her muse. When she saw him go off +with his bag, his portable easel, and his sunshade, it often happened that she +flung herself upon his neck, asking: +</p> + +<p> +‘You love me, say?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘How silly you are! Why shouldn’t I love you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then kiss me, since you love me, kiss me a great deal, a great +deal.’ +</p> + +<p> +Then accompanying him as far as the road, she added: +</p> + +<p> +‘And mind you work; you know that I have never prevented you from +working. Go, go; I am very pleased when you work.’ +</p> + +<p> +Anxiety seemed to seize hold of Claude, when the autumn of the second year +tinged the leaves yellow, and ushered in the cold weather. The season happened +to be abominable; a fortnight of pouring rain kept him idle at home; and then +fog came at every moment, hindering his work. He sat in front of the fire, out +of sorts; he never spoke of Paris, but the city rose up over yonder, on the +horizon, the winter city, with its gaslamps flaring already at five +o’clock, its gatherings of friends, spurring each other on to emulation, +and its life of ardent production, which even the frosts of December could not +slacken. He went there thrice in one month, on the pretext of seeing Malgras, +to whom he had, again, sold a few small pictures. He no longer avoided passing +in front of Faucheur’s inn; he even allowed himself to be waylaid at +times by old Porrette, and to accept a glass of white wine at the inn, and his +glance scoured the room as if, despite the season, he had been looking for some +comrades of yore, who had arrived there, perchance, that morning. He lingered +as if awaiting them; then, in despair at his solitude, he returned home, +stifling with all that was fermenting within him, ill at having nobody to whom +he might shout the thoughts which made his brain almost burst. +</p> + +<p> +However, the winter went by, and Claude had the consolation of being able to +paint some lovely snow scenes. A third year was beginning, when, towards the +close of May, an unexpected meeting filled him with emotion. He had that +morning climbed up to the plateau to find a subject, having at last grown tired +of the banks of the Seine; and at the bend of a road he stopped short in +amazement on seeing Dubuche, in a silk hat, and carefully-buttoned frock coat, +coming towards him, between the double row of elder hedges. +</p> + +<p> +‘What! is it you?’ +</p> + +<p> +The architect stammered from sheer vexation: +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, I am going to pay a visit. It’s confoundedly idiotic in the +country, eh? But it can’t be helped. There are certain things one’s +obliged to do. And you live near here, eh? I knew—that is to say, I +didn’t. I had been told something about it, but I thought it was on the +opposite side, farther down.’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude, very much moved at seeing him, helped him out of his difficulty. +</p> + +<p> +‘All right, all right, old man, there is no need to apologise. I am the +most guilty party. Ah! it’s a long while since we saw one another! If you +knew what a thump my heart gave when I saw your nose appear from behind the +leaves!’ +</p> + +<p> +Then he took his arm and accompanied him, giggling with pleasure, while the +other, in his constant worry about his future, which always made him talk about +himself, at once began speaking of his prospects. He had just become a +first-class pupil at the School, after securing the regulation +‘honourable mentions,’ with infinite trouble. But his success left +him as perplexed as ever. His parents no longer sent him a penny, they wailed +about their poverty so much that he might have to support them in his turn. He +had given up the idea of competing for the Prix de Rome, feeling certain of +being beaten in the effort, and anxious to earn his living. And he was weary +already; sick at scouring the town, at earning twenty-five sous an hour from +ignorant architects, who treated him like a hodman. What course should he +adopt? How was he to guess at the shortest route? He might leave the School; he +would get a lift from his master, the influential Dequersonnière, who liked him +for his docility and diligence; only what a deal of trouble and uncertainty +there would still be before him! And he bitterly complained of the Government +schools, where one slaved away for years, and which did not even provide a +position for all those whom they cast upon the pavement. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly he stopped in the middle of the path. The elder hedges were leading to +an open plain, and La Richaudière appeared amid its lofty trees. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hold hard! of course,’ exclaimed Claude, ‘I hadn’t +thought about it—you’re going to that shanty. Oh! the baboons; +there’s a lot of ugly mugs, if you like!’ +</p> + +<p> +Dubuche, looking vexed at this outburst of artistic feeling, protested stiffly. +‘All the same, Papa Margaillan, idiot as he seems to you, is a first-rate +man of business. You should see him in his building-yards, among the houses he +runs up, as active as the very fiend, showing marvellous good management, and a +wonderful scent as to the right streets to build and what materials to buy! +Besides, one does not earn millions without becoming a gentleman. And then, +too, it would be very silly of me not to be polite to a man who can be useful +to me.’ +</p> + +<p> +While talking, he barred the narrow path, preventing his friend from advancing +further—no doubt from a fear of being compromised by being seen in his +company, and in order to make him understand that they ought to separate there. +</p> + +<p> +Claude was on the point of inquiring about their comrades in Paris, but he kept +silent. Not even a word was said respecting Christine, and he was reluctantly +deciding to quit Dubuche, holding out his hand to take leave, when, in spite of +himself, this question fell from his quivering lips: +</p> + +<p> +‘And is Sandoz all right?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, he’s pretty well. I seldom see him. He spoke to me about you +last month. He is still grieved at your having shown us the door.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But I didn’t show you the door,’ exclaimed Claude, beside +himself. ‘Come and see me, I beg of you. I shall be so glad!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘All right, then, we’ll come. I’ll tell him to come, I give +you my word—good-bye, old man, good-bye; I’m in a hurry.’ +</p> + +<p> +And Dubuche went off towards La Richaudière, whilst Claude watched his figure +dwindle as he crossed the cultivated plain, until nothing remained but the +shiny silk of his hat and the black spot of his coat. The young man returned +home slowly, his heart bursting with nameless sadness. However, he said nothing +about this meeting to Christine. +</p> + +<p> +A week later she had gone to Faucheur’s to buy a pound of vermicelli, and +was lingering on her way back, gossiping with a neighbour, with her child on +her arm, when a gentleman who alighted from the ferry-boat approached and asked +her: +</p> + +<p> +‘Does not Monsieur Claude Lantier live near here?’ +</p> + +<p> +She was taken aback, and simply answered: +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, monsieur; if you’ll kindly follow me—’ +</p> + +<p> +They walked on side by side for about a hundred yards. The stranger, who seemed +to know her, had glanced at her with a good-natured smile; but as she hurried +on, trying to hide her embarrassment by looking very grave, he remained silent. +She opened the door and showed the visitor into the studio, exclaiming: +</p> + +<p> +‘Claude, here is somebody for you.’ +</p> + +<p> +Then a loud cry rang out; the two men were already in each other’s arms. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, my good old Pierre! how kind of you to come! And Dubuche?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He was prevented at the last moment by some business, and he sent me a +telegram to go without him.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘All right, I half expected it; but you are here. By the thunder of +heaven, I am glad!’ +</p> + +<p> +And, turning towards Christine, who was smiling, sharing their delight: +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s true, I didn’t tell you. But the other day I met +Dubuche, who was going up yonder, to the place where those monsters +live—’ +</p> + +<p> +But he stopped short again, and then with a wild gesture shouted: +</p> + +<p> +‘I’m losing my wits, upon my word. You have never spoken to each +other, and I leave you there like that. My dear, you see this gentleman? +He’s my old chum, Pierre Sandoz, whom I love like a brother. And you, my +boy; let me introduce my wife. And you have got to give each other a +kiss.’ +</p> + +<p> +Christine began to laugh outright, and tendered her cheek heartily. Sandoz had +pleased her at once with his good-natured air, his sound friendship, the +fatherly sympathy with which he looked at her. Tears of emotion came to her +eyes as he kept both her hands in his, saying: +</p> + +<p> +‘It is very good of you to love Claude, and you must love each other +always, for love is, after all, the best thing in life.’ +</p> + +<p> +Then, bending to kiss the little one, whom she had on her arm, he added: +‘So there’s one already!’ +</p> + +<p> +While Christine, preparing lunch, turned the house up-side down, Claude +retained Sandoz in the studio. In a few words he told him the whole of the +story, who she was, how they had met each other, and what had led them to start +housekeeping together, and he seemed to be surprised when his friend asked him +why they did not get married. In faith, why? Because they had never even spoken +about it, because they would certainly be neither more nor less happy; in short +it was a matter of no consequence whatever. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well,’ said the other, ‘it makes no difference to me; but, +if she was a good and honest girl when she came to you, you ought to marry +her.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, I’ll marry her whenever she likes, old man. Surely I +don’t mean to leave her in the lurch!’ +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz then began to marvel at the studies hanging on the walls. Ha, the scamp +had turned his time to good account! What accuracy of colouring! What a dash of +real sunlight! And Claude, who listened to him, delighted, and laughing +proudly, was just going to question him about the comrades in Paris, about what +they were all doing, when Christine reappeared, exclaiming: ‘Make haste, +the eggs are on the table.’ +</p> + +<p> +They lunched in the kitchen, and an extraordinary lunch it was; a dish of fried +gudgeons after the boiled eggs; then the beef from the soup of the night +before, arranged in salad fashion, with potatoes, and a red herring. It was +delicious; there was the pungent and appetising smell of the herring which +Mélie had upset on the live embers, and the song of the coffee, as it passed, +drop by drop, into the pot standing on the range; and when the dessert +appeared—some strawberries just gathered, and a cream cheese from a +neighbour’s dairy—they gossiped and gossiped with their elbows +squarely set on the table. In Paris? Well, to tell the truth, the comrades were +doing nothing very original in Paris. And yet they were fighting their way, +jostling each other in order to get first to the front. Of course, the absent +ones missed their chance; it was as well to be there if one did not want to be +altogether forgotten. But was not talent always talent? Wasn’t a man +always certain to get on with strength and will? Ah! yes, it was a splendid +dream to live in the country, to accumulate masterpieces, and then, one day, to +crush Paris by simply opening one’s trunks. +</p> + +<p> +In the evening, when Claude accompanied Sandoz to the station, the latter said +to him: +</p> + +<p> +‘That reminds me, I wanted to tell you something. I think I am going to +get married.’ +</p> + +<p> +The painter burst out laughing. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah, you wag, now I understand why you gave me a lecture this +morning.’ +</p> + +<p> +While waiting for the train to arrive, they went on chatting. Sandoz explained +his ideas on marriage, which, in middle-class fashion, he considered an +indispensable condition for good work, substantial orderly labour, among great +modern producers. The theory of woman being a destructive creature—one +who killed an artist, pounded his heart, and fed upon his brain—was a +romantic idea against which facts protested. Besides, as for himself, he needed +an affection that would prove the guardian of his tranquillity, a loving home, +where he might shut himself up, so as to devote his whole life to the huge work +which he ever dreamt of. And he added that everything depended upon a +man’s choice—that he believed he had found what he had been looking +for, an orphan, the daughter of petty tradespeople, without a penny, but +handsome and intelligent. For the last six months, after resigning his +clerkship, he had embraced journalism, by which he gained a larger income. He +had just moved his mother to a small house at Batignolles, where the three +would live together—two women to love him, and he strong enough to +provide for the household. +</p> + +<p> +‘Get married, old man,’ said Claude. ‘One should act +according to one’s feelings. And good-bye, for here’s your train. +Don’t forget your promise to come and see us again.’ +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz returned very often. He dropped in at odd times whenever his newspaper +work allowed him, for he was still free, as he was not to be married till the +autumn. Those were happy days, whole afternoons of mutual confidences when all +their old determination to secure fame revived. +</p> + +<p> +One day, while Sandoz was alone with Claude on an island of the Seine, both of +them lying there with their eyes fixed on the sky, he told the painter of his +vast ambition, confessed himself aloud. +</p> + +<p> +‘Journalism, let me tell you, is only a battle-ground. A man must live, +and he has to fight to do so. Then, again, that wanton, the Press, despite the +unpleasant phases of the profession, is after all a tremendous power, a +resistless weapon in the hands of a fellow with convictions. But if I am +obliged to avail myself of journalism, I don’t mean to grow grey in it! +Oh, dear no! And, besides, I’ve found what I wanted, a machine +that’ll crush one with work, something I’m going to plunge into, +perhaps never to come out of it.’ +</p> + +<p> +Silence reigned amid the foliage, motionless in the dense heat. He resumed +speaking more slowly and in jerky phrases: +</p> + +<p> +‘To study man as he is, not man the metaphysical puppet but physiological +man, whose nature is determined by his surroundings, and to show all his +organism in full play. That’s my idea! Is it not farcical that some +should constantly and exclusively study the functions of the brain on the +pretext that the brain alone is the noble part of our organism? Thought, +thought, confound it all! thought is the product of the whole body. Let them +try to make a brain think by itself alone; see what becomes of the nobleness of +the brain when the stomach is ailing! No, no, it’s idiotic; there is no +philosophy nor science in it! We are positivists, evolutionists, and yet we are +to stick to the literary lay-figures of classic times, and continue +disentangling the tangled locks of pure reason! He who says psychologist says +traitor to truth. Besides, psychology, physiology, it all signifies nothing. +The one has become blended with the other, and both are but one nowadays, the +mechanism of man leading to the sum total of his functions. Ah, the formula is +there, our modern revolution has no other basis; it means the certain death of +old society, the birth of a new one, and necessarily the upspringing of a new +art in a new soil. Yes, people will see what literature will sprout forth for +the coming century of science and democracy.’ +</p> + +<p> +His cry uprose and was lost in the immense vault of heaven. Not a breath +stirred; there was nought but the silent ripple of the river past the willows. +And Sandoz turned abruptly towards his companion, and said to him, face to +face: +</p> + +<p> +‘So I have found what I wanted for myself. Oh, it isn’t much, a +little corner of study only, but one that should be sufficient for a +man’s life, even when his ambition is over-vast. I am going to take a +family, and I shall study its members, one by one, whence they come, whither +they go, how they re-act one upon another—in short, I shall have mankind +in a small compass, the way in which mankind grows and behaves. On the other +hand, I shall set my men and women in some given period of history, which will +provide me with the necessary surroundings and circumstances,—you +understand, eh? a series of books, fifteen, twenty books, episodes that will +cling together, although each will have a separate framework, a series of +novels with which I shall be able to build myself a house for my old days, if +they don’t crush me!’ +</p> + +<p> +He fell on his back again, spread out his arms on the grass, as if he wanted to +sink into the earth, laughing and joking all the while. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, beneficent earth, take me unto thee, thou who art our common mother, +our only source of life! thou the eternal, the immortal one, in whom circulates +the soul of the world, the sap that spreads even into the stones, and makes the +trees themselves our big, motionless brothers! Yes, I wish to lose myself in +thee; it is thou that I feel beneath my limbs, clasping and inflaming me; thou +alone shalt appear in my work as the primary force, the means and the end, the +immense ark in which everything becomes animated with the breath of every +being!’ +</p> + +<p> +Though begun as mere pleasantry, with all the bombast of lyrical emphasis, the +invocation terminated in a cry of ardent conviction, quivering with profound +poetical emotion, and Sandoz’s eyes grew moist; and, to hide how much he +felt moved, he added, roughly, with a sweeping gesture that took in the whole +scene around: +</p> + +<p> +‘How idiotic it is! a soul for every one of us, when there is that big +soul there!’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude, who had disappeared amid the grass, had not stirred. After a fresh +spell of silence he summed up everything: +</p> + +<p> +‘That’s it, old boy! Run them through, all of them. Only +you’ll get trounced.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh,’ said Sandoz, rising up and stretching himself, ‘my +bones are too hard. They’ll smash their own wrists. Let’s go back; +I don’t want to miss the train.’ +</p> + +<p> +Christine had taken a great liking to him, seeing him so robust and upright in +his doings, and she plucked up courage at last to ask a favour of him: that of +standing godfather to Jacques. True, she never set foot in church now, but why +shouldn’t the lad be treated according to custom? What influenced her +above all was the idea of giving the boy a protector in this godfather, whom +she found so serious and sensible, even amidst the exuberance of his strength. +Claude expressed surprise, but gave his consent with a shrug of the shoulders. +And the christening took place; they found a godmother, the daughter of a +neighbour, and they made a feast of it, eating a lobster, which was brought +from Paris. +</p> + +<p> +That very day, as they were saying good-bye, Christine took Sandoz aside, and +said, in an imploring voice: +</p> + +<p> +‘Do come again soon, won’t you? He is bored.’ +</p> + +<p> +In fact, Claude had fits of profound melancholy. He abandoned his work, went +out alone, and prowled in spite of himself about Faucheur’s inn, at the +spot where the ferry-boat landed its passengers, as if ever expecting to see +all Paris come ashore there. He had Paris on the brain; he went there every +month and returned desolate, unable to work. Autumn came, then winter, a very +wet and muddy winter, and he spent it in a state of morose torpidity, bitter +even against Sandoz, who, having married in October, could no longer come to +Bennecourt so often. Claude only seemed to wake up at each of the other’s +visits; deriving a week’s excitement from them, and never ceasing to +comment feverishly about the news brought from yonder. He, who formerly had +hidden his regret of Paris, nowadays bewildered Christine with the way in which +he chatted to her from morn till night about things she was quite ignorant of, +and people she had never seen. When Jacques fell asleep, there were endless +comments between the parents as they sat by the fireside. Claude grew +passionate, and Christine had to give her opinion and to pronounce judgment on +all sorts of matters. +</p> + +<p> +Was not Gagnière an idiot for stultifying his brain with music, he who might +have developed so conscientious a talent as a landscape painter? It was said +that he was now taking lessons on the piano from a young lady—the idea, +at his age! What did she, Christine, think of it? And Jory had been trying to +get into the good graces of Irma Bécot again, ever since she had secured that +little house in the Rue de Moscou! Christine knew those two; two jades who well +went together, weren’t they? But the most cunning of the whole lot was +Fagerolles, to whom he, Claude, would tell a few plain truths and no mistake, +when he met him. What! the turn-coat had competed for the Prix de Rome, which, +of course, he had managed to miss. To think of it. That fellow did nothing but +jeer at the School, and talked about knocking everything down, yet took part in +official competitions! Ah, there was no doubt but that the itching to succeed, +the wish to pass over one’s comrades and be hailed by idiots, impelled +some people to very dirty tricks. Surely Christine did not mean to stick up for +him, eh? She was not sufficiently a philistine to defend him. And when she had +agreed with everything Claude said, he always came back with nervous laughter +to the same story—which he thought exceedingly comical—the story of +Mahoudeau and Chaîne, who, between them, had killed little Jabouille, the +husband of Mathilde, that dreadful herbalist woman. Yes, killed the poor +consumptive fellow with kindness one evening when he had had a fainting fit, +and when, on being called in by the woman, they had taken to rubbing him with +so much vigour that he had remained dead in their hands. +</p> + +<p> +And if Christine failed to look amused at all this, Claude rose up and said, in +a churlish voice: ‘Oh, you; nothing will make you laugh—let’s +go to bed.’ +</p> + +<p> +He still adored her, but she no longer sufficed. Another torment had invincibly +seized hold of him—the passion for art, the thirst for fame. +</p> + +<p> +In the spring, Claude, who, with an affectation of disdain, had sworn he would +never again exhibit, began to worry a great deal about the Salon. Whenever he +saw Sandoz he questioned him about what the comrades were going to send. On the +opening day he went to Paris and came back the same evening, stern and +trembling. There was only a bust by Mahoudeau, said he, good enough, but of no +importance. A small landscape by Gagnière, admitted among the ruck, was also of +a pretty sunny tone. Then there was nothing else, nothing but Fagerolles’ +picture—an actress in front of her looking-glass painting her face. He +had not mentioned it at first; but he now spoke of it with indignant laughter. +What a trickster that Fagerolles was! Now that he had missed his prize he was +no longer afraid to exhibit—he threw the School overboard; but you should +have seen how skilfully he managed it, what compromises he effected, painting +in a style which aped the audacity of truth without possessing one original +merit. And it would be sure to meet with success, the bourgeois were only too +fond of being titillated while the artist pretended to hustle them. Ah! it was +time indeed for a true artist to appear in that mournful desert of a Salon, +amid all the knaves and the fools. And, by heavens, what a place might be taken +there! +</p> + +<p> +Christine, who listened while he grew angry, ended by faltering: +</p> + +<p> +‘If you liked, we might go back to Paris.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Who was talking of that?’ he shouted. ‘One can never say a +word to you but you at once jump to false conclusions.’ +</p> + +<p> +Six weeks afterwards he heard some news that occupied his mind for a week. His +friend Dubuche was going to marry Mademoiselle Régine Margaillan, the daughter +of the owner of La Richaudière. It was an intricate story, the details of which +surprised and amused him exceedingly. First of all, that cur Dubuche had +managed to hook a medal for a design of a villa in a park, which he had +exhibited; that of itself was already sufficiently amusing, as it was said that +the drawing had been set on its legs by his master, Dequersonnière, who had +quietly obtained this medal for him from the jury over which he presided. Then +the best of it was that this long-awaited reward had decided the marriage. Ah! +it would be nice trafficking if medals were now awarded to settle needy pupils +in rich families! Old Margaillan, like all parvenus, had set his heart upon +having a son-in-law who could help him, by bringing authentic diplomas and +fashionable clothes into the business; and for some time past he had had his +eyes on that young man, that pupil of the School of Arts, whose notes were +excellent, who was so persevering, and so highly recommended by his masters. +The medal aroused his enthusiasm; he at once gave the young fellow his daughter +and took him as a partner, who would soon increase his millions now lying idle, +since he knew all that was needful in order to build properly. Besides, by this +arrangement poor Régine, always low-spirited and ailing, would at least have a +husband in perfect health. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, a man must be fond of money to marry that wretched flayed +kitten,’ repeated Claude. +</p> + +<p> +And as Christine compassionately took the girl’s part, he added: +</p> + +<p> +‘But I am not down upon her. So much the better if the marriage does not +finish her off. She is certainly not to be blamed, if her father, the +ex-stonemason, had the stupid ambition to marry a girl of the middle-classes. +Her father, you know, has the vitiated blood of generations of drunkards in his +veins, and her mother comes of a stock in the last stages of degeneracy. Ah! +they may coin money, but that doesn’t prevent them from being +excrescences on the face of the earth!’ +</p> + +<p> +He was growing ferocious, and Christine had to clasp him in her arms and kiss +him, and laugh, to make him once more the good-natured fellow of earlier days. +Then, having calmed down, he professed to understand things, saying that he +approved of the marriages of his old chums. It was true enough, all three had +taken wives unto themselves. How funny life was! +</p> + +<p> +Once more the summer drew to an end; it was the fourth spent at Bennecourt. In +reality they could never be happier than now; life was peaceful and cheap in +the depths of that village. Since they had been there they had never lacked +money. Claude’s thousand francs a year and the proceeds of the few +pictures he had sold had sufficed for their wants; they had even put something +by, and had bought some house linen. On the other hand, little Jacques, by now +two years and a half old, got on admirably in the country. From morning till +night he rolled about the garden, ragged and dirt-begrimed, but growing as he +listed in robust ruddy health. His mother often did not know where to take hold +of him when she wished to wash him a bit. However, when she saw him eat and +sleep well she did not trouble much; she reserved her anxious affection for her +big child of an artist, whose despondency filled her with anguish. The +situation grew worse each day, and although they lived on peacefully without +any cause for grief, they, nevertheless, drifted to melancholy, to a discomfort +that showed itself in constant irritation. +</p> + +<p> +It was all over with their first delights of country life. Their rotten boat, +staved in, had gone to the bottom of the Seine. Besides, they did not even +think of availing themselves of the skiff that the Faucheurs had placed at +their disposal. The river bored them; they had grown too lazy to row. They +repeated their exclamations of former times respecting certain delightful nooks +in the islets, but without ever being tempted to return and gaze upon them. +Even the walks by the river-side had lost their charm—one was broiled +there in summer, and one caught cold there in winter. And as for the plateau, +the vast stretch of land planted with apple trees that overlooked the village, +it became like a distant country, something too far off for one to be silly +enough to risk one’s legs there. Their house also annoyed them—that +barracks where they had to take their meals amid the greasy refuse of the +kitchen, where their room seemed a meeting-place for the winds from every point +of the compass. As a finishing stroke of bad luck, the apricots had failed that +year, and the finest of the giant rose-bushes, which were very old, had been +smitten with some canker or other and died. How sorely time and habit wore +everything away! How eternal nature herself seemed to age amidst that satiated +weariness. But the worst was that the painter himself was getting disgusted +with the country, no longer finding a single subject to arouse his enthusiasm, +but scouring the fields with a mournful tramp, as if the whole place were a +void, whose life he had exhausted without leaving as much as an overlooked +tree, an unforeseen effect of light to interest him. No, it was over, frozen, +he should never again be able to paint anything worth looking at in that +confounded country! +</p> + +<p> +October came with its rain-laden sky. On one of the first wet evenings Claude +flew into a passion because dinner was not ready. He turned that goose of a +Mélie out of the house and clouted Jacques, who got between his legs. +Whereupon, Christine, crying, kissed him and said: +</p> + +<p> +‘Let’s go, oh, let us go back to Paris.’ +</p> + +<p> +He disengaged himself, and cried in an angry voice: ‘What, again! Never! +do you hear me?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Do it for my sake,’ she said, warmly. ‘It’s I who ask +it of you, it’s I that you’ll please.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, are you tired of being here, then?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, I shall die if we stay here much longer; and, besides I want you to +work. I feel quite certain that your place is there. It would be a crime for +you to bury yourself here any longer.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, leave me!’ +</p> + +<p> +He was quivering. On the horizon Paris was calling him, the Paris of +winter-tide which was being lighted up once more. He thought he could hear from +where he stood the great efforts that his comrades were making, and, in fancy, +he returned thither in order that they might not triumph without him, in order +that he might become their chief again, since not one of them had strength or +pride enough to be such. And amid this hallucination, amid the desire he felt +to hasten to Paris, he yet persisted in refusing to do so, from a spirit of +involuntary contradiction, which arose, though he could not account for it, +from his very entrails. Was it the fear with which the bravest quivers, the +mute struggle of happiness seeking to resist the fatality of destiny? +</p> + +<p> +‘Listen,’ said Christine, excitedly. ‘I shall get our boxes +ready, and take you away.’ +</p> + +<p> +Five days later, after packing and sending their chattels to the railway, they +started for Paris. +</p> + +<p> +Claude was already on the road with little Jacques, when Christine fancied that +she had forgotten something. She returned alone to the house; and finding it +quite bare and empty, she burst out crying. It seemed as if something were +being torn from her, as if she were leaving something of herself +behind—what, she could not say. How willingly would she have remained! +how ardent was her wish to live there always—she who had just insisted on +that departure, that return to the city of passion where she scented the +presence of a rival. However, she continued searching for what she lacked, and +in front of the kitchen she ended by plucking a rose, a last rose, which the +cold was turning brown. And then she slowly closed the gate upon the deserted +garden. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"></a> +VII</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Ah! it’s you. The devil! you’ve got into early habits in the +country. So it’s settled—you are back for good?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes; since the day before yesterday.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That’s all right. Then we shall see something of each other. Come +in; it’s sharp this morning.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Just wait,’ said Mahoudeau, ‘a fire’s being lighted. +These confounded workshops get chilly directly, with the water from the +covering cloths.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘And what are you doing just now, old man?’ he asked the sculptor. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, what do you say—what do you think of it?’ he asked. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Claude, who had watched him writing, turned to the other in amazement. +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s up?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘We no longer speak to one another; we write,’ said the sculptor, +quietly. +</p> + +<p> +‘Since when?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Since three months ago.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And you sleep together?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +While filling the stove, Mahoudeau continued to relieve his mind. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +Then, as the heat became too great, he took off his over-coat, adding: +</p> + +<p> +‘He’s a long while fetching his tobacco.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh! so you still see the herbalist?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, she comes in and out.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hallo, here he comes!’ resumed the sculptor. ‘You’ll +see her arrive at his heels.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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: +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Thanks,’ said the sculptor, ‘it makes my mouth sticky. I +prefer to smoke a pipe.’ +</p> + +<p> +And, seeing that Claude was putting on his overcoat again, he asked: ‘Are +you going?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes. I want to get the rust off, and breathe the air of Paris a +bit.’ +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +Without a word, Chaîne took out the screw and handed it to the sculptor, who +filled his pipe. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, I’ll see you again soon,’ said Claude. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, soon—at any rate, next Thursday, at Sandoz’s.’ +</p> + +<p> +Outside, Claude gave an exclamation of surprise on jostling a gentleman, who +stood in front of the herbalist’s peering into the shop. +</p> + +<p> +‘What, Jory! What are you doing there?’ +</p> + +<p> +Jory’s big pink nose gave a sniff. +</p> + +<p> +‘I? Nothing. I was passing and looked in,’ said he in dismay. +</p> + +<p> +Then he decided to laugh, and, as if there were any one to overhear him, +lowered his voice to ask: +</p> + +<p> +‘She is next door with our friends, isn’t she? All right; +let’s be off, quick!’ +</p> + +<p> +And he took the painter with him, telling him all manner of strange stories of +that creature Mathilde. +</p> + +<p> +‘But you used to say that she was frightful,’ said Claude, +laughing. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +‘Listen, I am going to take you with me. You must come to lunch with me +at Irma’s.’ +</p> + +<p> +The painter, taken aback, refused energetically, and gave as a reason that he +wasn’t even wearing a frock-coat. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘What! is it you, savage?’ she said. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>biscuit</i> standing on a console in +the drawing-room. +</p> + +<p> +When Jory spoke of sending the valet to his friend’s place, she exclaimed +in great surprise: +</p> + +<p> +‘What! you are married?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, yes,’ said Claude, simply. +</p> + +<p> +She glanced at Jory, who smiled; then she understood, and added: +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah, my lads,’ said Irma, ‘this is the only real enjoyment, +to be jolly together and to snap one’s fingers at other people.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +Jory, without getting in the least angry, tilted back his chair and sucked his +cigar, merely saying with a sneer: +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh! if you see Fagerolles now—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +She was growing animated, and Jory thought it prudent to beat a retreat. +</p> + +<p> +‘<i>My</i> Fagerolles,’ he muttered; ‘<i>my</i> +Fagerolles.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, <i>your</i> 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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +‘But remember, my dear, this sort of thing cracks your Titianesque +“make-up,”’ he added. +</p> + +<p> +She began to laugh, mollified at once. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Pretty?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, yes, pretty.’ +</p> + +<p> +For a moment Irma relapsed into her reverie, then she said, smiling: +‘Dash it all! How lucky you are!’ +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +They had returned to the drawing-room. She stopped before a looking-glass, +annoyed at seeing herself so flushed. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s about that house, isn’t it?’ asked Jory. +‘You have found the money, then?’ +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He came to open the door himself, holding his palette and brushes. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +The hand that he had free grasped Claude’s in a burst of sincere +affection. He then shook Jory’s, adding: +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Exquisite,’ murmured Claude, at last. +</p> + +<p> +Bongrand shrugged his shoulders without turning round. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +On hearing this the painter stepped back and blinked his eyes, looking very +much surprised. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +‘You never painted anything so powerful!’ +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Silence had ensued, but Jory, his eyes still fixed on the picture, asked: +</p> + +<p> +‘Is it sold?’ +</p> + +<p> +Bongrand replied leisurely, like the artist who works when he likes without +care of profit: +</p> + +<p> +‘No; I feel paralysed when I’ve a dealer at my back.’ And, +without pausing in his work, he went on talking, growing waggish. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +Jory burst out laughing. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, when a fellow has a paper, he must make use of it. Besides, the +public likes to have great men discovered for it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +Bongrand shook his head, and then started off again, amid a tremendous burst of +mirth: +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes,’ said the young fellow, quietly. +</p> + +<p> +They both remained looking at each other: a restless smile had risen to their +lips, and Bongrand eventually added: +</p> + +<p> +‘There’s a fellow who pillages you right and left.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +He brandished his palette and brushes aloft, in his clenched fists. +</p> + +<p> +‘You are severe,’ said Claude, feeling embarrassed. +‘Fagerolles shows delicacy in his work.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I have been told,’ muttered Jory, mildly, ‘that he has just +signed a very profitable agreement with Naudet.’ +</p> + +<p> +That name, thrown haphazard into the conversation, had the effect of once more +soothing Bongrand, who repeated, shrugging his shoulders: +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! Naudet—ah! Naudet.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘“You’ve real genius, my dear fellow. Your last picture is +sold, then? For how much?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“For five hundred francs.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“But you must be mad; it was worth twelve hundred. And this one +which you have by you—how much?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Well, my faith, I don’t know. Suppose we say twelve +hundred?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Five thousand.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“What, five thousand francs for the picture of a man whose name +hasn’t the least notoriety? Are you playing the fool with me?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Naudet, as I live! We were just talking about you.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Very pleased—feel flattered, indeed, dear master. And you only +spoke well of me, I’m sure of it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +Naudet smiled, without losing his composure. +</p> + +<p> +‘The remark is harsh, but so charming! Never mind, never mind, dear +master, nothing that you say offends me.’ +</p> + +<p> +And, dropping into ecstasy before the picture of the two little women at +needlework: +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +One could see Bongrand’s back shake, as if his irritation were increasing +at each sentence. He curtly interrupted the dealer. +</p> + +<p> +‘Too late; it’s sold.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s sold, Naudet. That’s enough, isn’t it?’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as he had gone, Jory, who had listened to the conversation with +surprise, ventured to ask a question: +</p> + +<p> +‘But you told us, I thought—It isn’t sold, is it?’ +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +‘He plagues me. He shall never have anything of mine! Let him go and buy +of Fagerolles!’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘I say, old man,’ he had frankly said to Claude, ‘I’m +greatly worried—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What about?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, about inviting Madame Christine. There are a lot of idiots, a lot +of philistines watching me, who would say all manner of things—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Come in,’ repeated Sandoz. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +She and Claude became old chums at once. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +They laughed, and she scampered away, being wanted in the kitchen to look after +a southern dish, a <i>bouillabaisse</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Your wife is charming,’ said Claude, ‘and I see she spoils +you.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +Then he became silent, having grown sad. +</p> + +<p> +‘Never mind,’ said Claude, after an interval, ‘you are happy, +you at least work, you produce—’ +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz had risen from his seat with a gesture of sudden pain. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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—’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude, interested at once, was already questioning him when the servant +brought in a telegram. +</p> + +<p> +‘All right,’ said Sandoz, ‘it’s from Dubuche, who +apologises; he promises to come and surprise us at about eleven +o’clock.’ +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>bouillabaisse</i> 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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Henriette had placed Claude on her right hand, Mahoudeau on her left, while +Gagnière and Jory were seated next to Sandoz. +</p> + +<p> +‘Françoise,’ she called, ‘give me the slices of toast. They +are on the range.’ +</p> + +<p> +And the girl having brought the toast, she distributed two slices to each of +them, and was beginning to ladle the <i>bouillabaisse</i> into the plates, when +the door opened once more. +</p> + +<p> +‘Fagerolles at last!’ she said. ‘I have given your seat to +Mahoudeau. Sit down there, next to Claude.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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—’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Come, Fagerolles, just answer me. Do you wish two slices of +toast?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Certainly, madame, two, if you please. I am very fond of +<i>bouillabaisse</i>. Besides, yours is delicious, a marvel!’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Come, eat something,’ said Sandoz to her. ‘We’ll wait +well enough till you have done.’ +</p> + +<p> +But she was obstinate and remained standing. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz must have guessed the thought that kept Claude mute, for he said to him +across the table, with his frank, youthful smile: +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +They answered by nodding their heads—no doubt, no doubt! +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +After the <i>bouillabaisse</i> there came a <i>civet</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The deuce!’ muttered the sculptor; ‘you are hard to please. +For twenty francs a day I’d sign whatever you like.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah, he does get articles, and no mistake!’ sighed Mahoudeau. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Have you read Vernier’s article?’ asked Jory of Gagnière. +‘Doesn’t he say exactly what I said?’ +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +‘Eh, what, Vernier’s article?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, yes; in fact, all those articles which appear about +Fagerolles.’ +</p> + +<p> +Gagnière in amazement turned to the painter. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘You can smoke,’ said Henriette. ‘You know that it +doesn’t inconvenience me in the least.’ +</p> + +<p> +Fagerolles, who had drawn Claude into the window recess, offered him a cigar, +which was declined. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +‘Did you see my actress at the Salon? Do you like it? Tell me +candidly.’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude hesitated for a moment; then, like the good-natured fellow he was, said: +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes; there are some very good bits in it.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘What, going so soon?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t,’ he exclaimed at last; ‘there are others as +good as myself. I am still seeking my real line.’ +</p> + +<p> +Jory, who felt annoyed, was smoking in silence. Suddenly, as the others +obstinately kept at it, he could not refrain from remarking: +</p> + +<p> +‘All this, my boys, is because you are vexed at Fagerolles’ +success.’ +</p> + +<p> +They energetically denied it; they burst out in protestations. Fagerolles, the +young master! What a good joke! +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +‘Till Thursday, Claude; till next Thursday, all of you, eh? Mind you all +come!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Till Thursday!’ repeated Henriette, who had taken the lantern and +was holding it aloft so as to light the steps. +</p> + +<p> +And, amid the laughter, Gagnière and Mahoudeau replied, jokingly: ‘Till +Thursday, young master! Good-night, young master!’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Gagnière, still in the clouds, however, continued to ride his hobby-horse. +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>recitatives</i> 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!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am going to shut up, sir,’ said the waiter, drawing near. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am going to shut up, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +And Gagnière rambled on: +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>tremolo</i>. He was +reaching devotional fervour as he approached the inner tabernacle, the holy of +holies. +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am going to shut up, sir,’ repeated the waiter. +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"></a> +VIII</h2> + +<p> +AT last Christine gave a final stroke with her feather-broom, and they were +settled. The studio in the Rue de Douai, small and inconvenient, had only one +little room, and a kitchen, as big as a cupboard, attached to it. They were +obliged to take their meals in the studio; they had to live in it, with the +child always tumbling about their legs. And Christine had a deal of trouble in +making their few sticks suffice, as she wished to do, in order to save expense. +After all, she was obliged to buy a second-hand bedstead; and yielded to the +temptation of having some white muslin curtains, which cost her seven sous the +metre. The den then seemed charming to her, and she began to keep it +scrupulously clean, resolving to do everything herself, and to dispense with a +servant, as living would be a difficult matter. +</p> + +<p> +During the first months Claude lived in ever-increasing excitement. His +peregrinations through the noisy streets; his feverish discussions on the +occasion of his visits to friends; all the rage and all the burning ideas he +thus brought home from out of doors, made him hold forth aloud even in his +sleep. Paris had seized hold of him again; and in the full blaze of that +furnace, a second youth, enthusiastic ambition to see, do, and conquer, had +come upon him. Never had he felt such a passion for work, such hope, as if it +sufficed for him to stretch out his hand in order to create masterpieces that +should set him in the right rank, which was the first. While crossing Paris he +discovered subjects for pictures everywhere; the whole city, with its streets, +squares, bridges, and panoramas of life, suggested immense frescoes, which he, +however, always found too small, for he was intoxicated with the thought of +doing something colossal. Thus he returned home quivering, his brain seething +with projects; and of an evening threw off sketches on bits of paper, in the +lamp-light, without being able to decide by what he ought to begin the series +of grand productions that he dreamt about. +</p> + +<p> +One serious obstacle was the smallness of his studio. If he had only had the +old garret of the Quai de Bourbon, or even the huge dining-room of Bennecourt! +But what could he do in that oblong strip of space, that kind of passage, which +the landlord of the house impudently let to painters for four hundred francs a +year, after roofing it in with glass? The worst was that the sloping glazed +roof looked to the north, between two high walls, and only admitted a greenish +cellar-like light. He was therefore obliged to postpone his ambitious projects, +and he decided to begin with average-sized canvases, wisely saying to himself +that the dimensions of a picture are not a proper test of an artist’s +genius. +</p> + +<p> +The moment seemed to him favourable for the success of a courageous artist who, +amidst the breaking up of the old schools, would at length bring some +originality and sincerity into his work. The formulas of recent times were +already shaken. Delacroix had died without leaving any disciples. Courbet had +barely a few clumsy imitators behind him; their best pieces would merely become +so many museum pictures, blackened by age, tokens only of the art of a certain +period. It seemed easy to foresee the new formula that would spring from +theirs, that rush of sunshine, that limpid dawn which was rising in new works +under the nascent influence of the ‘open air’ school. It was +undeniable; those light-toned paintings over which people had laughed so much +at the Salon of the Rejected were secretly influencing many painters, and +gradually brightening every palette. Nobody, as yet, admitted it, but the first +blow had been dealt, and an evolution was beginning, which became more +perceptible at each succeeding Salon. And what a stroke it would be if, amidst +the unconscious copies of impotent essayists, amidst the timid artful attempts +of tricksters, a master were suddenly to reveal himself, giving body to the new +formula by dint of audacity and power, without compromise, showing it such as +it should be, substantial, entire, so that it might become the truth of the end +of the century! +</p> + +<p> +In that first hour of passion and hope, Claude, usually so harassed by doubts, +believed in his genius. He no longer experienced any of those crises, the +anguish of which had driven him for days into the streets in quest of his +vanished courage. A fever stiffened him, he worked on with the blind obstinacy +of an artist who dives into his entrails, to drag therefrom the fruit that +tortures him. His long rest in the country had endowed him with singular +freshness of visual perception, and joyous delight in execution; he seemed to +have been born anew to his art, and endowed with a facility and balance of +power he had never hitherto possessed. He also felt certain of progress, and +experienced great satisfaction at some successful bits of work, in which his +former sterile efforts at last culminated. As he had said at Bennecourt, he had +got hold of his ‘open air,’ that carolling gaiety of tints which +astonished his comrades when they came to see him. They all admired, convinced +that he would only have to show his work to take a very high place with it, +such was its individuality of style, for the first time showing nature flooded +with real light, amid all the play of reflections and the constant variations +of colours. +</p> + +<p> +Thus, for three years, Claude struggled on, without weakening, spurred to +further efforts by each rebuff, abandoning nought of his ideas, but marching +straight before him, with all the vigour of faith. +</p> + +<p> +During the first year he went forth amid the December snows to place himself +for four hours a day behind the heights of Montmartre, at the corner of a patch +of waste land whence as a background he painted some miserable, low, +tumble-down buildings, overtopped by factory chimneys, whilst in the +foreground, amidst the snow, he set a girl and a ragged street rough devouring +stolen apples. His obstinacy in painting from nature greatly complicated his +work, and gave rise to almost insuperable difficulties. However, he finished +this picture out of doors; he merely cleaned and touched it up a bit in his +studio. When the canvas was placed beneath the wan daylight of the glazed roof, +he himself was startled by its brutality. It showed like a scene beheld through +a doorway open on the street. The snow blinded one. The two figures, of a muddy +grey in tint, stood out, lamentable. He at once felt that such a picture would +not be accepted, but he did not try to soften it; he sent it to the Salon, all +the same. After swearing that he would never again try to exhibit, he now held +the view that one should always present something to the hanging committee if +merely to accentuate its wrong-doing. Besides, he admitted the utility of the +Salon, the only battlefield on which an artist might come to the fore at one +stroke. The hanging committee refused his picture. +</p> + +<p> +The second year Claude sought a contrast. He selected a bit of the public +garden of Batignolles in May; in the background were some large chestnut trees +casting their shade around a corner of greensward and several six-storied +houses; while in front, on a seat of a crude green hue, some nurses and petty +cits of the neighbourhood sat in a line watching three little girls making sand +pies. When permission to paint there had been obtained, he had needed some +heroism to bring his work to a successful issue amid the bantering crowd. At +last he made up his mind to go there at five in the morning, in order to paint +in the background; reserving the figures, he contented himself with making mere +sketches of them from nature, and finishing them in his studio. This time his +picture seemed to him less crude; it had acquired some of the wan, softened +light which descended through the glass roof. He thought his picture accepted, +for all his friends pronounced it to be a masterpiece, and went about saying +that it would revolutionise the Salon. There was stupefaction and indignation +when a fresh refusal of the hanging committee was rumoured. The +committee’s intentions could not be denied: it was a question of +systematically strangling an original artist. He, after his first burst of +passion, vented all his anger upon his work, which he stigmatised as false, +dishonest, and execrable. It was a well-deserved lesson, which he should +remember: ought he to have relapsed into that cellar-like studio light? Was he +going to revert to the filthy cooking of imaginary figures? When the picture +came back, he took a knife and ripped it from top to bottom. +</p> + +<p> +And so during the third year he obstinately toiled on a work of revolt. He +wanted the blazing sun, that Paris sun which, on certain days, turns the +pavement to a white heat in the dazzling reflection from the house frontages. +Nowhere is it hotter; even people from burning climes mop their faces; you +would say you were in some region of Africa beneath the heavily raining glow of +a sky on fire. The subject Claude chose was a corner of the Place du Carrousel, +at one o’clock in the afternoon, when the sunrays fall vertically. A cab +was jolting along, its driver half asleep, its horse steaming, with drooping +head, vague amid the throbbing heat. The passers-by seemed, as it were, +intoxicated, with the one exception of a young woman, who, rosy and gay under +her parasol, walked on with an easy queen-like step, as if the fiery element +were her proper sphere. But what especially rendered this picture terrible was +a new interpretation of the effects of light, a very accurate decomposition of +the sunrays, which ran counter to all the habits of eyesight, by emphasising +blues, yellows and reds, where nobody had been accustomed to see any. In the +background the Tuileries vanished in a golden shimmer; the paving-stones bled, +so to say; the figures were only so many indications, sombre patches eaten into +by the vivid glare. This time his comrades, while still praising, looked +embarrassed, all seized with the same apprehensions. Such painting could only +lead to martyrdom. He, amidst their praises, understood well enough the rupture +that was taking place, and when the hanging committee had once more closed the +Salon against him, he dolorously exclaimed, in a moment of lucidity: +</p> + +<p> +‘All right; it’s an understood thing—I’ll die at the +task.’ +</p> + +<p> +However, although his obstinate courage seemed to increase, he now and then +gradually relapsed into his former doubts, consumed by the struggle he was +waging with nature. Every canvas that came back to him seemed bad to +him—above all incomplete, not realising what he had aimed at. It was this +idea of impotence that exasperated him even more than the refusals of the +hanging committee. No doubt he did not forgive the latter; his works, even in +an embryo state, were a hundred times better than all the trash which was +accepted. But what suffering he felt at being ever unable to show himself in +all his strength, in such a master-piece as he could not bring his genius to +yield! There were always some superb bits in his paintings. He felt satisfied +with this, that, and the other. Why, then, were there sudden voids? Why were +there inferior bits, which he did not perceive while he was at work, but which +afterwards utterly killed the picture like ineffaceable defects? And he felt +quite unable to make any corrections; at certain moments a wall rose up, an +insuperable obstacle, beyond which he was forbidden to venture. If he touched +up the part that displeased him a score of times, so a score of times did he +aggravate the evil, till everything became quite muddled and messy. +</p> + +<p> +He grew anxious, and failed to see things clearly; his brush refused to obey +him, and his will was paralysed. Was it his hands or his eyes that ceased to +belong to him amid those progressive attacks of the hereditary disorder that +had already made him anxious? Those attacks became more frequent; he once more +lapsed into horrible weeks, wearing himself out, oscillating betwixt +uncertainty and hope; and his only support during those terrible hours, which +he spent in a desperate hand-to-hand struggle with his rebellious work, was the +consoling dream of his future masterpiece, the one with which he would at last +be fully satisfied, in painting which his hands would show all the energy and +deftness of true creative skill. By some ever-recurring phenomenon, his longing +to create outstripped the quickness of his fingers; he never worked at one +picture without planning the one that was to follow. Then all that remained to +him was an eager desire to rid himself of the work on which he was engaged, for +it brought him torture; no doubt it would be good for nothing; he was still +making fatal concessions, having recourse to trickery, to everything that a +true artist should banish from his conscience. But what he meant to do after +that—ah! what he meant to do—he beheld it superb and heroic, above +attack and indestructible. All this was the everlasting mirage that goads on +the condemned disciples of art, a falsehood that comes in a spirit of +tenderness and compassion, and without which production would become impossible +to those who die of their failure to create life. +</p> + +<p> +In addition to those constantly renewed struggles with himself, Claude’s +material difficulties now increased. Was it not enough that he could not give +birth to what he felt existing within him? Must he also battle with every-day +cares? Though he refused to admit it, painting from nature in the open air +became impossible when a picture was beyond a certain size. How could he settle +himself in the streets amidst the crowd?—how obtain from each person the +necessary number of sittings? That sort of painting must evidently be confined +to certain determined subjects, landscapes, small corners of the city, in which +the figures would be but so many silhouettes, painted in afterwards. There were +also a thousand and one difficulties connected with the weather; the wind which +threatened to carry off the easel, the rain which obliged one to interrupt +one’s work. On such days Claude came home in a rage, shaking his fist at +the sky and accusing nature of resisting him in order that he might not take +and vanquish her. He also complained bitterly of being poor; for his dream was +to have a movable studio, a vehicle in Paris, a boat on the Seine, in both of +which he would have lived like an artistic gipsy. But nothing came to his aid, +everything conspired against his work. +</p> + +<p> +And Christine suffered with Claude. She had shared his hopes very bravely, +brightening the studio with her housewifely activity; but now she sat down, +discouraged, when she saw him powerless. At each picture which was refused she +displayed still deeper grief, hurt in her womanly self-love, taking that pride +in success which all women have. The painter’s bitterness soured her +also; she entered into his feelings and passions, identified herself with his +tastes, defended his painting, which had become, as it were, part of herself, +the one great concern of their lives—indeed, the only important one +henceforth, since it was the one whence she expected all her happiness. She +understood well enough that art robbed her more and more of her lover each day, +but the real struggle between herself and art had not yet begun. For the time +she yielded, and let herself be carried away with Claude, so that they might be +but one—one only in the self-same effort. From that partial abdication of +self there sprang, however, a sadness, a dread of what might be in store for +her later on. Every now and then a shudder chilled her to the very heart. She +felt herself growing old, while intense melancholy upset her, an unreasoning +longing to weep, which she satisfied in the gloomy studio for hours together, +when she was alone there. +</p> + +<p> +At that period her heart expanded, as it were, and a mother sprang from the +loving woman. That motherly feeling for her big artist child was made up of all +the vague infinite pity which filled her with tenderness, of the illogical fits +of weakness into which she saw him fall each hour, of the constant pardons +which she was obliged to grant him. He was beginning to make her unhappy, his +caresses were few and far between, a look of weariness constantly overspread +his features. How could she love him then if not with that other affection of +every moment, remaining in adoration before him, and unceasingly sacrificing +herself? In her inmost being insatiable passion still lingered; she was still +the sensuous woman with thick lips set in obstinately prominent jaws. Yet there +was a gentle melancholy, in being merely a mother to him, in trying to make him +happy amid that life of theirs which now was spoilt. +</p> + +<p> +Little Jacques was the only one to suffer from that transfer of tenderness. She +neglected him more; the man, his father, became her child, and the poor little +fellow remained as mere testimony of their great passion of yore. As she saw +him grow up, and no longer require so much care, she began to sacrifice him, +without intentional harshness, but merely because she felt like that. At +meal-times she only gave him the inferior bits; the cosiest nook near the stove +was not for his little chair; if ever the fear of an accident made her tremble +now and then, her first cry, her first protecting movement was not for her +helpless child. She ever relegated him to the background, suppressed him, as it +were: ‘Jacques, be quiet; you tire your father. Jacques, keep still; +don’t you see that your father is at work?’ +</p> + +<p> +The urchin suffered from being cooped up in Paris. He, who had had the whole +country-side to roll about in, felt stifled in the narrow space where he now +had to keep quiet. His rosy cheeks became pale, he grew up puny, serious, like +a little man, with eyes which stared at things in wonder. He was five by now, +and his head by a singular phenomenon had become disproportionately large, in +such wise as to make his father say, ‘He has a great man’s +nut!’ But the child’s intelligence seemed, on the contrary, to +decrease in proportion as his skull became larger. Very gentle and timid, he +became absorbed in thought for hours, incapable of answering a question. And +when he emerged from that state of immobility he had mad fits of shouting and +jumping, like a young animal giving rein to instinct. At such times warnings +‘to keep quiet’ rained upon him, for his mother failed to +understand his sudden outbursts, and became uneasy at seeing the father grow +irritated as he sat before his easel. Getting cross herself, she would then +hastily seat the little fellow in his corner again. Quieted all at once, giving +the startled shudder of one who has been too abruptly awakened, the child would +after a time doze off with his eyes wide open, so careless of enjoying life +that his toys, corks, pictures, and empty colour-tubes dropped listlessly from +his hands. Christine had already tried to teach him his alphabet, but he had +cried and struggled, so they had decided to wait another year or two before +sending him to school, where his masters would know how to make him learn. +</p> + +<p> +Christine at last began to grow frightened at the prospect of impending misery. +In Paris, with that growing child beside them, living proved expensive, and the +end of each month became terrible, despite her efforts to save in every +direction. They had nothing certain but Claude’s thousand francs a year; +and how could they live on fifty francs a month, which was all that was left to +them after deducting four hundred francs for the rent? At first they had got +out of embarrassment, thanks to the sale of a few pictures, Claude having found +Gagnière’s old amateur, one of those detested bourgeois who possess the +ardent souls of artists, despite the monomaniacal habits in which they are +confined. This one, M. Hue, a retired chief clerk in a public department, was +unfortunately not rich enough to be always buying, and he could only bewail the +purblindness of the public, which once more allowed a genius to die of +starvation; for he himself, convinced, struck by grace at the first glance, had +selected Claude’s crudest works, which he hung by the side of his +Delacroix, predicting equal fortune for them. The worst was that Papa Malgras +had just retired after making his fortune. It was but a modest competence after +all, an income of about ten thousand francs, upon which he had decided to live +in a little house at Bois Colombes, like the careful man he was. +</p> + +<p> +It was highly amusing to hear him speak of the famous Naudet, full of disdain +for the millions turned over by that speculator, ‘millions that would +some day fall upon his nose,’ said Malgras. Claude, having casually met +him, only succeeded in selling him a last picture, one of his sketches from the +nude made at the Boutin studio, that superb study of a woman’s trunk +which the erstwhile dealer had not been able to see afresh without feeling a +revival of his old passion for it. So misery was imminent; outlets were closing +instead of new ones opening; disquieting rumours were beginning to circulate +concerning the young painter’s works, so constantly rejected at the +Salon; and besides, Claude’s style of art, so revolutionary and +imperfect, in which the startled eye found nought of admitted conventionality, +would of itself have sufficed to drive away wealthy buyers. One evening, being +unable to settle his bill at his colour shop, the painter had exclaimed that he +would live upon the capital of his income rather than lower himself to the +degrading production of trade pictures. But Christine had violently opposed +such an extreme measure; she would retrench still further; in short, she +preferred anything to such madness, which would end by throwing them into the +streets without even bread to eat. +</p> + +<p> +After the rejection of Claude’s third picture, the summer proved so +wonderfully fine that the painter seemed to derive new strength from it. There +was not a cloud; limpid light streamed day after day upon the giant activity of +Paris. Claude had resumed his peregrinations through the city, determined to +find a masterstroke, as he expressed it, something huge, something decisive, he +did not exactly know what. September came, and still he had found nothing that +satisfied him; he simply went mad for a week about one or another subject, and +then declared that it was not the thing after all. His life was spent in +constant excitement; he was ever on the watch, on the point of setting his hand +on the realisation of his dream, which always flew away. In reality, beneath +his intractable realism lay the superstition of a nervous woman; he believed in +occult and complex influences; everything, luck or ill-luck, must depend upon +the view selected. +</p> + +<p> +One afternoon—it was one of the last fine days of the season—Claude +took Christine out with him, leaving little Jacques in the charge of the +doorkeeper, a kind old woman, as was their wont when they wanted to go out +together. That day the young painter was possessed by a sudden whim to ramble +about and revisit in Christine’s company the nooks beloved in other days; +and behind this desire of his there lurked a vague hope that she would bring +him luck. And thus they went as far as the Pont Louis-Philippe, and remained +for a quarter of an hour on the Quai des Ormes, silent, leaning against the +parapet, and looking at the old Hôtel du Martoy, across the Seine, where they +had first loved each other. Then, still without saying a word, they went their +former round; they started along the quays, under the plane trees, seeing the +past rise up before them at every step. Everything spread out again: the +bridges with their arches opening upon the sheeny water; the Cité, enveloped in +shade, above which rose the flavescent towers of Notre-Dame; the great curve of +the right bank flooded with sunlight, and ending in the indistinct silhouette +of the Pavillon de Flore, together with the broad avenues, the monuments and +edifices on both banks, and all the life of the river, the floating +wash-houses, the baths, and the lighters. +</p> + +<p> +As of old, the orb in its decline followed them, seemingly rolling along the +distant housetops, and assuming a crescent shape, as it appeared from behind +the dome of the Institute. There was a dazzling sunset, they had never beheld a +more magnificent one, such a majestic descent amidst tiny cloudlets that +changed into purple network, between the meshes of which a shower of gold +escaped. But of the past that thus rose up before their eyes there came to them +nought but invincible sadness—a sensation that things escaped them, and +that it was impossible for them to retrace their way up stream and live their +life over again. All those old stones remained cold. The constant current +beneath the bridges, the water that had ever flowed onward and onward, seemed +to have borne away something of their own selves, the delight of early desire +and the joyfulness of hope. Now that they belonged to one another, they no +longer tasted the simple happiness born of feeling the warm pressure of their +arms as they strolled on slowly, enveloped by the mighty vitality of Paris. +</p> + +<p> +On reaching the Pont des Saints-Pères, Claude, in sheer despair, stopped short. +He had relinquished Christine’s arm, and had turned his face towards the +point of the Cité. She no doubt felt the severance that was taking place and +became very sad. Seeing that he lingered there obliviously, she wished to +regain her hold upon him. +</p> + +<p> +‘My dear,’ said she, ‘let us go home; it’s time. +Jacques will be waiting for us, you know.’ +</p> + +<p> +But he went half way across the bridge, and she had to follow him. Then once +more he remained motionless, with his eyes still fixed on the Cité, on that +island which ever rode at anchor, the cradle and heart of Paris, where for +centuries all the blood of her arteries had converged amid the constant growth +of faubourgs invading the plain. And a glow came over Claude’s face, his +eyes sparkled, and at last he made a sweeping gesture: +</p> + +<p> +‘Look! Look!’ +</p> + +<p> +In the immediate foreground beneath them was the port of St. Nicolas, with the +low shanties serving as offices for the inspectors of navigation, and the large +paved river-bank sloping down, littered with piles of sand, barrels, and sacks, +and edged with a row of lighters, still full, in which busy lumpers swarmed +beneath the gigantic arm of an iron crane. Then on the other side of the river, +above a cold swimming-bath, resounding with the shouts of the last bathers of +the season, the strips of grey linen that served as a roofing flapped in the +wind. In the middle, the open stream flowed on in rippling, greenish wavelets +tipped here and there with white, blue, and pink. And then there came the Pont +des Arts, standing back, high above the water on its iron girders, like black +lace-work, and animated by a ceaseless procession of foot-passengers, who +looked like ants careering over the narrow line of the horizontal plane. Below, +the Seine flowed away to the far distance; you saw the old arches of the +Pont-Neuf, browny with stone-rust; on the left, as far as the Isle of St. +Louis, came a mirror-like gap; and the other arm of the river curved sharply, +the lock gates of the Mint shutting out the view with a bar of foam. Along the +Pont-Neuf passed big yellow omnibuses, motley vehicles of all kinds, with the +mechanical regularity of so many children’s toys. The whole of the +background was inframed within the perspective of the two banks; on the right +were houses on the quays, partly hidden by a cluster of lofty trees, from +behind which on the horizon there emerged a corner of the Hôtel de Ville, +together with the square clock tower of St. Gervais, both looking as indistinct +as if they had stood far away in the suburbs. And on the left bank there was a +wing of the Institute, the flat frontage of the Mint, and yet another enfilade +of trees. +</p> + +<p> +But the centre of the immense picture, that which rose most prominently from +the stream and soared to the sky, was the Cité, showing like the prow of an +antique vessel, ever burnished by the setting sun. Down below, the poplars on +the strip of ground that joins the two sections of the Pont-Neuf hid the statue +of Henri IV. with a dense mass of green foliage. Higher up, the sun set the two +lines of frontages in contrast, wrapping the grey buildings of the Quai de +l’Horloge in shade, and illumining with a blaze those of the Quai des +Orfèvres, rows of irregular houses which stood out so clearly that one +distinguished the smallest details, the shops, the signboards, even the +curtains at the windows. Higher up, amid the jagged outlines of chimney stacks, +behind a slanting chess-board of smaller roofs, the pepper-caster turrets of +the Palais de Justice and the garrets of the Prefecture of Police displayed +sheets of slate, intersected by a colossal advertisement painted in blue upon a +wall, with gigantic letters which, visible to all Paris, seemed like some +efflorescence of the feverish life of modern times sprouting on the +city’s brow. Higher, higher still, betwixt the twin towers of Notre-Dame, +of the colour of old gold, two arrows darted upwards, the spire of the +cathedral itself, and to the left that of the Sainte-Chapelle, both so +elegantly slim that they seemed to quiver in the breeze, as if they had been +the proud topmasts of the ancient vessel rising into the brightness of the open +sky. +</p> + +<p> +‘Are you coming, dear?’ asked Christine, gently. +</p> + +<p> +Claude did not listen to her; this, the heart of Paris, had taken full +possession of him. The splendid evening seemed to widen the horizon. There were +patches of vivid light, and of clearly defined shadow; there was a brightness +in the precision of each detail, a transparency in the air, which throbbed with +gladness. And the river life, the turmoil of the quays, all the people, +streaming along the streets, rolling over the bridges, arriving from every side +of that huge cauldron, Paris, steamed there in visible billows, with a quiver +that was apparent in the sunlight. There was a light breeze, high aloft a +flight of small cloudlets crossed the paling azure sky, and one could hear a +slow but mighty palpitation, as if the soul of Paris here dwelt around its +cradle. +</p> + +<p> +But Christine, frightened at seeing Claude so absorbed, and seized herself with +a kind of religious awe, took hold of his arm and dragged him away, as if she +had felt that some great danger was threatening him. +</p> + +<p> +‘Let us go home. You are doing yourself harm. I want to get back.’ +</p> + +<p> +At her touch he started like a man disturbed in sleep. Then, turning his head +to take a last look, he muttered: ‘Ah! heavens! Ah! heavens, how +beautiful!’ +</p> + +<p> +He allowed himself to be led away. But throughout the evening, first at dinner, +afterwards beside the stove, and until he went to bed, he remained like one +dazed, so deep in his cogitations that he did not utter half a dozen sentences. +And Christine, failing to draw from him any answer to her questions, at last +became silent also. She looked at him anxiously; was it the approach of some +serious illness, had he inhaled some bad air whilst standing midway across the +bridge yonder? His eyes stared vaguely into space, his face flushed as if with +some inner straining. One would have thought it the mute travail of +germination, as if something were springing into life within him. +</p> + +<p> +The next morning, immediately after breakfast, he set off, and Christine spent +a very sorrowful day, for although she had become more easy in mind on hearing +him whistle some of his old southern tunes as he got up, she was worried by +another matter, which she had not mentioned to him for fear of damping his +spirits again. That day they would for the first time lack everything; a whole +week separated them from the date when their little income would fall due, and +she had spent her last copper that morning. She had nothing left for the +evening, not even the wherewithal to buy a loaf. To whom could she apply? How +could she manage to hide the truth any longer from him when he came home +hungry? She made up her mind to pledge the black silk dress which Madame +Vanzade had formerly given her, but it was with a heavy heart; she trembled +with fear and shame at the idea of the pawnshop, that familiar resort of the +poor which she had never as yet entered. And she was tortured by such +apprehension about the future, that from the ten francs which were lent her she +only took enough to make a sorrel soup and a stew of potatoes. On coming out of +the pawn-office, a meeting with somebody she knew had given her the finishing +stroke. +</p> + +<p> +As it happened, Claude came home very late, gesticulating merrily, and his eyes +very bright, as if he were excited by some secret joy; he was very hungry, and +grumbled because the cloth was not laid. Then, having sat down between +Christine and little Jacques, he swallowed his soup and devoured a plateful of +potatoes. +</p> + +<p> +‘Is that all?’ he asked, when he had finished. ‘You might as +well have added a scrap of meat. Did you have to buy some boots again?’ +</p> + +<p> +She stammered, not daring to tell him the truth, but hurt at heart by this +injustice. He, however, went on chaffing her about the coppers she juggled away +to buy herself things with; and getting more and more excited, amid the egotism +of feelings which he seemingly wished to keep to himself, he suddenly flew out +at Jacques. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hold your noise, you brat!—you drive one mad.’ +</p> + +<p> +The child, forgetting all about his dinner, had been tapping the edge of his +plate with his spoon, his eyes full of mirthful delight at this music. +</p> + +<p> +‘Jacques, be quiet,’ scoldingly said his mother, in her turn. +‘Let your father have his dinner in peace.’ +</p> + +<p> +Then the little one, abashed, at once became very quiet, and relapsed into +gloomy stillness, with his lustreless eyes fixed on his potatoes, which, +however, he did not eat. +</p> + +<p> +Claude made a show of stuffing himself with cheese, while Christine, quite +grieved, offered to fetch some cold meat from a ham and beef shop; but he +declined, and prevented her going by words that pained her still more. Then, +the table having been cleared, they all sat round the lamp for the evening, she +sewing, the little one turning over a picture-book in silence, and Claude +drumming on the table with his fingers, his mind the while wandering back to +the spot whence he had come. Suddenly he rose, sat down again with a sheet of +paper and a pencil, and began sketching rapidly, in the vivid circle of light +that fell from under the lamp-shade. And such was his longing to give outward +expression to the tumultuous ideas beating in his skull, that soon this sketch +did not suffice for his relief. On the contrary, it goaded him on, and he +finished by unburthening his mind in a flood of words. He would have shouted to +the walls; and if he addressed himself to his wife it was because she happened +to be there. +</p> + +<p> +‘Look, that’s what we saw yesterday. It’s magnificent. I +spent three hours there to-day. I’ve got hold of what I +want—something wonderful, something that’ll knock everything else +to pieces. Just look! I station myself under the bridge; in the immediate +foreground I have the Port of St. Nicolas, with its crane, its lighters which +are being unloaded, and its crowd of labourers. Do you see the +idea—it’s Paris at work—all those brawny fellows displaying +their bare arms and chests? Then on the other side I have the +swimming-baths—Paris at play—and some skiff there, no doubt, to +occupy the centre of the composition; but of that I am not as yet certain. I +must feel my way. As a matter of course, the Seine will be in the middle, +broad, immense.’ +</p> + +<p> +While talking, he kept on indicating outlines with his pencil, thickening his +strokes over and over again, and tearing the paper in his very energy. She, in +order to please him, bent over the sketch, pretending to grow very interested +in his explanations. But there was such a labyrinth of lines, such a confusion +of summary details, that she failed to distinguish anything. +</p> + +<p> +‘You are following me, aren’t you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, yes, very beautiful indeed.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then I have the background, the two arms of the rivet with their quays, +the Cité, rising up triumphantly in the centre, and standing out against the +sky. Ah! that background, what a marvel! People see it every day, pass before +it without stopping; but it takes hold of one all the same; one’s +admiration accumulates, and one fine afternoon it bursts forth. Nothing in the +world can be grander; it is Paris herself, glorious in the sunlight. Ah! what a +fool I was not to think of it before! How many times I have looked at it +without seeing! However, I stumbled on it after that ramble along the quays! +And, do you remember, there’s a dash of shadow on that side; while here +the sunrays fall quite straight. The towers are yonder; the spire of the +Sainte-Chapelle tapers upward, as slim as a needle pointing to the sky. But no, +it’s more to the right. Wait, I’ll show you.’ +</p> + +<p> +He began again, never wearying, but constantly retouching the sketch, and +adding innumerable little characteristic details which his painter’s eye +had noticed; here the red signboard of a distant shop vibrated in the light; +closer by was a greenish bit of the Seine, on whose surface large patches of +oil seemed to be floating; and then there was the delicate tone of a tree, the +gamut of greys supplied by the house frontages, and the luminous cast of the +sky. She complaisantly approved of all he said and tried to look delighted. +</p> + +<p> +But Jacques once again forgot what he had been told. After long remaining +silent before his book, absorbed in the contemplation of a wood-cut depicting a +black cat, he began to hum some words of his own composition: ‘Oh, you +pretty cat; oh, you ugly cat; oh, you pretty, ugly cat,’ and so on, <i>ad +infinitum</i>, ever in the same lugubrious manner. +</p> + +<p> +Claude, who was made fidgety by the buzzing noise, did not at first understand +what was upsetting him. But after a time the child’s harassing phrase +fell clearly upon his ear. +</p> + +<p> +‘Haven’t you done worrying us with your cat?’ he shouted +furiously. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hold your tongue, Jacques, when your father is talking!’ repeated +Christine. +</p> + +<p> +Upon my word, I do believe he is becoming an idiot. Just look at his head, if +it isn’t like an idiot’s. It’s dreadful. Just say; what do +you mean by your pretty and ugly cat?’ +</p> + +<p> +The little fellow, turning pale and wagging his big head, looked stupid, and +replied: ‘Don’t know.’ +</p> + +<p> +Then, as his father and mother gazed at each other with a discouraged air, he +rested his cheek on the open picture-book, and remained like that, neither +stirring nor speaking, but with his eyes wide open. +</p> + +<p> +It was getting late; Christine wanted to put him to bed, but Claude had already +resumed his explanations. He now told her that, the very next morning, he +should go and make a sketch on the spot, just in order to fix his ideas. And, +as he rattled on, he began to talk of buying a small camp easel, a thing upon +which he had set his heart for months. He kept harping on the subject, and +spoke of money matters till she at last became embarrassed, and ended by +telling him of everything—the last copper she had spent that morning, and +the silk dress she had pledged in order to dine that evening. Thereupon he +became very remorseful and affectionate; he kissed her and asked her +forgiveness for having complained about the dinner. She would excuse him, +surely; he would have killed father and mother, as he kept on repeating, when +that confounded painting got hold of him. As for the pawn-shop, it made him +laugh; he defied misery. +</p> + +<p> +‘I tell you that we are all right,’ he exclaimed. ‘That +picture means success.’ +</p> + +<p> +She kept silent, thinking about her meeting of the morning, which she wished to +hide from him; but without apparent cause or transition, in the kind of torpor +that had come over her, the words she would have kept back rose invincibly to +her lips. +</p> + +<p> +‘Madame Vanzade is dead,’ she said. +</p> + +<p> +He looked surprised. Ah! really? How did she, Christine, know it? +</p> + +<p> +‘I met the old man-servant. Oh, he’s a gentleman by now, looking +very sprightly, in spite of his seventy years. I did not know him again. It was +he who spoke to me. Yes, she died six weeks ago. Her millions have gone to +various charities, with the exception of an annuity to the old servants, upon +which they are living snugly like people of the middle-classes.’ +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her, and at last murmured, in a saddened voice: ‘My poor +Christine, you are regretting things now, aren’t you? She would have +given you a marriage portion, have found you a husband! I told you so in days +gone by. She would, perhaps, have left you all her money, and you +wouldn’t now be starving with a crazy fellow like myself.’ +</p> + +<p> +She then seemed to wake from her dream. She drew her chair to his, caught hold +of one of his arms and nestled against him, as if her whole being protested +against his words: +</p> + +<p> +‘What are you saying? Oh! no; oh! no. It would have been shameful to have +thought of her money. I would confess it to you if it were the case, and you +know that I never tell lies; but I myself don’t know what came over me +when I heard the news. I felt upset and saddened, so sad that I imagined +everything was over for me. It was no doubt remorse; yes, remorse at having +deserted her so brutally, poor invalid that she was, the good old soul who +called me her daughter! I behaved very badly, and it won’t bring me luck. +Ah! don’t say “No,” I feel it well enough; henceforth +there’s an end to everything for me.’ +</p> + +<p> +Then she wept, choked by those confused regrets, the significance of which she +failed to understand, regrets mingling with the one feeling that her life was +spoilt, and that she now had nothing but unhappiness before her. +</p> + +<p> +‘Come, wipe your eyes,’ said Claude, becoming affectionate once +more. ‘Is it possible that you, who were never nervous, can conjure up +chimeras and worry yourself in this way? Dash it all, we shall get out of our +difficulties! First of all, you know that it was through you that I found the +subject for my picture. There cannot be much of a curse upon you, since you +bring me luck.’ +</p> + +<p> +He laughed, and she shook her head, seeing well enough that he wanted to make +her smile. She was suffering on account of his picture already; for on the +bridge he had completely forgotten her, as if she had ceased to belong to him! +And, since the previous night, she had realised that he was farther and farther +removed from her, alone in a world to which she could not ascend. But she +allowed him to soothe her, and they exchanged one of their kisses of yore, +before rising from the table to retire to rest. +</p> + +<p> +Little Jacques had heard nothing. Benumbed by his stillness, he had fallen +asleep, with his cheek on his picture-book; and his big head, so heavy at times +that it bent his neck, looked pale in the lamplight. Poor little offspring of +genius, which, when it begets at all, so often begets idiocy or physical +imperfection! When his mother put him to bed Jacques did not even open his +eyes. +</p> + +<p> +It was only at this period that the idea of marrying Christine came to Claude. +Though yielding to the advice of Sandoz, who expressed his surprise at the +prolongation of an irregular situation which no circumstances justified, he +more particularly gave way to a feeling of pity, to a desire to show himself +kind to his mistress, and to win forgiveness for his delinquencies. He had seen +her so sad of late, so uneasy with respect to the future, that he did not know +how to revive her spirits. He himself was growing soured, and relapsing into +his former fits of anger, treating her, at times, like a servant, to whom one +flings a week’s notice. Being his lawful wife, she would, no doubt, feel +herself more in her rightful home, and would suffer less from his rough +behaviour. She herself, for that matter, had never again spoken of marriage. +She seemed to care nothing for earthly things, but entirely reposed upon him; +however, he understood well enough that it grieved her that she was not able to +visit at Sandoz’s. Besides, they no longer lived amid the freedom and +solitude of the country; they were in Paris, with its thousand and one petty +spites, everything that is calculated to wound a woman in an irregular +position. In reality, he had nothing against marriage save his old prejudices, +those of an artist who takes life as he lists. Since he was never to leave her, +why not afford her that pleasure? And, in fact, when he spoke to her about it, +she gave a loud cry and threw her arms round his neck, surprised at +experiencing such great emotion. During a whole week it made her feel +thoroughly happy. But her joy subsided long before the ceremony. +</p> + +<p> +Moreover, Claude did not hurry over any of the formalities, and they had to +wait a long while for the necessary papers. He continued getting the sketches +for his picture together, and she, like himself, did not seem in the least +impatient. What was the good? It would assuredly make no difference in their +life. They had decided to be married merely at the municipal offices, not in +view of displaying any contempt for religion, but to get the affair over +quickly and simply. That would suffice. The question of witnesses embarrassed +them for a moment. As she was absolutely unacquainted with anybody, he selected +Sandoz and Mahoudeau to act for her. For a moment he had thought of replacing +the latter by Dubuche, but he never saw the architect now, and he feared to +compromise him. He, Claude, would be content with Jory and Gagnière. In that +way the affair would pass off among friends, and nobody would talk of it. +</p> + +<p> +Several weeks had gone by; they were in December, and the weather proved +terribly cold. On the day before the wedding, although they barely had +thirty-five francs left them, they agreed that they could not send their +witnesses away with a mere shake of the hand; and, rather than have a lot of +trouble in the studio, they decided to offer them lunch at a small restaurant +on the Boulevard de Clichy, after which they would all go home. +</p> + +<p> +In the morning, while Christine was tacking a collar to a grey linsey gown +which, with the coquetry of woman, she had made for the occasion, it occurred +to Claude, who was already wearing his frock-coat and kicking his heels +impatiently, to go and fetch Mahoudeau, for the latter, he asserted, was quite +capable of forgetting all about the appointment. Since autumn, the sculptor had +been living at Montmartre, in a small studio in the Rue des Tilleuls. He had +moved thither in consequence of a series of affairs that had quite upset him. +First of all, he had been turned out of the fruiterer’s shop in the Rue +du Cherche-Midi for not paying his rent; then had come a definite rupture with +Chaîne, who, despairing of being able to live by his brush, had rushed into +commercial enterprise, betaking himself to all the fairs around Paris as the +manager of a kind of ‘fortune’s wheel’ belonging to a widow; +while last of all had come the sudden flight of Mathilde, her herbalist’s +business sold up, and she herself disappearing, it seemed, with some mysterious +admirer. At present Mahoudeau lived all by himself in greater misery than ever, +only eating when he secured a job at scraping some architectural ornaments, or +preparing work for some more prosperous fellow-sculptor. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am going to fetch him, do you hear?’ Claude repeated to +Christine. ‘We still have a couple of hours before us. And, if the others +come, make them wait. We’ll go to the municipal offices all +together.’ +</p> + +<p> +Once outside, Claude hurried along in the nipping cold which loaded his +moustache with icicles. Mahoudeau’s studio was at the end of a +conglomeration of tenements—‘rents,’ so to say—and he +had to cross a number of small gardens, white with rime, and showing the bleak, +stiff melancholy of cemeteries. He could distinguish his friend’s place +from afar on account of the colossal plaster statue of the ‘Vintaging +Girl,’ the once successful exhibit of the Salon, for which there had not +been sufficient space in the narrow ground-floor studio. Thus it was rotting +out in the open like so much rubbish shot from a cart, a lamentable spectacle, +weather-bitten, riddled by the rain’s big, grimy tears. The key was in +the door, so Claude went in. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hallo! have you come to fetch me?’ said Mahoudeau, in surprise. +‘I’ve only got my hat to put on. But wait a bit, I was asking +myself whether it wouldn’t be better to light a little fire. I am uneasy +about my woman there.’ +</p> + +<p> +Some water in a bucket was ice-bound. So cold was the studio that it froze +inside as hard as it did out of doors, for, having been penniless for a whole +week, Mahoudeau had gingerly eked out the little coal remaining to him, only +lighting the stove for an hour or two of a morning. His studio was a kind of +tragic cavern, compared with which the shop of former days evoked reminiscences +of snug comfort, such was the tomb-like chill that fell on one’s +shoulders from the creviced ceiling and the bare walls. In the various corners +some statues, of less bulky dimensions than the ‘Vintaging Girl,’ +plaster figures which had been modelled with passion and exhibited, and which +had then come back for want of buyers, seemed to be shivering with their noses +turned to the wall, forming a melancholy row of cripples, some already badly +damaged, showing mere stumps of arms, and all dust-begrimed and +clay-bespattered. Under the eyes of their artist creator, who had given them +his heart’s blood, those wretched nudities dragged out years of agony. At +first, no doubt, they were preserved with jealous care, despite the lack of +room, but then they lapsed into the grotesque honor of all lifeless things, +until a day came when, taking up a mallet, he himself finished them off, +breaking them into mere lumps of plaster, so as to be rid of them. +</p> + +<p> +‘You say we have got two hours, eh?’ resumed Mahoudeau. +‘Well, I’ll just light a bit of fire; it will be the wiser +perhaps.’ +</p> + +<p> +Then, while lighting the stove, he began bewailing his fate in an angry voice. +What a dog’s life a sculptor’s was! The most bungling stonemason +was better off. A figure which the Government bought for three thousand francs +cost well nigh two thousand, what with its model, clay, marble or bronze, all +sorts of expenses, indeed, and for all that it remained buried in some official +cellar on the pretext that there was no room for it elsewhere. The niches of +the public buildings remained empty, pedestals were awaiting statues in the +public gardens. No matter, there was never any room! And there were no possible +commissions from private people; at best one received an order for a few busts, +and at very rare intervals one for a memorial statue, subscribed for by the +public and hurriedly executed at reduced terms. Sculpture was the noblest of +arts, the most manly, yes, but the one which led the most surely to death by +starvation! +</p> + +<p> +‘Is your machine progressing?’ asked Claude. +</p> + +<p> +‘Without this confounded cold, it would be finished,’ answered +Mahoudeau. ‘I’ll show it you.’ +</p> + +<p> +He rose from his knees after listening to the snorting of the stove. In the +middle of the studio, on a packing-case, strengthened by cross-pieces, stood a +statue swathed is linen wraps which were quite rigid, hard frozen, draping the +figure with the whiteness of a shroud. This statue embodied Mahoudeau’s +old dream, unrealised until now from lack of means—it was an upright +figure of that bathing girl of whom more than a dozen small models had been +knocking about his place for years. In a moment of impatient revolt he himself +had manufactured trusses and stays out of broom-handles, dispensing with the +necessary iron work in the hope that the wood would prove sufficiently solid. +From time to time he shook the figure to try it, but as yet it had not budged. +</p> + +<p> +‘The devil!’ he muttered; ‘some warmth will do her good. +These wraps seem glued to her—they form quite a breastplate.’ +</p> + +<p> +The linen was crackling between his fingers, and splinters of ice were breaking +off. He was obliged to wait until the heat produced a slight thaw, and then +with great care he stripped the figure, baring the head first, then the bosom, +and then the hips, well pleased at finding everything intact, and smiling like +a lover at a woman fondly adored. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, what do you think of it?’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude, who had only previously seen a little rough model of the statue, nodded +his head, in order that he might not have to answer immediately. Decidedly, +that good fellow Mahoudeau was turning traitor, and drifting towards +gracefulness, in spite of himself, for pretty things ever sprang from under his +big fingers, former stonecutter though he was. Since his colossal +‘Vintaging Girl,’ he had gone on reducing and reducing the +proportions of his figures without appearing to be aware of it himself, always +ready to stick out ferociously for the gigantic, which agreed with his +temperament, but yielding to the partiality of his eyes for sweetness and +gracefulness. And indeed real nature broke at last through inflated ambition. +Exaggerated still, his ‘Bathing Girl’ was already possessed of +great charm, with her quivering shoulders and her tightly-crossed arms that +supported her breast. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, you don’t like her?’ he asked, looking annoyed. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, yes, I do! I think you are right to tone things down a bit, seeing +that you feel like that. You’ll have a great success with this. Yes, +it’s evident it will please people very much.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mahoudeau, whom such praises would once have thrown into consternation, seemed +delighted. He explained that he wished to conquer public opinion without +relinquishing a tithe of his convictions. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! dash it! it takes a weight off my mind to find you pleased,’ +said he, ‘for I should have destroyed it if you had told me to do so, I +give you my word! Another fortnight’s work, and I’ll sell my skin +to no matter whom in order to pay the moulder. I say, I shall have a fine show +at the Salon, perhaps get a medal.’ +</p> + +<p> +He laughed, waved his arms about, and then, breaking off: +</p> + +<p> +‘As we are not in a hurry, sit down a bit. I want to get the wraps quite +thawed.’ +</p> + +<p> +The stove, which was becoming red hot, diffused great heat. The figure, placed +close by, seemed to revive under the warm air that now crept up her from her +shins to her neck. And the two friends, who had sat down, continued looking the +statue full in the face, chatting about it and noting each detail. The sculptor +especially grew excited in his delight, and indulged in caressing gestures. +</p> + +<p> +All at once, however, Claude fancied he was the victim of some hallucination. +To him the figure seemed to be moving; a quiver like the ripple of a wavelet +crossed her stomach, and her left hip became straightened, as if the right leg +were about to step out. +</p> + +<p> +‘Have you noticed the smooth surface just about the loins?’ +Mahoudeau went on, without noticing anything. ‘Ah, my boy, I took great +pains over that!’ +</p> + +<p> +But by degrees the whole statue was becoming animated. The loins swayed and the +bosom swelled, as with a deep sigh, between the parted arms. And suddenly the +head drooped, the thighs bent, and the figure came forward like a living being, +with all the wild anguish, the grief-inspired spring of a woman who is flinging +herself down. +</p> + +<p> +Claude at last understood things, when Mahoudeau uttered a terrible cry. +‘By heavens, she’s breaking to pieces!—she is coming +down!’ +</p> + +<p> +The clay, in thawing, had snapped the weak wooden trusses. There came a +cracking noise, as if bones indeed were splitting; and Mahoudeau, with the same +passionate gesture with which he had caressed the figure from afar, working +himself into a fever, opened both arms, at the risk of being killed by the +fall. For a moment the bathing girl swayed to and fro, and then with one crash +came down on her face, broken in twain at the ankles, and leaving her feet +sticking to the boards. +</p> + +<p> +Claude had jumped up to hold his friend back. +</p> + +<p> +‘Dash it! you’ll be smashed!’ he cried. +</p> + +<p> +But dreading to see her finish herself off on the floor, Mahoudeau remained +with hands outstretched. And the girl seemed to fling herself on his neck. He +caught her in his arms, winding them tightly around her. Her bosom was +flattened against his shoulder and her thighs beat against his own, while her +decapitated head rolled upon the floor. The shock was so violent that Mahoudeau +was carried off his legs and thrown over, as far back as the wall; and there, +without relaxing his hold on the girl’s trunk, he remained as if stunned +lying beside her. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! confound it!’ repeated Claude, furiously, believing that his +friend was dead. +</p> + +<p> +With great difficulty Mahoudeau rose to his knees, and burst into violent sobs. +He had only damaged his face in the fall. Some blood dribbled down one of his +cheeks, mingling with his tears. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! curse poverty!’ he said. ‘It’s enough to make a +fellow drown himself not to be able to buy a couple of rods! And there she is, +there she is!’ +</p> + +<p> +His sobs grew louder; they became an agonising wail; the painful shrieking of a +lover before the mutilated corpse of his affections. With unsteady hands he +touched the limbs lying in confusion around him; the head, the torso, the arms +that had snapped in twain; above aught else the bosom, now caved in. That +bosom, flattened, as if it had been operated upon for some terrible disease, +suffocated him, and he unceasingly returned to it, probing the sore, trying to +find the gash by which life had fled, while his tears, mingled with blood, +flowed freely, and stained the statue’s gaping wounds with red. +</p> + +<p> +‘Do help me!’ he gasped. ‘One can’t leave her like +this.’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude was overcome also, and his own eyes grew moist from a feeling of +artistic brotherliness. He hastened to his comrade’s aide, but the +sculptor, after claiming his assistance, persisted in picking up the remains by +himself, as if dreading the rough handling of anybody else. He slowly crawled +about on his knees, took up the fragments one by one, and put them together on +a board. The figure soon lay there in its entirety, as if it had been one of +those girls who, committing suicide from love, throw themselves from some +monument and are shattered by their fall, and put together again, looking both +grotesque and lamentable, to be carried to the Morgue. Mahoudeau, seated on the +floor before his statue, did not take his eyes from it, but became absorbed in +heart-rending contemplation. However, his sobs subsided, and at last he said +with a long-drawn sigh: ‘I shall have to model her lying down! +There’s no other way! Ah, my poor old woman, I had such trouble to set +her on her legs, and I thought her so grand like that!’ +</p> + +<p> +But all at once Claude grew uneasy. What about his wedding? Mahoudeau must +change his clothes. As he had no other frock-coat than the one he was wearing, +he was obliged to make a jacket do. Then, the figure having been covered with +linen wraps once more, like a corpse over which a sheet has been pulled, they +both started off at a run. The stove was roaring away, the thaw filled the +whole studio with water, and slush streamed from the old dust-begrimed plaster +casts. +</p> + +<p> +When they reached the Rue de Douai there was no one there except little +Jacques, in charge of the doorkeeper. Christine, tired of waiting, had just +started off with the three others, thinking that there had been some +mistake—that Claude might have told her that he would go straight to the +mayor’s offices with Mahoudeau. The pair fell into a sharp trot, but only +overtook Christine and their comrades in the Rue Drouot in front of the +municipal edifice. They all went upstairs together, and as they were late they +met with a very cool reception from the usher on duty. The wedding was got over +in a few minutes, in a perfectly empty room. The mayor mumbled on, and the +bride and bridegroom curtly uttered the binding ‘Yes,’ while their +witnesses were marvelling at the bad taste of the appointments of the +apartment. Once outside, Claude took Christine’s arm again, and that was +all. +</p> + +<p> +It was pleasant walking in the clear frosty weather. Thus the party quietly +went back on foot, climbing the Rue des Martyrs to reach the restaurant on the +Boulevard de Clichy. A small private room had been engaged; the lunch was a +very friendly affair, and not a word was said about the simple formality that +had just been gone through; other subjects were spoken of all the while, as at +one of their customary gatherings. +</p> + +<p> +It was thus that Christine, who in reality was very affected despite her +pretended indifference, heard her husband and his friends excite themselves for +three mortal hours about Mahoudeau’s unfortunate statue. Since the others +had been made acquainted with the story, they kept harping on every particular +of it. Sandoz thought the whole thing very wonderful; Jory and Gagnière +discussed the strength of stays and trusses; the former mainly concerned about +the monetary loss involved, and the other demonstrating with a chair that the +statue might have been kept up. As for Mahoudeau, still very shaky and growing +dazed; he complained of a stiffness which he had not felt before; his limbs +began to hurt him, he had strained his muscles and bruised his skin as if he +had been caught in the embrace of a stone siren. Christine washed the scratch +on his cheek, which had begun to bleed again, and it seemed to her as if the +mutilated bathing girl had sat down to table with them, as if she alone was of +any importance that day; for she alone seemed to interest Claude, whose +narrative, repeated a score of times, was full of endless particulars about the +emotion he had felt on seeing that bosom and those hips of clay shattered at +his feet. +</p> + +<p> +However, at dessert there came a diversion, for Gagnière all at once remarked +to Jory: +</p> + +<p> +‘By the way, I saw you with Mathilde the day before yesterday. Yes, yes, +in the Rue Dauphine.’ +</p> + +<p> +Jory, who had turned very red, tried to deny it; ‘Oh, a mere accidental +meeting—honour bright!’ he stammered. ‘I don’t know +where she hangs out, or I would tell you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What! is it you who are hiding her?’ exclaimed Mahoudeau. +‘Well, nobody wants to see her again!’ +</p> + +<p> +The truth was that Jory, throwing to the winds all his habits of prudence and +parsimony, was now secretly providing for Mathilde. She had gained an +ascendency over him by his vices. +</p> + +<p> +They still lingered at table, and night was falling when they escorted +Mahoudeau to his own door. Claude and Christine, on reaching home, took Jacques +from the doorkeeper, and found the studio quite chilly, wrapped in such dense +gloom that they had to grope about for several minutes before they were able to +light the lamp. They also had to light the stove again, and it struck seven +o’clock before they were able to draw breath at their ease. They were not +hungry, so they merely finished the remains of some boiled beef, mainly by way +of encouraging the child to eat his soup; and when they had put him to bed, +they settled themselves with the lamp betwixt them, as was their habit every +evening. +</p> + +<p> +However, Christine had not put out any work, she felt too much moved to sew. +She sat there with her hands resting idly on the table, looking at Claude, who +on his side had at once become absorbed in a sketch, a bit of his picture, some +workmen of the Port Saint Nicolas, unloading plaster. Invincible dreaminess +came over the young woman, all sorts of recollections and regrets became +apparent in the depths of her dim eyes; and by degrees growing sadness, great +mute grief took absolute possession of her, amid the indifference, the +boundless solitude into which she seemed to be drifting, although she was so +near to Claude. He was, indeed, on the other side of the table, yet how far +away she felt him to be! He was yonder before that point of the Cité, he was +even farther still, in the infinite inaccessible regions of art; so far, +indeed, that she would now never more be able to join him! She several times +tried to start a conversation, but without eliciting any answer. The hours went +by, she grew weary and numb with doing nothing, and she ended by taking out her +purse and counting her money. +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you know how much we have to begin our married life with?’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude did not even raise his head. +</p> + +<p> +‘We’ve nine sous. Ah! talk of poverty—’ +</p> + +<p> +He shrugged his shoulders, and finally growled: ‘We shall be rich some +day; don’t fret.’ +</p> + +<p> +Then the silence fell again, and she did not even attempt to break it, but +gazed at her nine coppers laid in a row upon the table. At last, as it struck +midnight, she shivered, ill with waiting and chilled by the cold. +</p> + +<p> +‘Let’s go to bed, dear,’ she murmured; ‘I’m dead +tired.’ +</p> + +<p> +He, however, was working frantically, and did not even hear her. +</p> + +<p> +‘The fire’s gone out,’ she began again, ‘we shall make +ourselves ill; let’s go to bed.’ +</p> + +<p> +Her imploring voice reached him at last, and made him start with sudden +exasperation. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh! go if you like! You can see very well that I want to finish +something!’ +</p> + +<p> +She remained there for another minute, amazed by his sudden anger, her face +expressive of deep sorrow. Then, feeling that he would rather be without her, +that the very presence of a woman doing nothing upset him, she rose from the +table and went off, leaving the door wide open. Half an hour, three-quarters +went by, nothing stirred, not a sound came from her room; but she was not +asleep, her eyes were staring into the gloom; and at last she timidly ventured +upon a final appeal, from the depths of the dark alcove. +</p> + +<p> +An oath was the only reply she received. And nothing stirred after that. She +perhaps dozed off. The cold in the studio grew keener, and the wick of the lamp +began to carbonise and burn red, while Claude, still bending over his sketch, +did not seem conscious of the passing minutes. +</p> + +<p> +At two o’clock, however, he rose up, furious to find the lamp going out +for lack of oil. He only had time to take it into the other room, so that he +might not have to undress in the dark. But his displeasure increased on seeing +that Christine’s eyes were wide open. He felt inclined to complain of it. +However, after some random remarks, he suddenly exclaimed: +</p> + +<p> +‘The most surprising thing is that her trunk wasn’t hurt!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What do you mean?’ asked Christine, in amazement. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, Mahoudeau’s girl,’ he answered. +</p> + +<p> +At this she shook nervously, turned and buried her face in the pillow; and he +was quite surprised on hearing her burst into sobs. +</p> + +<p> +‘What! you are crying?’ he exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +She was choking, sobbing with heart-rending violence. +</p> + +<p> +‘Come, what’s the matter with you?—I’ve said nothing to +you. Come, darling, what’s the matter?’ +</p> + +<p> +But, while he was speaking, the cause of her great grief dawned upon him. No +doubt, on a day like that, he ought to have shown more affection; but his +neglect was unintentional enough; he had not even given the matter a thought. +She surely knew him, said he; he became a downright brute when he was at work. +Then he bent over and embraced her. But it was as if something irreparable had +taken place, as if something had for ever snapped, leaving a void between them. +The formality of marriage seemed to have killed love. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"></a> +IX</h2> + +<p> +AS Claude could not paint his huge picture in the small studio of the Rue de +Douai, he made up his mind to rent some shed that would be spacious enough, +elsewhere; and strolling one day on the heights of Montmartre, he found what he +wanted half way down the slope of the Rue Tourlaque, a street that descends +abruptly behind the cemetery, and whence one overlooks Clichy as far as the +marshes of Gennevilliers. It had been a dyer’s drying shed, and was +nearly fifty feet long and more than thirty broad, with walls of board and +plaster admitting the wind from every point of the compass. The place was let +to him for three hundred francs. Summer was at hand; he would soon work off his +picture and then quit. +</p> + +<p> +This settled, feverish with hope, Claude decided to go to all the necessary +expenses; as fortune was certain to come in the end, why trammel its advent by +unnecessary scruples? Taking advantage of his right, he broke in upon the +principal of his income, and soon grew accustomed to spend money without +counting. At first he kept the matter from Christine, for she had already twice +stopped him from doing so; and when he was at last obliged to tell her, she +also, after a week of reproaches and apprehension, fell in with it, happy at +the comfort in which she lived, and yielding to the pleasure of always having a +little money in her purse. Thus there came a few years of easy unconcern. +</p> + +<p> +Claude soon became altogether absorbed in his picture. He had furnished the +huge studio in a very summary style: a few chairs, the old couch from the Quai +de Bourbon, and a deal table bought second-hand for five francs sufficed him. +In the practice of his art he was entirely devoid of that vanity which delights +in luxurious surroundings. The only real expense to which he went was that of +buying some steps on castors, with a platform and a movable footboard. Next he +busied himself about his canvas, which he wished to be six and twenty feet in +length and sixteen in height. He insisted upon preparing it himself; ordered a +framework and bought the necessary seamless canvas, which he and a couple of +friends had all the work in the world to stretch properly by the aid of +pincers. Then he just coated the canvas with ceruse, laid on with a +palette-knife, refusing to size it previously, in order that it might remain +absorbent, by which method he declared that the painting would be bright and +solid. An easel was not to be thought of. It would not have been possible to +move a canvas of such dimensions on it. So he invented a system of ropes and +beams, which held it slightly slanting against the wall in a cheerful light. +And backwards and forwards in front of the big white surface rolled the steps, +looking like an edifice, like the scaffolding by means of which a cathedral is +to be reared. +</p> + +<p> +But when everything was ready, Claude once more experienced misgivings. An idea +that he had perhaps not chosen the proper light in which to paint his picture +fidgeted him. Perhaps an early morning effect would have been better? Perhaps, +too, he ought to have chosen a dull day, and so he went back to the Pont des +Saint-Pères, and lived there for another three months. +</p> + +<p> +The Cité rose up before him, between the two arms of the river, at all hours +and in all weather. After a late fall of snow he beheld it wrapped in ermine, +standing above mud-coloured water, against a light slatey sky. On the first +sunshiny days he saw it cleanse itself of everything that was wintry and put on +an aspect of youth, when verdure sprouted from the lofty trees which rose from +the ground below the bridge. He saw it, too, on a somewhat misty day recede to +a distance and almost evaporate, delicate and quivering, like a fairy palace. +Then, again, there were pelting rains, which submerged it, hid it as with a +huge curtain drawn from the sky to the earth; storms, with lightning flashes +which lent it a tawny hue, the opaque light of some cut-throat place half +destroyed by the fall of the huge copper-coloured clouds; and there were winds +that swept over it tempestuously, sharpening its angles and making it look +hard, bare, and beaten against the pale blue sky. Then, again, when the +sunbeams broke into dust amidst the vapours of the Seine, it appeared steeped +in diffused brightness, without a shadow about it, lighted up equally on every +side, and looking as charmingly delicate as a cut gem set in fine gold. He +insisted on beholding it when the sun was rising and transpiercing the morning +mists, when the Quai de l’Horloge flushes and the Quai des Orfèvres +remains wrapt in gloom; when, up in the pink sky, it is already full of life, +with the bright awakening of its towers and spires, while night, similar to a +falling cloak, slides slowly from its lower buildings. He beheld it also at +noon, when the sunrays fall on it vertically, when a crude glare bites into it, +and it becomes discoloured and mute like a dead city, retaining nought but the +life of heat, the quiver that darts over its distant housetops. He beheld it, +moreover, beneath the setting sun, surrendering itself to the night which was +slowly rising from the river, with the salient edges of its buildings still +fringed with a glow as of embers, and with final conflagrations rekindling in +its windows, from whose panes leapt tongue-like flashes. But in presence of +those twenty different aspects of the Cité, no matter what the hour or the +weather might be, he ever came back to the Cité that he had seen the first +time, at about four o’clock one fine September afternoon, a Cité all +serenity under a gentle breeze, a Cité which typified the heart of Paris +beating in the limpid atmosphere, and seemingly enlarged by the vast stretch of +sky which a flight of cloudlets crossed. +</p> + +<p> +Claude spent his time under the Pont des Saints-Pères, which he had made his +shelter, his home, his roof. The constant din of the vehicles overhead, similar +to the distant rumbling of thunder, no longer disturbed him. Settling himself +against the first abutment, beneath the huge iron arches, he took sketches and +painted studies. The <i>employes</i> of the river navigation service, whose +offices were hard by, got to know him, and, indeed, the wife of an inspector, +who lived in a sort of tarred cabin with her husband, two children, and a cat, +kept his canvases for him, to save him the trouble of carrying them to and fro +each day. It became his joy to remain in that secluded nook beneath Paris, +which rumbled in the air above him, whose ardent life he ever felt rolling +overhead. He at first became passionately interested in Port St. Nicolas, with +its ceaseless bustle suggesting that of a distant genuine seaport. The steam +crane, <i>The Sophia</i>, worked regularly, hauling up blocks of stone; +tumbrels arrived to fetch loads of sand; men and horses pulled, panting for +breath on the big paving-stones, which sloped down as far as the water, to a +granite margin, alongside which two rows of lighters and barges were moored. +For weeks Claude worked hard at a study of some lightermen unloading a cargo of +plaster, carrying white sacks on their shoulders, leaving a white pathway +behind them, and bepowdered with white themselves, whilst hard by the coal +removed from another barge had stained the waterside with a huge inky smear. +Then he sketched the silhouette of a swimming-bath on the left bank, together +with a floating wash-house somewhat in the rear, showing the windows open and +the washerwomen kneeling in a row, on a level with the stream, and beating +their dirty linen. In the middle of the river, he studied a boat which a +waterman sculled over the stern; then, farther behind, a steamer of the towing +service straining its chain, and dragging a series of rafts loaded with barrels +and boards up stream. The principal backgrounds had been sketched a long while +ago, still he did several bits over again—the two arms of the Seine, and +a sky all by itself, into which rose only towers and spires gilded by the sun. +And under the hospitable bridge, in that nook as secluded as some far-off cleft +in a rock, he was rarely disturbed by anybody. Anglers passed by with +contemptuous unconcern. His only companion was virtually the overseer’s +cat, who cleaned herself in the sunlight, ever placid beneath the tumult of the +world overhead. +</p> + +<p> +At last Claude had all his materials ready. In a few days he threw off an +outline sketch of the whole, and the great work was begun. However, the first +battle between himself and his huge canvas raged in the Rue Tourlaque +throughout the summer; for he obstinately insisted upon personally attending to +all the technical calculations of his composition, and he failed to manage +them, getting into constant muddles about the slightest deviation from +mathematical accuracy, of which he had no experience. It made him indignant +with himself. So he let it go, deciding to make what corrections might be +necessary afterwards. He covered his canvas with a rush—in such a fever +as to live all day on his steps, brandishing huge brushes, and expending as +much muscular force as if he were anxious to move mountains. And when evening +came he reeled about like a drunken man, and fell asleep as soon as he had +swallowed his last mouthful of food. His wife even had to put him to bed like a +child. From those heroic efforts, however, sprang a masterly first draught in +which genius blazed forth amidst the somewhat chaotic masses of colour. +Bongrand, who came to look at it, caught the painter in his big arms, and +stifled him with embraces, his eyes full of tears. Sandoz, in his enthusiasm, +gave a dinner; the others, Jory, Mahoudeau and Gagnière, again went about +announcing a masterpiece. As for Fagerolles, he remained motionless before the +painting for a moment, then burst into congratulations, pronouncing it too +beautiful. +</p> + +<p> +And, in fact, subsequently, as if the irony of that successful trickster had +brought him bad luck, Claude only spoilt his original draught. It was the old +story over again. He spent himself in one effort, one magnificent dash; he +failed to bring out all the rest; he did not know how to finish. He fell into +his former impotence; for two years he lived before that picture only, having +no feeling for anything else. At times he was in a seventh heaven of exuberant +joy; at others flung to earth, so wretched, so distracted by doubt, that dying +men gasping in their beds in a hospital were happier than himself. Twice +already had he failed to be ready for the Salon, for invariably, at the last +moment, when he hoped to have finished in a few sittings, he found some void, +felt his composition crack and crumble beneath his fingers. When the third +Salon drew nigh, there came a terrible crisis; he remained for a fortnight +without going to his studio in the Rue Tourlaque, and when he did so, it was as +to a house desolated by death. He turned the huge canvas to the wall and rolled +his steps into a corner; he would have smashed and burned everything if his +faltering hands had found strength enough. Nothing more existed; amid a blast +of anger he swept the floor clean, and spoke of setting to work at little +things, since he was incapable of perfecting paintings of any size. +</p> + +<p> +In spite of himself, his first idea of a picture on a smaller scale took him +back to the Cité. Why should not he paint a simple view, on a moderate sized +canvas? But a kind of shame, mingled with strange jealousy, prevented him from +settling himself in his old spot under the Pont des Saints-Pères. It seemed to +him as if that spot were sacred now; that he ought not to offer any outrage to +his great work, dead as it was. So he stationed himself at the end of the bank, +above the bridge. This time, at any rate, he would work directly from nature; +and he felt happy at not having to resort to any trickery, as was unavoidable +with works of a large size. The small picture, very carefully painted, more +highly finished than usual, met, however, with the same fate as the others +before the hanging committee, who were indignant with this style of painting, +executed with a tipsy brush, as was said at the time in the studios. The slap +in the face which Claude thus received was all the more severe, as a report had +spread of concessions, of advances made by him to the School of Arts, in order +that his work might be received. And when the picture came back to him, he, +deeply wounded, weeping with rage, tore it into narrow shreds, which he burned +in his stove. It was not sufficient that he should kill that one with a +knife-thrust, it must be annihilated. +</p> + +<p> +Another year went by for Claude in desultory toil. He worked from force of +habit, but finished nothing; he himself saying, with a dolorous laugh, that he +had lost himself, and was trying to find himself again. In reality, tenacious +consciousness of his genius left him a hope which nothing could destroy, even +during his longest crises of despondency. He suffered like some one damned, for +ever rolling the rock which slipped back and crushed him; but the future +remained, with the certainty of one day seizing that rock in his powerful arms +and flinging it upward to the stars. His friends at last beheld his eyes light +up with passion once more. It was known that he again secluded himself in the +Rue Tourlaque. He who formerly had always been carried beyond the work on which +he was engaged, by some dream of a picture to come, now stood at bay before +that subject of the Cité. It had become his fixed idea—the bar that +closed up his life. And soon he began to speak freely of it again in a new +blaze of enthusiasm, exclaiming, with childish delight, that he had found his +way and that he felt certain of victory. +</p> + +<p> +One day Claude, who, so far, had not opened his door to his friends, +condescended to admit Sandoz. The latter tumbled upon a study with a deal of +dash in it, thrown off without a model, and again admirable in colour. The +subject had remained the same—the Port St. Nicolas on the left, the +swimming-baths on the right, the Seine and Cité in the background. But Sandoz +was amazed at perceiving, instead of the boat sculled by a waterman, another +large skiff taking up the whole centre of the composition—a skiff +occupied by three women. One, in a bathing costume, was rowing; another sat +over the edge with her legs dangling in the water, her costume partially +unfastened, showing her bare shoulder; while the third stood erect and nude at +the prow, so bright in tone that she seemed effulgent, like the sun. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, what an idea!’ muttered Sandoz. ‘What are those women +doing there?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, they are bathing,’ Claude quietly answered. +‘Don’t you see that they have come out of the swimming-baths? It +supplies me with a motive for the nude; it’s a real find, eh? Does it +shock you?’ +</p> + +<p> +His old friend, who knew him well by now, dreaded lest he should give him cause +for discouragement. +</p> + +<p> +‘I? Oh, no! Only I am afraid that the public will again fail to +understand. That nude woman in the very midst of Paris—it’s +improbable.’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude looked naively surprised. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! you think so? Well, so much the worse. What’s the odds, as +long as the woman is well painted? Besides, I need something like that to get +my courage up.’ +</p> + +<p> +On the following occasions, Sandoz gently reverted to the strangeness of the +composition, pleading, as was his nature, the cause of outraged logic. How +could a modern painter who prided himself on painting merely what was +real—how could he so bastardise his work as to introduce fanciful things +into it? It would have been so easy to choose another subject, in which the +nude would have been necessary. But Claude became obstinate, and resorted to +lame and violent explanations, for he would not avow his real motive: an idea +which had come to him and which he would have been at a loss to express +clearly. It was, however, a longing for some secret symbolism. A recrudescence +of romanticism made him see an incarnation of Paris in that nude figure; he +pictured the city bare and impassioned, resplendent with the beauty of woman. +</p> + +<p> +Before the pressing objections of his friend he pretended to be shaken in his +resolutions. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, I’ll see; I’ll dress my old woman later on, since she +worries you,’ he said. ‘But meanwhile I shall do her like that. You +understand, she amuses me.’ +</p> + +<p> +He never reverted to the subject again, remaining silently obstinate, merely +shrugging his shoulders and smiling with embarrassment whenever any allusion +betrayed the general astonishment which was felt at the sight of that Venus +emerging triumphantly from the froth of the Seine amidst all the omnibuses on +the quays and the lightermen working at the Port of St. Nicolas. +</p> + +<p> +Spring had come round again, and Claude had once more resolved to work at his +large picture, when in a spirit of prudence he and Christine modified their +daily life. She, at times, could not help feeling uneasy at seeing all their +money so quickly spent. Since the supply had seemed inexhaustible, they had +ceased counting. But, at the end of four years, they had woke up one morning +quite frightened, when, on asking for accounts, they found that barely three +thousand francs were left out of the twenty thousand. They immediately reverted +to severe economy, stinting themselves as to bread, planning the cutting down +of the most elementary expenses; and it was thus that, in the first impulse of +self-sacrifice, they left the Rue de Douai. What was the use of paying two +rents? There was room enough in the old drying-shed in the Rue +Tourlaque—still stained with the dyes of former days—to afford +accommodation for three people. Settling there was, nevertheless, a difficult +affair; for however big the place was, it provided them, after all, with but +one room. It was like a gipsy’s shed, where everything had to be done in +common. As the landlord was unwilling, the painter himself had to divide it at +one end by a partition of boards, behind which he devised a kitchen and a +bedroom. They were then delighted with the place, despite the chinks through +which the wind blew, and although on rainy days they had to set basins beneath +the broader cracks in the roof. The whole looked mournfully bare; their few +poor sticks seemed to dance alongside the naked walls. They themselves +pretended to be proud at being lodged so spaciously; they told their friends +that Jacques would at least have a little room to run about. Poor Jacques, in +spite of his nine years, did not seem to be growing; his head alone became +larger and larger. They could not send him to school for more than a week at a +stretch, for he came back absolutely dazed, ill from having tried to learn, in +such wise that they nearly always allowed him to live on all fours around them, +crawling from one corner to another. +</p> + +<p> +Christine, who for quite a long while had not shared Claude’s daily work, +now once more found herself beside him throughout his long hours of toil. She +helped him to scrape and pumice the old canvas of the big picture, and gave him +advice about attaching it more securely to the wall. But they found that +another disaster had befallen them—the steps had become warped by the +water constantly trickling through the roof, and, for fear of an accident, +Claude had to strengthen them with an oak cross-piece, she handing him the +necessary nails one by one. Then once more, and for the second time, everything +was ready. She watched him again outlining the work, standing behind him the +while, till she felt faint with fatigue, and finally dropping to the floor, +where she remained squatting, and still looking at him. +</p> + +<p> +Ah! how she would have liked to snatch him from that painting which had seized +hold of him! It was for that purpose that she made herself his servant, only +too happy to lower herself to a labourer’s toil. Since she shared his +work again, since the three of them, he, she, and the canvas, were side by +side, her hope revived. If he had escaped her when she, all alone, cried her +eyes out in the Rue de Douai, if he lingered till late in the Rue Tourlaque, +fascinated as by a mistress, perhaps now that she was present she might regain +her hold over him. Ah, painting, painting! in what jealous hatred she held it! +Hers was no longer the revolt of a girl of the bourgeoisie, who painted neatly +in water-colours, against independent, brutal, magnificent art. No, little by +little she had come to understand it, drawn towards it at first by her love for +the painter, and gained over afterwards by the feast of light, by the original +charm of the bright tints which Claude’s works displayed. And now she had +accepted everything, even lilac-tinted soil and blue trees. Indeed, a kind of +respect made her quiver before those works which had at first seemed so horrid +to her. She recognised their power well enough, and treated them like rivals +about whom one could no longer joke. But her vindictiveness grew in proportion +to her admiration; she revolted at having to stand by and witness, as it were, +a diminution of herself, the blow of another love beneath her own roof. +</p> + +<p> +At first there was a silent struggle of every minute. She thrust herself +forward, interposed whatever she could, a hand, a shoulder, between the painter +and his picture. She was always there, encompassing him with her breath, +reminding him that he was hers. Then her old idea revived—she also would +paint; she would seek and join him in the depths of his art fever. Every day +for a whole month she put on a blouse, and worked like a pupil by the side of a +master, diligently copying one of his sketches, and she only gave in when she +found the effort turn against her object; for, deceived, as it were, by their +joint work, he finished by forgetting that she was a woman, and lived with her +on a footing of mere comradeship as between man and man. Accordingly she +resorted to what was her only strength. +</p> + +<p> +To perfect some of the small figures of his latter pictures, Claude had many a +time already taken the hint of a head, the pose of an arm, the attitude of a +body from Christine. He threw a cloak over her shoulders, and caught her in the +posture he wanted, shouting to her not to stir. These were little services +which she showed herself only too pleased to render him, but she had not +hitherto cared to go further, for she was hurt by the idea of being a model now +that she was his wife. However, since Claude had broadly outlined the large +upright female figure which was to occupy the centre of his picture, Christine +had looked at the vague silhouette in a dreamy way, worried by an ever-pursuing +thought before which all scruples vanished. And so, when he spoke of taking a +model, she offered herself, reminding him that she had posed for the figure in +the ‘Open Air’ subject, long ago. ‘A model,’ she added, +‘would cost you seven francs a sitting. We are not so rich, we may as +well save the money.’ +</p> + +<p> +The question of economy decided him at once. +</p> + +<p> +‘I’m agreeable, and it’s even very good of you to show such +courage, for you know that it is not a bit of pastime to sit for me. Never +mind, you had better confess to it, you big silly, you are afraid of another +woman coming here; you are jealous.’ +</p> + +<p> +Jealous! Yes, indeed she was jealous, so she suffered agony. But she snapped +her fingers at other women; all the models in Paris might have sat to him for +what she cared. She had but one rival, that painting, that art which robbed her +of him. +</p> + +<p> +Claude, who was delighted, at first made a study, a simple academic study, in +the attitude required for his picture. They waited until Jacques had gone to +school, and the sitting lasted for hours. During the earlier days Christine +suffered a great deal from being obliged to remain in the same position; then +she grew used to it, not daring to complain, lest she might vex him, and even +restraining her tears when he roughly pushed her about. And he soon acquired +the habit of doing so, treating her like a mere model; more exacting with her, +however, than if he had paid her, never afraid of unduly taxing her strength, +since she was his wife. He employed her for every purpose, at every minute, for +an arm, a foot, the most trifling detail that he stood in need of. And thus in +a way he lowered her to the level of a ‘living lay figure,’ which +he stuck in front of him and copied as he might have copied a pitcher or a +stew-pan for a bit of still life. +</p> + +<p> +This time Claude proceeded leisurely, and before roughing in the large figure +he tired Christine for months by making her pose in twenty different ways. At +last, one day, he began the roughing in. It was an autumnal morning, the north +wind was already sharp, and it was by no means warm even in the big studio, +although the stove was roaring. As little Jacques was poorly again and unable +to go to school, they had decided to lock him up in the room at the back, +telling him to be very good. And then the mother settled herself near the +stove, motionless, in the attitude required. +</p> + +<p> +During the first hour, the painter, perched upon his steps, kept glancing at +her, but did not speak a word. Unutterable sadness stole over her, and she felt +afraid of fainting, no longer knowing whether she was suffering from the cold +or from a despair that had come from afar, and the bitterness of which she felt +to be rising within her. Her fatigue became so great that she staggered and +hobbled about on her numbed legs. +</p> + +<p> +‘What, already?’ cried Claude. ‘Why, you haven’t been +at it more than a quarter of an hour. You don’t want to earn your seven +francs, then?’ +</p> + +<p> +He was joking in a gruff voice, delighted with his work. And she had scarcely +recovered the use of her limbs, beneath the dressing-gown she had wrapped round +her, when he went on shouting: ‘Come on, come on, no idling! It’s a +grand day to-day is! I must either show some genius or else kick the +bucket.’ +</p> + +<p> +Then, in a weary way, she at last resumed the pose. +</p> + +<p> +The misfortune was that before long, both by his glances and the language he +used, she fully realised that she herself was as nothing to him. If ever he +praised a limb, a tint, a contour, it was solely from the artistic point of +view. Great enthusiasm and passion he often showed, but it was not passion for +herself as in the old days. She felt confused and deeply mortified. Ah! this +was the end; in her he no longer loved aught but his art, the example of nature +and life! And then, with her eyes gazing into space, she would remain rigid, +like a statue, keeping back the tears which made her heart swell, lacking even +the wretched consolation of being able to cry. And day by day the same sorry +life began afresh for her. To stand there as his model had become her +profession. She could not refuse, however bitter her grief. Their once happy +life was all over, there now seemed to be three people in the place; it was as +if Claude had introduced a mistress into it—that woman he was painting. +The huge picture rose up between them, parted them as with a wall, beyond which +he lived with the other. That duplication of herself well nigh drove Christine +mad with jealousy, and yet she was conscious of the pettiness of her +sufferings, and did not dare to confess them lest he should laugh at her. +However, she did not deceive herself; she fully realised that he preferred her +counterfeit to herself, that her image was the worshipped one, the sole +thought, the affection of his every hour. He almost killed her with long +sittings in that cold draughty studio, in order to enhance the beauty of the +other; upon whom depended all his joys and sorrows according as to whether he +beheld her live or languish beneath his brush. Was not this love? And what +suffering to have to lend herself so that the other might be created, so that +she might be haunted by a nightmare of that rival, so that the latter might for +ever rise between them, more powerful than reality! To think of it! So much +dust, the veriest trifle, a patch of colour on a canvas, a mere semblance +destroying all their happiness!—he, silent, indifferent, brutal at times, +and she, tortured by his desertion, in despair at being unable to drive away +that creature who ever encroached more and more upon their daily life! +</p> + +<p> +And it was then that Christine, finding herself altogether beaten in her +efforts to regain Claude’s love, felt all the sovereignty of art weigh +down upon her. That painting, which she had already accepted without +restriction, she raised still higher in her estimation, placed inside an +awesome tabernacle before which she remained overcome, as before those powerful +divinities of wrath which one honours from the very hatred and fear that they +inspire. Hers was a holy awe, a conviction that struggling was henceforth +useless, that she would be crushed like a bit of straw if she persisted in her +obstinacy. Each of her husband’s canvases became magnified in her eyes, +the smallest assumed triumphal dimensions, even the worst painted of them +overwhelmed her with victory, and she no longer judged them, but grovelled, +trembling, thinking them all formidable, and invariably replying to +Claude’s questions: +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, yes; very good! Oh, superb! Oh, very, very extraordinary that +one!’ +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless, she harboured no anger against him; she still worshipped him with +tearful tenderness, as she saw him thus consume himself with efforts. After a +few weeks of successful work, everything got spoilt again; he could not finish +his large female figure. At times he almost killed his model with fatigue, +keeping hard at work for days and days together, then leaving the picture +untouched for a whole month. The figure was begun anew, relinquished, painted +all over again at least a dozen times. One year, two years went by without the +picture reaching completion. Though sometimes it was almost finished, it was +scratched out the next morning and painted entirely over again. +</p> + +<p> +Ah! what an effort of creation it was, an effort of blood and tears, filling +Claude with agony in his attempt to beget flesh and instil life! Ever battling +with reality, and ever beaten, it was a struggle with the Angel. He was wearing +himself out with this impossible task of making a canvas hold all nature; he +became exhausted at last with the pains which racked his muscles without ever +being able to bring his genius to fruition. What others were satisfied with, a +more or less faithful rendering, the various necessary bits of trickery, filled +him with remorse, made him as indignant as if in resorting to such practices +one were guilty of ignoble cowardice; and thus he began his work over and over +again, spoiling what was good through his craving to do better. He would always +be dissatisfied with his women—so his friends jokingly +declared—until they flung their arms round his neck. What was lacking in +his power that he could not endow them with life? Very little, no doubt. +Sometimes he went beyond the right point, sometimes he stopped short of it. One +day the words, ‘an incomplete genius,’ which he overheard, both +flattered and frightened him. Yes, it must be that; he jumped too far or not +far enough; he suffered from a want of nervous balance; he was afflicted with +some hereditary derangement which, because there were a few grains the more or +the less of some substance in his brain, was making him a lunatic instead of a +great man. Whenever a fit of despair drove him from his studio, whenever he +fled from his work, he now carried about with him that idea of fatal impotence, +and he heard it beating against his skull like the obstinate tolling of a +funeral bell. +</p> + +<p> +His life became wretched. Never had doubt of himself pursued him in that way +before. He disappeared for whole days together; he even stopped out a whole +night, coming back the next morning stupefied, without being able to say where +he had gone. It was thought that he had been tramping through the outskirts of +Paris rather than find himself face to face with his spoilt work. His sole +relief was to flee the moment that work filled him with shame and hatred, and +to remain away until he felt sufficient courage to face it once more. And not +even his wife dared to question him on his return—indeed, she was only +too happy to see him back again after her anxious waiting. At such times he +madly scoured Paris, especially the outlying quarters, from a longing to debase +himself and hob-nob with labourers. He expressed at each recurring crisis his +old regret at not being some mason’s hodman. Did not happiness consist in +having solid limbs, and in performing the work one was built for well and +quickly? He had wrecked his life; he ought to have got himself engaged in the +building line in the old times when he had lunched at the ‘Dog of +Montargis,’ Gomard’s tavern, where he had known a Limousin, a big, +strapping, merry fellow, whose brawny arms he envied. Then, on coming back to +the Rue Tourlaque, with his legs faint and his head empty, he gave his picture +much the same distressful, frightened glance as one casts at a corpse in a +mortuary, until fresh hope of resuscitating it, of endowing it with life, +brought a flush to his face once more. +</p> + +<p> +One day Christine was posing, and the figure of the woman was again well nigh +finished. For the last hour, however, Claude had been growing gloomy, losing +the childish delight that he had displayed at the beginning of the sitting. So +his wife scarcely dared to breathe, feeling by her own discomfort that +everything must be going wrong once more, and afraid that she might accelerate +the catastrophe if she moved as much as a finger. And, surely enough, he +suddenly gave a cry of anguish, and launched forth an oath in a thunderous +voice. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, curse it! curse it!’ +</p> + +<p> +He had flung his handful of brushes from the top of the steps. Then, blinded +with rage, with one blow of his fist he transpierced the canvas. +</p> + +<p> +Christine held out her trembling hands. +</p> + +<p> +‘My dear, my dear!’ +</p> + +<p> +But when she had flung a dressing-gown over her shoulders, and approached the +picture, she experienced keen delight, a burst of satisfied hatred. +Claude’s fist had struck ‘the other one’ full in the bosom, +and there was a gaping hole! At last, then, that other one was killed! +</p> + +<p> +Motionless, horror-struck by that murder, Claude stared at the perforated +bosom. Poignant grief came upon him at the sight of the wound whence the blood +of his work seemed to flow. Was it possible? Was it he who had thus murdered +what he loved best of all on earth? His anger changed into stupor; his fingers +wandered over the canvas, drawing the ragged edges of the rent together, as if +he had wished to close the bleeding gash. He was choking; he stammered, +distracted with boundless grief: +</p> + +<p> +‘She is killed, she is killed!’ +</p> + +<p> +Then Christine, in her maternal love for that big child of an artist, felt +moved to her very entrails. She forgave him as usual. She saw well enough that +he now had but one thought—to mend the rent, to repair the evil at once; +and she helped him; it was she who held the shreds together, whilst he from +behind glued a strip of canvas against them. When she dressed herself, +‘the other one’ was there again, immortal, simply retaining near +her heart a slight scar, which seemed to make her doubly dear to the painter. +</p> + +<p> +As this unhinging of Claude’s faculties increased, he drifted into a sort +of superstition, into a devout belief in certain processes and methods. He +banished oil from his colours, and spoke of it as of a personal enemy. On the +other hand, he held that turpentine produced a solid unpolished surface, and he +had some secrets of his own which he hid from everybody; solutions of amber, +liquefied copal, and other resinous compounds that made colours dry quickly, +and prevented them from cracking. But he experienced some terrible worries, as +the absorbent nature of the canvas at once sucked in the little oil contained +in the paint. Then the question of brushes had always worried him greatly; he +insisted on having them with special handles; and objecting to sable, he used +nothing but oven-dried badger hair. More important, however, than everything +else was the question of palette-knives, which, like Courbet, he used for his +backgrounds. He had quite a collection of them, some long and flexible, others +broad and squat, and one which was triangular like a glazier’s, and which +had been expressly made for him. It was the real Delacroix knife. Besides, he +never made use of the scraper or razor, which he considered beneath an +artist’s dignity. But, on the other hand, he indulged in all sorts of +mysterious practices in applying his colours, concocted recipes and changed +them every month, and suddenly fancied that he had bit on the right system of +painting, when, after repudiating oil and its flow, he began to lay on +successive touches until he arrived at the exact tone he required. One of his +fads for a long while was to paint from right to left; for, without confessing +as much, he felt sure that it brought him luck. But the terrible affair which +unhinged him once more was an all-invading theory respecting the complementary +colours. Gagnière had been the first to speak to him on the subject, being +himself equally inclined to technical speculation. After which Claude, impelled +by the exuberance of his passion, took to exaggerating the scientific +principles whereby, from the three primitive colours, yellow, red, and blue, +one derives the three secondary ones, orange, green, and violet, and, further, +a whole series of complementary and similar hues, whose composites are obtained +mathematically from one another. Thus science entered into painting, there was +a method for logical observation already. One only had to take the +predominating hue of a picture, and note the complementary or similar colours, +to establish experimentally what variations would occur; for instance, red +would turn yellowish if it were near blue, and a whole landscape would change +in tint by the refractions and the very decomposition of light, according to +the clouds passing over it. Claude then accurately came to this conclusion: +That objects have no real fixed colour; that they assume various hues according +to ambient circumstances; but the misfortune was that when he took to direct +observation, with his brain throbbing with scientific formulas, his prejudiced +vision lent too much force to delicate shades, and made him render what was +theoretically correct in too vivid a manner: thus his style, once so bright, so +full of the palpitation of sunlight, ended in a reversal of everything to which +the eye was accustomed, giving, for instance, flesh of a violet tinge under +tricoloured skies. Insanity seemed to be at the end of it all. +</p> + +<p> +Poverty finished off Claude. It had gradually increased, while the family spent +money without counting; and, when the last copper of the twenty thousand francs +had gone, it swooped down upon them—horrible and irreparable. Christine, +who wanted to look for work, was incapable of doing anything, even ordinary +needlework. She bewailed her lot, twirling her fingers and inveighing against +the idiotic young lady’s education that she had received, since it had +given her no profession, and her only resource would be to enter into domestic +service, should life still go against them. Claude, on his side, had become a +subject of chaff with the Parisians, and no longer sold a picture. An +independent exhibition at which he and some friends had shown some pictures, +had finished him off as regards amateurs—so merry had the public become +at the sight of his canvases, streaked with all the colours of the rainbow. The +dealers fled from him. M. Hue alone now and then made a pilgrimage to the Rue +Tourlaque, and remained in ecstasy before the exaggerated bits, those which +blazed in unexpected pyrotechnical fashion, in despair at being unable to cover +them with gold. And though the painter wanted to make him a present of them, +implored him to accept them, the old fellow displayed extraordinary delicacy of +feeling. He pinched himself to amass a small sum of money from time to time, +and then religiously took away the seemingly delirious picture, to hang it +beside his masterpieces. Such windfalls came too seldom, and Claude was obliged +to descend to ‘trade art,’ repugnant as it was to him. Such, +indeed, was his despair at having fallen into that poison house, where he had +sworn never to set foot, that he would have preferred starving to death, but +for the two poor beings who were dependent on him and who suffered like +himself. He became familiar with ‘viae dolorosae’ painted at +reduced prices, with male and female saints at so much per gross, even with +‘pounced’ shop blinds—in short, all the ignoble jobs that +degrade painting and make it so much idiotic delineation, lacking even the +charm of naivete. He even suffered the humiliation of having portraits at +five-and-twenty francs a-piece refused, because he failed to produce a +likeness; and he reached the lowest degree of distress—he worked +according to size for the petty dealers who sell daubs on the bridges, and +export them to semi-civilised countries. They bought his pictures at two and +three francs a-piece, according to the regulation dimensions. This was like +physical decay, it made him waste away; he rose from such tasks feeling ill, +incapable of serious work, looking at his large picture in distress, and +leaving it sometimes untouched for a week, as if he had felt his hands befouled +and unworthy of working at it. +</p> + +<p> +They scarcely had bread to eat, and the huge shanty, which Christine had shown +herself so proud of, on settling in it, became uninhabitable in the winter. +She, once such an active housewife, now dragged herself about the place, +without courage even to sweep the floor, and thus everything lapsed into +abandonment. In the disaster little Jacques was sadly weakened by unwholesome +and insufficient food, for their meals often consisted of a mere crust, eaten +standing. With their lives thus ill-regulated, uncared for, they were drifting +to the filth of the poor who lose even all self-pride. +</p> + +<p> +At the close of another year, Claude, on one of those days of defeat, when he +fled from his miscarried picture, met an old acquaintance. This time he had +sworn he would never go home again, and he had been tramping across Paris since +noon, as if at his heels he had heard the wan spectre of the big, nude figure +of his picture—ravaged by constant retouching, and always left +incomplete—pursuing him with a passionate craving for birth. The mist was +melting into a yellowish drizzle, befouling the muddy streets. It was about +five o’clock, and he was crossing the Rue Royale like one walking in his +sleep, at the risk of being run over, his clothes in rags and mud-bespattered +up to his neck, when a brougham suddenly drew up. +</p> + +<p> +‘Claude, eh? Claude!—is that how you pass your friends?’ +</p> + +<p> +It was Irma Bécot who spoke, Irma in a charming grey silk dress, covered with +Chantilly lace. She had hastily let down the window, and she sat smiling, +beaming in the frame-work of the carriage door. +</p> + +<p> +‘Where are you going?’ +</p> + +<p> +He, staring at her open-mouthed, replied that he was going nowhere. At which +she merrily expressed surprise in a loud voice, looking at him with her saucy +eyes. +</p> + +<p> +‘Get in, then; it’s such a long while since we met,’ said +she. ‘Get in, or you’ll be knocked down.’ +</p> + +<p> +And, in fact, the other drivers were getting impatient, and urging their horses +on, amidst a terrible din, so he did as he was bidden, feeling quite dazed; and +she drove him away, dripping, with the unmistakable signs of his poverty upon +him, in the brougham lined with blue satin, where he sat partly on the lace of +her skirt, while the cabdrivers jeered at the elopement before falling into +line again. +</p> + +<p> +When Claude came back to the Rue Tourlaque he was in a dazed condition, and for +a couple of days remained musing whether after all he might not have taken the +wrong course in life. He seemed so strange that Christine questioned him, +whereupon he at first stuttered and stammered, and finally confessed +everything. There was a scene; she wept for a long while, then pardoned him +once more, full of infinite indulgence for him. And, indeed, amidst all her +bitter grief there sprang up a hope that he might yet return to her, for if he +could deceive her thus he could not care as much as she had imagined for that +hateful painted creature who stared down from the big canvas. +</p> + +<p> +The days went by, and towards the middle of the winter Claude’s courage +revived once more. One day, while putting some old frames in order, he came +upon a roll of canvas which had fallen behind the other pictures. On opening +the roll he found on it the nude figure, the reclining woman of his old +painting, ‘In the Open Air,’ which he had cut out when the picture +had come back to him from the Salon of the Rejected. And, as he gazed at it, he +uttered a cry of admiration: +</p> + +<p> +‘By the gods, how beautiful it is!’ +</p> + +<p> +He at once secured it to the wall with four nails, and remained for hours in +contemplation before it. His hands shook, the blood rushed to his face. Was it +possible that he had painted such a masterly thing? He had possessed genius in +those days then. So his skull, his eyes, his fingers had been changed. He +became so feverishly excited and felt such a need of unburthening himself to +somebody, that at last he called his wife. +</p> + +<p> +‘Just come and have a look. Isn’t her attitude good, eh? How +delicately her muscles are articulated! Just look at that bit there, full of +sunlight. And at the shoulder here. Ah, heavens! it’s full of life; I can +feel it throb as I touch it.’ +</p> + +<p> +Christine, standing by, kept looking and answering in monosyllables. This +resurrection of herself, after so many years, had at first flattered and +surprised her. But on seeing him become so excited, she gradually felt +uncomfortable and irritated, without knowing why. +</p> + +<p> +‘Tell me,’ he continued, ‘don’t you think her beautiful +enough for one to go on one’s knees to her?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, yes. But she has become rather blackish—’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude protested vehemently. Become blackish, what an idea! That woman would +never grow black; she possessed immortal youth! Veritable passion had seized +hold of him; he spoke of the figure as of a living being; he had sudden +longings to look at her that made him leave everything else, as if he were +hurrying to an appointment. +</p> + +<p> +Then, one morning, he was taken with a fit of work. +</p> + +<p> +‘But, confound it all, as I did that, I can surely do it again,’ he +said. ‘Ah, this time, unless I’m a downright brute, we’ll see +about it.’ +</p> + +<p> +And Christine had to give him a sitting there and then. For eight hours a day, +indeed, during a whole month he kept her before him, without compassion for her +increasing exhaustion or for the fatigue he felt himself. He obstinately +insisted upon producing a masterpiece; he was determined that the upright +figure of his big picture should equal that reclining one which he saw on the +wall, beaming with life. He constantly referred to it, compared it with the one +he was painting, distracted by the fear of being unable to equal it. He cast +one glance at it, another at Christine, and a third at his canvas, and burst +into oaths whenever he felt dissatisfied. He ended by abusing his wife. +</p> + +<p> +She was no longer young. Age had spoilt her figure, and that it was which +spoilt his work. She listened, and staggered in her very grief. Those sittings, +from which she had already suffered so much, were becoming unbearable torture +now. What was this new freak of crushing her with her own girlhood, of fanning +her jealousy by filling her with regret for vanished beauty? She was becoming +her own rival, she could no longer look at that old picture of herself without +being stung at the heart by hateful envy. Ah, how heavily had that picture, +that study she had sat for long ago, weighed upon her existence! The whole of +her misfortunes sprang from it. It had changed the current of her existence. +And it had come to life again, it rose from the dead, endowed with greater +vitality than herself, to finish killing her, for there was no longer aught but +one woman for Claude—she who was shown reclining on the old canvas, and +who now arose and became the upright figure of his new picture. +</p> + +<p> +Then Christine felt herself growing older and older at each successive sitting. +And she experienced the infinite despair which comes upon passionate women when +love, like beauty, abandons them. Was it because of this that Claude no longer +cared for her, that he sought refuge in an unnatural passion for his work? She +soon lost all clear perception of things; she fell into a state of utter +neglect, going about in a dressing jacket and dirty petticoats, devoid of all +coquettish feeling, discouraged by the idea that it was useless for her to +continue struggling, since she had become old. +</p> + +<p> +There were occasionally abominable scenes between her and Claude, who this +time, however, obstinately stuck to his work and finished his picture, swearing +that, come what might, he would send it to the Salon. He lived on his steps, +cleaning up his backgrounds until dark. At last, thoroughly exhausted, he +declared that he would touch the canvas no more; and Sandoz, on coming to see +him one day, at four o’clock, did not find him at home. Christine +declared that he had just gone out to take a breath of air on the height of +Montmartre. +</p> + +<p> +The breach between Claude and his old friends had gradually widened. With time +the latters’ visits had become brief and far between, for they felt +uncomfortable when they found themselves face to face with that disturbing +style of painting; and they were more and more upset by the unhinging of a mind +which had been the admiration of their youth. Now all had fled; none excepting +Sandoz ever came. Gagnière had even left Paris, to settle down in one of the +two houses he owned at Melun, where he lived frugally upon the proceeds of the +other one, after suddenly marrying, to every one’s surprise, an old maid, +his music mistress, who played Wagner to him of an evening. As for Mahoudeau, +he alleged work as an excuse for not coming, and indeed he was beginning to +earn some money, thanks to a bronze manufacturer, who employed him to touch up +his models. Matters were different with Jory, whom no one saw, since Mathilde +despotically kept him sequestrated. She had conquered him, and he had fallen +into a kind of domesticity comparable to that of a faithful dog, yielding up +the keys of his cashbox, and only carrying enough money about him to buy a +cigar at a time. It was even said that Mathilde, like the devotee she had once +been, had thrown him into the arms of the Church, in order to consolidate her +conquest, and that she was constantly talking to him about death, of which he +was horribly afraid. Fagerolles alone affected a lively, cordial feeling +towards his old friend Claude whenever he happened to meet him. He then always +promised to go and see him, but never did so. He was so busy since his great +success, in such request, advertised, celebrated, on the road to every +imaginable honour and form of fortune! And Claude regretted nobody save +Dubuche, to whom he still felt attached, from a feeling of affection for the +old reminiscences of boyhood, notwithstanding the disagreements which +difference of disposition had provoked later on. But Dubuche, it appeared, was +not very happy either. No doubt he was gorged with millions, but he led a +wretched life, constantly at logger-heads with his father-in-law (who +complained of having been deceived with regard to his capabilities as an +architect), and obliged to pass his life amidst the medicine bottles of his +ailing wife and his two children, who, having been prematurely born, had to be +reared virtually in cotton wool. +</p> + +<p> +Of all the old friends, therefore, there only remained Sandoz, who still found +his way to the Rue Tourlaque. He came thither for little Jacques, his godson, +and for the sorrowing woman also, that Christine whose passionate features +amidst all this distress moved him deeply, like a vision of one of the ardently +amorous creatures whom he would have liked to embody in his books. But, above +all, his feeling of artistic brotherliness had increased since he had seen +Claude losing ground, foundering amidst the heroic folly of art. At first he +had remained utterly astonished at it, for he had believed in his friend more +than in himself. Since their college days, he had always placed himself second, +while setting Claude very high on fame’s ladder—on the same rung, +indeed, as the masters who revolutionise a period. Then he had been grievously +affected by that bankruptcy of genius; he had become full of bitter, heartfelt +pity at the sight of the horrible torture of impotency. Did one ever know who +was the madman in art? Every failure touched him to the quick, and the more a +picture or a book verged upon aberration, sank to the grotesque and lamentable, +the more did Sandoz quiver with compassion, the more did he long to lull to +sleep, in the soothing extravagance of their dreams, those who were thus +blasted by their own work. +</p> + +<p> +On the day when Sandoz called, and failed to find Claude at home, he did not go +away; but, seeing Christine’s eyelids red with crying, he said: +</p> + +<p> +‘If you think that he’ll be in soon, I’ll wait for +him.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh! he surely won’t be long.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘In that case I’ll wait, unless I am in your way.’ +</p> + +<p> +Never had her demeanour, the crushed look of a neglected woman, her listless +movements, her slow speech, her indifference for everything but the passion +that was consuming her, moved him so deeply. For the last week, perhaps, she +had not put a chair in its place, or dusted a piece of furniture; she left the +place to go to wreck and ruin, scarcely having the strength to drag herself +about. And it was enough to break one’s heart to behold that misery +ending in filth beneath the glaring light from the big window; to gaze on that +ill-pargetted shanty, so bare and disorderly, where one shivered with +melancholy although it was a bright February afternoon. +</p> + +<p> +Christine had slowly sat down beside an iron bedstead, which Sandoz had not +noticed when he came in. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hallo,’ he said, ‘is Jacques ill?’ +</p> + +<p> +She was covering up the child, who constantly flung off the bedclothes. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, he hasn’t been up these three days. We brought his bed in +here so that he might be with us. He was never very strong. But he is getting +worse and worse, it’s distracting.’ +</p> + +<p> +She had a fixed stare in her eyes and spoke in a monotonous tone, and Sandoz +felt frightened when he drew up to the bedside. The child’s pale head +seemed to have grown bigger still, so heavy that he could no longer support it. +He lay perfectly still, and one might have thought he was dead, but for the +heavy breathing coming from between his discoloured lips. +</p> + +<p> +‘My poor little Jacques, it’s I, your godfather. Won’t you +say how d’ye do?’ +</p> + +<p> +The child made a fruitless, painful effort to lift his head; his eyelids +parted, showing his white eyeballs, then closed again. +</p> + +<p> +‘Have you sent for a doctor?’ +</p> + +<p> +Christine shrugged her shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh! doctors, what do they know?’ she answered. ‘We sent for +one; he said that there was nothing to be done. Let us hope that it will pass +over again. He is close upon twelve years old now, and maybe he is growing too +fast.’ +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz, quite chilled, said nothing for fear of increasing her anxiety, since +she did not seem to realise the gravity of the disease. He walked about in +silence and stopped in front of the picture. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ho, ho! it’s getting on; it’s on the right road this +time.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s finished.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What! finished?’ +</p> + +<p> +And when she told him that the canvas was to be sent to the Salon that next +week, he looked embarrassed, and sat down on the couch, like a man who wishes +to judge the work leisurely. The background, the quays, the Seine, whence arose +the triumphal point of the Cité, still remained in a sketchy +state—masterly, however, but as if the painter had been afraid of +spoiling the Paris of his dream by giving it greater finish. There was also an +excellent group on the left, the lightermen unloading the sacks of plaster +being carefully and powerfully treated. But the boat full of women in the +centre transpierced the picture, as it were, with a blaze of flesh-tints which +were quite out of place; and the brilliancy and hallucinatory proportions of +the large nude figure which Claude had painted in a fever seemed strangely, +disconcertingly false amidst the reality of all the rest. +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz, silent, fell despair steal over him as he sat in front of that +magnificent failure. But he saw Christine’s eyes fixed upon him, and had +sufficient strength of mind to say: +</p> + +<p> +‘Astounding!—the woman, astounding!’ +</p> + +<p> +At that moment Claude came in, and on seeing his old chum he uttered a joyous +exclamation and shook his hand vigorously. Then he approached Christine, and +kissed little Jacques, who had once more thrown off the bedclothes. +</p> + +<p> +‘How is he?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Just the same.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘To be sure, to be sure; he is growing too fast. A few days’ rest +will set him all right. I told you not to be uneasy.’ +</p> + +<p> +And Claude thereupon sat down beside Sandoz on the couch. They both took their +ease, leaning back, with their eyes surveying the picture; while Christine, +seated by the bed, looked at nothing, and seemingly thought of nothing, in the +everlasting desolation of her heart. Night was slowly coming on, the vivid +light from the window paled already, losing its sheen amidst the slowly-falling +crepuscular dimness. +</p> + +<p> +‘So it’s settled; your wife told me that you were going to send it +in.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You are right; you had better have done with it once for all. Oh, there +are some magnificent bits in it. The quay in perspective to the left, the man +who shoulders that sack below. But—’ +</p> + +<p> +He hesitated, then finally took the bull by the horns. +</p> + +<p> +‘But, it’s odd that you have persisted in leaving those women nude. +It isn’t logical, I assure you; and, besides, you promised me you would +dress them—don’t you remember? You have set your heart upon them +very much then?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes.’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude answered curtly, with the obstinacy of one mastered by a fixed idea and +unwilling to give any explanations. Then he crossed his arms behind his head, +and began talking of other things, without, however, taking his eyes off his +picture, over which the twilight began to cast a slight shadow. +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you know where I have just come from?’ he asked. ‘I have +been to Courajod’s. You know, the great landscape painter, whose +“Pond of Gagny” is at the Luxembourg. You remember, I thought he +was dead, and we were told that he lived hereabouts, on the other side of the +hill, in the Rue de l’Abreuvoir. Well, old boy, he worried me, did +Courajod. While taking a breath of air now and then up there, I discovered his +shanty, and I could no longer pass in front of it without wanting to go inside. +Just think, a master, a man who invented our modern landscape school, and who +lives there, unknown, done for, like a mole in its hole! You can have no idea +of the street or the caboose: a village street, full of fowls, and bordered by +grassy banks; and a caboose like a child’s toy, with tiny windows, a tiny +door, a tiny garden. Oh! the garden—a mere patch of soil, sloping down +abruptly, with a bed where four pear trees stand, and the rest taken up by a +fowl-house, made out of green boards, old plaster, and wire network, held +together with bits of string.’ +</p> + +<p> +His words came slowly; he blinked while he spoke as if the thought of his +picture had returned to him and was gradually taking possession of him, to such +a degree as to hamper him in his speech about other matters. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, as luck would have it, I found Courajod on his doorstep to-day. An +old man of more than eighty, wrinkled and shrunk to the size of a boy. I should +like you to see him, with his clogs, his peasant’s jersey and his +coloured handkerchief wound over his head as if he were an old market-woman. I +pluckily went up to him, saying, “Monsieur Courajod, I know you very +well; you have a picture in the Luxembourg Gallery which is a masterpiece. +Allow a painter to shake hands with you as he would with his master.” And +then you should have seen him take fright, draw back and stutter, as if I were +going to strike him. A regular flight! However, I followed him, and gradually +he recovered his composure, and showed me his hens, his ducks, his rabbits and +dogs—an extraordinary collection of birds and beasts; there was even a +raven among them. He lives in the midst of them all; he speaks to no one but +his animals. As for the view, it’s simply magnificent; you see the whole +of the St. Denis plain for miles upon miles; rivers and towns, smoking +factory-chimneys, and puffing railway-engines; in short, the place is a real +hermitage on a hill, with its back turned to Paris and its eyes fixed on the +boundless country. As a matter of course, I came back to his picture. +“Oh, Monsieur Courajod,” said I, “what talent you showed! If +you only knew how much we all admire you. You are one of our illustrious men; +you’ll remain the ancestor of us all.” But his lips began to +tremble again; he looked at me with an air of terror-stricken stupidity; I am +sure he would not have waved me back with a more imploring gesture if I had +unearthed under his very eyes the corpse of some forgotten comrade of his +youth. He kept chewing disconnected words between his toothless gums; it was +the mumbling of an old man who had sunk into second childhood, and whom +it’s impossible to understand. “Don’t know—so long +ago—too old—don’t care a rap.” To make a long story +short, he showed me the door; I heard him hurriedly turn the key in lock, +barricading himself and his birds and animals against the admiration of the +outside world. Ah, my good fellow, the idea of it! That great man ending his +life like a retired grocer; that voluntary relapse into +“nothingness” even before death. Ah, the glory, the glory for which +we others are ready to die!’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude’s voice, which had sunk lower and lower, died away at last in a +melancholy sigh. Darkness was still coming on; after gradually collecting in +the corners, it rose like a slow, inexorable tide, first submerging the legs of +the chairs and the table, all the confusion of things that littered the tiled +floor. The lower part of the picture was already growing dim, and Claude, with +his eyes still desperately fixed on it, seemed to be watching the ascent of the +darkness as if he had at last judged his work in the expiring light. And no +sound was heard save the stertorous breathing of the sick child, near whom +there still loomed the dark silhouette of the motionless mother. +</p> + +<p> +Then Sandoz spoke in his turn, his hands also crossed behind his head, and his +back resting against one of the cushions of the couch. +</p> + +<p> +‘Does one ever know? Would it not be better, perhaps, to live and die +unknown? What a sell it would be if artistic glory existed no more than the +Paradise which is talked about in catechisms and which even children nowadays +make fun of! We, who no longer believe in the Divinity, still believe in our +own immortality. What a farce it all is!’ +</p> + +<p> +Then, affected to melancholy himself by the mournfulness of the twilight, and +stirred by all the human suffering he beheld around him, he began to speak of +his own torments. +</p> + +<p> +‘Look here, old man, I, whom you envy, perhaps—yes, I, who am +beginning to get on in the world, as middle-class people say—I, who +publish books and earn a little money—well, I am being killed by it all. +I have often already told you this, but you don’t believe me, because, as +you only turn out work with a deal of trouble and cannot bring yourself to +public notice, happiness in your eyes could naturally consist in producing a +great deal, in being seen, and praised or slated. Well, get admitted to the +next Salon, get into the thick of the battle, paint other pictures, and then +tell me whether that suffices, and whether you are happy at last. Listen; work +has taken up the whole of my existence. Little by little, it has robbed me of +my mother, of my wife, of everything I love. It is like a germ thrown into the +cranium, which feeds on the brain, finds its way into the trunk and limbs, and +gnaws up the whole of the body. The moment I jump out of bed of a morning, work +clutches hold of me, rivets me to my desk without leaving me time to get a +breath of fresh air; then it pursues me at luncheon—I audibly chew my +sentences with my bread. Next it accompanies me when I go out, comes back with +me and dines off the same plate as myself; lies down with me on my pillow, so +utterly pitiless that I am never able to set the book in hand on one side; +indeed, its growth continues even in the depth of my sleep. And nothing outside +of it exists for me. True, I go upstairs to embrace my mother, but in so +absent-minded a way, that ten minutes after leaving her I ask myself whether I +have really been to wish her good-morning. My poor wife has no husband; I am +not with her even when our hands touch. Sometimes I have an acute feeling that +I am making their lives very sad, and I feel very remorseful, for happiness is +solely composed of kindness, frankness and gaiety in one’s home; but how +can I escape from the claws of the monster? I at once relapse into the +somnambulism of my working hours, into the indifference and moroseness of my +fixed idea. If the pages I have written during the morning have been worked off +all right, so much the better; if one of them has remained in distress, so much +the worse. The household will laugh or cry according to the whim of that +all-devouring monster—Work. No, no! I have nothing that I can call my +own. In my days of poverty I dreamt of rest in the country, of travel in +distant lands; and now that I might make those dreams reality, the work that +has been begun keeps me shut up. There is no chance of a walk in the +morning’s sun, no chance of running round to a friend’s house, or +of a mad bout of idleness! My strength of will has gone with the rest; all this +has become a habit; I have locked the door of the world behind me, and thrown +the key out of the window. There is no longer anything in my den but work and +myself—and work will devour me, and then there will be nothing left, +nothing at all!’ +</p> + +<p> +He paused, and silence reigned once more in the deepening gloom. Then he began +again with an effort: +</p> + +<p> +‘And if one were only satisfied, if one only got some enjoyment out of +such a nigger’s life! Ah! I should like to know how those fellows manage +who smoke cigarettes and complacently stroke their beards while they are at +work. Yes, it appears to me that there are some who find production an easy +pleasure, to be set aside or taken up without the least excitement. They are +delighted, they admire themselves, they cannot write a couple of lines but they +find those lines of a rare, distinguished, matchless quality. Well, as for +myself, I bring forth in anguish, and my offspring seems a horror to me. How +can a man be sufficiently wanting in self-doubt as to believe in himself? It +absolutely amazes me to see men, who furiously deny talent to everybody else, +lose all critical acumen, all common-sense, when it becomes a question of their +own bastard creations. Why, a book is always very ugly. To like it one +mustn’t have had a hand in the cooking of it. I say nothing of the +jugsful of insults that are showered upon one. Instead of annoying, they rather +encourage me. I see men who are upset by attacks, who feel a humiliating +craving to win sympathy. It is a simple question of temperament; some women +would die if they failed to please. But, to my thinking, insult is a very good +medicine to take; unpopularity is a very manly school to be brought up in. +Nothing keeps one in such good health and strength as the hooting of a crowd of +imbeciles. It suffices that a man can say that he has given his life’s +blood to his work; that he expects neither immediate justice nor serious +attention; that he works without hope of any kind, and simply because the love +of work beats beneath his skin like his heart, irrespective of any will of his +own. If he can do all this, he may die in the effort with the consoling +illusion that he will be appreciated one day or other. Ah! if the others only +knew how jauntily I bear the weight of their anger. Only there is my own +choler, which overwhelms me; I fret that I cannot live for a moment happy. What +hours of misery I spend, great heavens! from the very day I begin a novel. +During the first chapters there isn’t so much trouble. I have plenty of +room before me in which to display genius. But afterwards I become distracted, +and am never satisfied with the daily task; I condemn the book before it is +finished, judging it inferior to its elders; and I torture myself about certain +pages, about certain sentences, certain words, so that at last the very commas +assume an ugly look, from which I suffer. And when it is finished—ah! +when it is finished, what a relief! Not the enjoyment of the gentleman who +exalts himself in the worship of his offspring, but the curse of the labourer +who throws down the burden that has been breaking his back. Then, later on, +with another book, it all begins afresh; it will always begin afresh, and I +shall die under it, furious with myself, exasperated at not having had more +talent, enraged at not leaving a “work” more complete, of greater +dimensions—books upon books, a pile of mountain height! And at my death I +shall feel horrible doubts about the task I may have accomplished, asking +myself whether I ought not to have gone to the left when I went to the right, +and my last word, my last gasp, will be to recommence the whole over +again—’ +</p> + +<p> +He was thoroughly moved; the words stuck in his throat; he was obliged to draw +breath for a moment before delivering himself of this passionate cry in which +all his impenitent lyricism took wing: +</p> + +<p> +Ah, life! a second span of life, who shall give it to me, that work may rob me +of it again—that I may die of it once more?’ +</p> + +<p> +It had now become quite dark; the mother’s rigid silhouette was no longer +visible; the hoarse breathing of the child sounded amidst the obscurity like a +terrible and distant signal of distress, uprising from the streets. In the +whole studio, which had become lugubriously black, the big canvas only showed a +glimpse of pallidity, a last vestige of the waning daylight. The nude figure, +similar to an agonising vision, seemed to be floating about, without definite +shape, the legs having already vanished, one arm being already submerged, and +the only part at all distinct being the trunk, which shone like a silvery moon. +</p> + +<p> +After a protracted pause, Sandoz inquired: +</p> + +<p> +‘Shall I go with you when you take your picture?’ +</p> + +<p> +Getting no answer from Claude, he fancied he could hear him crying. Was it with +the same infinite sadness, the despair by which he himself had been stirred +just now? He waited for a moment, then repeated his question, and at last the +painter, after choking down a sob, stammered: +</p> + +<p> +‘Thanks, the picture will remain here; I sha’n’t send +it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What? Why, you had made up your mind?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, yes, I had made up my mind; but I had not seen it as I saw it just +now in the waning daylight. I have failed with it, failed with it +again—it struck my eyes like a blow, it went to my very heart.’ +</p> + +<p> +His tears now flowed slow and scalding in the gloom that hid him from sight. He +had been restraining himself, and now the silent anguish which had consumed him +burst forth despite all his efforts. +</p> + +<p> +‘My poor friend,’ said Sandoz, quite upset; ‘it is hard to +tell you so, but all the same you are right, perhaps, in delaying matters to +finish certain parts rather more. Still I am angry with myself, for I shall +imagine that it was I who discouraged you by my everlasting stupid discontent +with things.’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude simply answered: +</p> + +<p> +‘You! what an idea! I was not even listening to you. No; I was looking, +and I saw everything go helter-skelter in that confounded canvas. The light was +dying away, and all at once, in the greyish dusk, the scales suddenly dropped +from my eyes. The background alone is pretty; the nude woman is altogether too +loud; what’s more, she’s out of the perpendicular, and her legs are +badly drawn. When I noticed that, ah! it was enough to kill me there and then; +I felt life departing from me. Then the gloom kept rising and rising, bringing +a whirling sensation, a foundering of everything, the earth rolling into chaos, +the end of the world. And soon I only saw the trunk waning like a sickly moon. +And look, look! there now remains nothing of her, not a glimpse; she is dead, +quite black!’ +</p> + +<p> +In fact, the picture had at last entirely disappeared. But the painter had +risen and could be heard swearing in the dense obscurity. +</p> + +<p> +‘D—n it all, it doesn’t matter, I’ll set to work at it +again—’ +</p> + +<p> +Then Christine, who had also risen from her chair, against which he stumbled, +interrupted him, saying: ‘Take care, I’ll light the lamp.’ +</p> + +<p> +She lighted it and came back looking very pale, casting a glance of hatred and +fear at the picture. It was not to go then? The abomination was to begin once +more! +</p> + +<p> +‘I’ll set to work at it again,’ repeated Claude, ‘and +it shall kill me, it shall kill my wife, my child, the whole lot; but, by +heaven, it shall be a masterpiece!’ +</p> + +<p> +Christine sat down again; they approached Jacques, who had thrown the clothes +off once more with his feverish little hands. He was still breathing heavily, +lying quite inert, his head buried in the pillow like a weight, with which the +bed seemed to creak. When Sandoz was on the point of going, he expressed his +uneasiness. The mother appeared stupefied; while the father was already +returning to his picture, the masterpiece which awaited creation, and the +thought of which filled him with such passionate illusions that he gave less +heed to the painful reality of the sufferings of his child, the true living +flesh of his flesh. +</p> + +<p> +On the following morning, Claude had just finished dressing, when he heard +Christine calling in a frightened voice. She also had just woke with a start +from the heavy sleep which had benumbed her while she sat watching the sick +child. +</p> + +<p> +‘Claude! Claude! Oh, look! He is dead.’ +</p> + +<p> +The painter rushed forward, with heavy eyes, stumbling, and apparently failing +to understand, for he repeated with an air of profound amazement, ‘What +do you mean by saying he is dead?’ +</p> + +<p> +For a moment they remained staring wildly at the bed. The poor little fellow, +with his disproportionate head—the head of the progeny of genius, +exaggerated as to verge upon cretinism—did not appear to have stirred +since the previous night; but no breath came from his mouth, which had widened +and become discoloured, and his glassy eyes were open. His father laid his +hands upon him and found him icy cold. +</p> + +<p> +‘It is true, he is dead.’ +</p> + +<p> +And their stupor was such that for yet another moment they remained with their +eyes dry, simply thunderstruck, as it were, by the abruptness of that death +which they considered incredible. +</p> + +<p> +Then, her knees bending under her, Christine dropped down in front of the bed, +bursting into violent sobs which shook her from head to foot, and wringing her +hands, whilst her forehead remained pressed against the mattress. In that first +moment of horror her despair was aggravated above all by poignant +remorse—the remorse of not having sufficiently cared for the poor child. +Former days started up before her in a rapid vision, each bringing with it +regretfulness for unkind words, deferred caresses, rough treatment even. And +now it was all over; she would never be able to compensate the lad for the +affection she had withheld from him. He whom she thought so disobedient had +obeyed but too well at last. She had so often told him when at play to be +still, and not to disturb his father at his work, that he was quiet at last, +and for ever. The idea suffocated her; each sob drew from her a dull moan. +</p> + +<p> +Claude had begun walking up and down the studio, unable to remain still. With +his features convulsed, he shed a few big tears, which he brushed away with the +back of his hand. And whenever he passed in front of the little corpse he could +not help glancing at it. The glassy eyes, wide open, seemed to exercise a spell +over him. At first he resisted, but a confused idea assumed shape within him, +and would not be shaken off. He yielded to it at last, took a small canvas, and +began to paint a study of the dead child. For the first few minutes his tears +dimmed his sight, wrapping everything in a mist; but he kept wiping them away, +and persevered with his work, even though his brush shook. Then the passion for +art dried his tears and steadied his hand, and in a little while it was no +longer his icy son that lay there, but merely a model, a subject, the strange +interest of which stirred him. That huge head, that waxy flesh, those eyes +which looked like holes staring into space—all excited and thrilled him. +He stepped back, seemed to take pleasure in his work, and vaguely smiled at it. +</p> + +<p> +When Christine rose from her knees, she found him thus occupied. Then, bursting +into tears again, she merely said: +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! you can paint him now, he’ll never stir again.’ +</p> + +<p> +For five hours Claude kept at it, and on the second day, when Sandoz came back +with him from the cemetery, after the funeral, he shuddered with pity and +admiration at the sight of the small canvas. It was one of the fine bits of +former days, a masterpiece of limpidity and power, to which was added a note of +boundless melancholy, the end of everything—all life ebbing away with the +death of that child. +</p> + +<p> +But Sandoz, who had burst out into exclamations fall of praise, was quite taken +aback on hearing Claude say to him: +</p> + +<p> +‘You are sure you like it? In that case, as the other machine isn’t +ready, I’ll send this to the Salon.’ +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"></a> +X</h2> + +<p> +ONE morning, as Claude, who had taken ‘The Dead Child’ to the +Palais de l’Industrie the previous day, was roaming round about the Parc +Monceau, he suddenly came upon Fagerolles. +</p> + +<p> +‘What!’ said the latter, cordially, ‘is it you, old fellow? +What’s becoming of you? What are you doing? We see so little of each +other now.’ +</p> + +<p> +Then, Claude having mentioned what he had sent to the Salon—that little +canvas which his mind was full of—Fagerolles added: +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! you’ve sent something; then I’ll get it +“hung” for you. You know that I’m a candidate for the hanging +committee this year.’ +</p> + +<p> +Indeed, amid the tumult and everlasting discontent of the artists, after +attempts at reform, repeated a score of times and then abandoned, the +authorities had just invested the exhibitors with the privilege of electing the +members of the hanging committee; and this had quite upset the world of +painters and sculptors, a perfect electoral fever had set in, with all sorts of +ambitious cabals and intrigues—all the low jobbery, indeed, by which +politics are dishonoured. +</p> + +<p> +‘I’m going to take you with me,’ continued Fagerolles; you +must come and see how I’m settled in my little house, in which you +haven’t yet set foot, in spite of all your promises. It’s there, +hard by, at the corner of the Avenue de Villiers.’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude, whose arm he had gaily taken, was obliged to follow him. He was seized +with a fit of cowardice; the idea that his old chum might get his picture +‘hung’ for him filled him with mingled shame and desire. On +reaching the avenue, he stopped in front of the house to look at its frontage, +a bit of coquettish, <i>precioso</i> architectural tracery—the exact copy +of a Renaissance house at Bourges, with lattice windows, a staircase tower, and +a roof decked with leaden ornaments. It looked like the abode of a harlot; and +Claude was struck with surprise when, on turning round, he recognised Irma +Bécot’s regal mansion just over the way. Huge, substantial, almost severe +of aspect, it had all the importance of a palace compared to its neighbour, the +dwelling of the artist, who was obliged to limit himself to a fanciful +nick-nack. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! that Irma, eh?’ said Fagerolles with just a shade of respect +in his tone. ‘She has got a cathedral and no mistake! But come in.’ +</p> + +<p> +The interior of Fagerolles’ house was strangely and magnificently +luxurious. Old tapestry, old weapons, a heap of old furniture, Chinese and +Japanese curios were displayed even in the very hall. On the left there was a +dining-room, panelled with lacquer work and having its ceiling draped with a +design of a red dragon. Then there was a staircase of carved wood above which +banners drooped, whilst tropical plants rose up like plumes. Overhead, the +studio was a marvel, though rather small and without a picture visible. The +walls, indeed, were entirely covered with Oriental hangings, while at one end +rose up a huge chimney-piece with chimerical monsters supporting the tablet, +and at the other extremity appeared a vast couch under a tent—the latter +quite a monument, with lances upholding the sumptuous drapery, above a +collection of carpets, furs and cushions heaped together almost on a level with +the flooring. +</p> + +<p> +Claude looked at it all, and there came to his lips a question which he held +back—Was all this paid for? Fagerolles, who had been decorated with the +Legion of Honour the previous year, now asked, it was said, ten thousand francs +for painting a mere portrait. Naudet, who, after launching him, duly turned his +success to profit in a methodical fashion, never let one of his pictures go for +less than twenty, thirty, forty thousand francs. Orders would have fallen on +the painter’s shoulders as thick as hail, if he had not affected the +disdain, the weariness of the man whose slightest sketches are fought for. And +yet all this display of luxury smacked of indebtedness, there was only so much +paid on account to the upholsterers; all the money—the money won by lucky +strokes as on ‘Change—slipped through the artist’s fingers, +and was spent without trace of it remaining. Moreover, Fagerolles, still in the +full flush of his sudden good fortune, did not calculate or worry, being +confident that he would always sell his works at higher and higher prices, and +feeling glorious at the high position he was acquiring in contemporary art. +</p> + +<p> +Eventually, Claude espied a little canvas on an ebony easel, draped with red +plush. Excepting a rosewood tube case and box of crayons, forgotten on an +article of furniture, nothing reminding one of the artistic profession could be +seen lying about. +</p> + +<p> +‘Very finely treated,’ said Claude, wishing to be amiable, as he +stood in front of the little canvas. ‘And is your picture for the Salon +sent?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! yes, thank heavens! What a number of people I had here! A perfect +procession which kept me on my legs from morning till evening during a week. I +didn’t want to exhibit it, as it lowers one to do so, and Naudet also +opposed it. But what would you have done? I was so begged and prayed; all the +young fellows want to set me on the committee, so that I may defend them. Oh! +my picture is simple enough—I call it “A Picnic.” There are a +couple of gentlemen and three ladies under some trees—guests at some +château, who have brought a collation with them and are eating it in a glade. +You’ll see, it’s rather original.’ +</p> + +<p> +He spoke in a hesitating manner, and when his eyes met those of Claude, who was +looking at him fixedly, he lost countenance altogether, and joked about the +little canvas on the easel. +</p> + +<p> +‘That’s a daub Naudet asked me for. Oh! I’m not ignorant of +what I lack—a little of what you have too much of, old man. You know that +I’m still your friend; why, I defended you only yesterday with some +painters.’ +</p> + +<p> +He tapped Claude on the shoulders, for he had divined his old master’s +secret contempt, and wished to win him back by his old-time caresses—all +the wheedling practices of a hussy. Very sincerely and with a sort of anxious +deference he again promised Claude that he would do everything in his power to +further the hanging of his picture, ‘The Dead Child.’ +</p> + +<p> +However, some people arrived; more than fifteen persons came in and went off in +less than an hour—fathers bringing young pupils, exhibitors anxious to +say a good word on their own behalf, friends who wanted to barter influence, +even women who placed their talents under the protection of their charms. And +one should have seen the painter play his part as a candidate, shaking hands +most lavishly, saying to one visitor: ‘Your picture this year is so +pretty, it pleases me so much!’ then feigning astonishment with another: +‘What! you haven’t had a medal yet?’ and repeating to all of +them: ‘Ah! If I belonged to the committee, I’d make them walk +straight.’ He sent every one away delighted, closed the door behind each +visitor with an air of extreme amiability, through which, however, there +pierced the secret sneer of an ex-lounger on the pavement. +</p> + +<p> +‘You see, eh?’ he said to Claude, at a moment when they happened to +be left alone. ‘What a lot of time I lose with those idiots!’ +</p> + +<p> +Then he approached the large window, and abruptly opened one of the casements; +and on one of the balconies of the house over the way a woman clad in a lace +dressing-gown could be distinguished waving her handkerchief. Fagerolles on his +side waved his hand three times in succession. Then both windows were closed +again. +</p> + +<p> +Claude had recognised Irma; and amid the silence which fell Fagerolles quietly +explained matters: +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s convenient, you see, one can correspond. We have a complete +system of telegraphy. She wants to speak to me, so I must go—’ +</p> + +<p> +Since he and Irma had resided in the avenue, they met, it was said, on their +old footing. It was even asserted that he, so ‘cute,’ so +well-acquainted with Parisian humbug, let himself be fleeced by her, bled at +every moment of some good round sum, which she sent her maid to ask +for—now to pay a tradesman, now to satisfy a whim, often for nothing at +all, or rather for the sole pleasure of emptying his pockets; and this partly +explained his embarrassed circumstances, his indebtedness, which ever increased +despite the continuous rise in the quotations of his canvases. +</p> + +<p> +Claude had put on his hat again. Fagerolles was shuffling about impatiently, +looking nervously at the house over the way. +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t send you off, but you see she’s waiting for +me,’ he said, ‘Well, it’s understood, your affair’s +settled—that is, unless I’m not elected. Come to the Palais de +l’Industrie on the evening the voting-papers are counted. Oh! there will +be a regular crush, quite a rumpus! Still, you will always learn if you can +rely on me.’ +</p> + +<p> +At first, Claude inwardly swore that he would not trouble about it. +Fagerolles’ protection weighed heavily upon him; and yet, in his heart of +hearts, he really had but one fear, that the shifty fellow would not keep his +promise, but would ultimately be taken with a fit of cowardice at the idea of +protecting a defeated man. However, on the day of the vote Claude could not +keep still, but went and roamed about the Champs Elysées under the pretence of +taking a long walk. He might as well go there as elsewhere, for while waiting +for the Salon he had altogether ceased work. He himself could not vote, as to +do so it was necessary to have been ‘hung’ on at least one +occasion. However, he repeatedly passed before the Palais de +l’Industrie,* the foot pavement in front of which interested him with its +bustling aspect, its procession of artist electors, whom men in dirty blouses +caught hold of, shouting to them the titles of their lists of +candidates—lists some thirty in number emanating from every possible +coterie, and representing every possible opinion. There was the list of the +studios of the School of Arts, the liberal list, the list of the uncompromising +radical painters, the conciliatory list, the young painters’ list, even +the ladies’ list, and so forth. The scene suggested all the turmoil at +the door of an electoral polling booth on the morrow of a riot. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +* This palace, for many years the home of the ‘Salon,’ was built +for the first Paris International Exhibition, that of 1855, and demolished in +connection with that of 1900.—ED. +</p> + +<p> +At four o’clock in the afternoon, when the voting was over, Claude could +not resist a fit of curiosity to go and have a look. The staircase was now +free, and whoever chose could enter. Upstairs, he came upon the huge gallery, +overlooking the Champs Elysées, which was set aside for the hanging committee. +A table, forty feet long, filled the centre of this gallery, and entire trees +were burning in the monumental fireplace at one end of it. Some four or five +hundred electors, who had remained to see the votes counted, stood there, +mingled with friends and inquisitive strangers, talking, laughing, and setting +quite a storm loose under the lofty ceiling. Around the table, parties of +people who had volunteered to count the votes were already settled and at work; +there were some fifteen of these parties in all, each comprising a chairman and +two scrutineers. Three or four more remained to be organised, and nobody else +offered assistance; in fact, every one turned away in fear of the crushing +labour which would rivet the more zealous people to the spot far into the +night. +</p> + +<p> +It precisely happened that Fagerolles, who had been in the thick of it since +the morning, was gesticulating and shouting, trying to make himself heard above +the hubbub. +</p> + +<p> +‘Come, gentlemen, we need one more man here! Come, some willing person, +over here!’ +</p> + +<p> +And at that moment, perceiving Claude, he darted forward and forcibly dragged +him off. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! as for you, you will just oblige me by sitting down there and +helping us! It’s for the good cause, dash it all!’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude abruptly found himself chairman of one of the counting committees, and +began to perform his functions with all the gravity of a timid man, secretly +experiencing a good deal of emotion, as if the hanging of his canvas would +depend upon the conscientiousness he showed in his work. He called out the +names inscribed upon the voting-papers, which were passed to him in little +packets, while the scrutineers, on sheets of paper prepared for the purpose, +noted each successive vote that each candidate obtained. And all this went on +amidst a most frightful uproar, twenty and thirty names being called out at the +same time by different voices, above the continuous rumbling of the crowd. As +Claude could never do anything without throwing passion into it, he waxed +excited, became despondent whenever a voting-paper did not bear +Fagerolles’ name, and grew happy as soon as he had to shout out that name +once more. Moreover, he often tasted that delight, for his friend had made +himself popular, showing himself everywhere, frequenting the cafés where +influential groups of artists assembled, even venturing to expound his opinions +there, and binding himself to young artists, without neglecting to bow very low +to the members of the Institute. Thus there was a general current of sympathy +in his favour. Fagerolles was, so to say, everybody’s spoilt child. +</p> + +<p> +Night came on at about six o’clock that rainy March day. The assistants +brought lamps; and some mistrustful artists, who, gloomy and silent, were +watching the counting askance, drew nearer. Others began to play jokes, +imitated the cries of animals, or attempted a <i>tyrolienne</i>. But it was +only at eight o’clock, when a collation of cold meat and wine was served, +that the gaiety reached its climax. The bottles were hastily emptied, the men +stuffed themselves with whatever they were lucky enough to get hold of, and +there was a free-and-easy kind of Kermesse in that huge hall which the logs in +the fireplace lit up with a forge-like glow. Then they all smoked, and the +smoke set a kind of mist around the yellow light from the lamps, whilst on the +floor trailed all the spoilt voting-papers thrown away during the polling; +indeed, quite a layer of dirty paper, together with corks, breadcrumbs, and a +few broken plates. The heels of those seated at the table disappeared amidst +this litter. Reserve was cast aside; a little sculptor with a pale face climbed +upon a chair to harangue the assembly, and a painter, with stiff moustaches +under a hook nose, bestrode a chair and galloped, bowing, round the table, in +mimicry of the Emperor. +</p> + +<p> +Little by little, however, a good many grew tired and went off. At eleven +o’clock there were not more than a couple of hundred persons present. +Past midnight, however, some more people arrived, loungers in dress-coats and +white ties, who had come from some theatre or soirée and wished to learn the +result of the voting before all Paris knew it. Reporters also appeared; and +they could be seen darting one by one out of the room as soon as a partial +result was communicated to them. +</p> + +<p> +Claude, hoarse by now, still went on calling names. The smoke and the heat +became intolerable, a smell like that of a cow-house rose from the muddy litter +on the floor. One o’clock, two o’clock in the morning struck, and +he was still unfolding voting-papers, the conscientiousness which he displayed +delaying him to such a point that the other parties had long since finished +their work, while his was still a maze of figures. At last all the additions +were centralised and the definite result proclaimed. Fagerolles was elected, +coming fifteenth among forty, or five places ahead of Bongrand, who had been a +candidate on the same list, but whose name must have been frequently struck +out. And daylight was breaking when Claude reached home in the Rue Tourlaque, +feeling both worn out and delighted. +</p> + +<p> +Then, for a couple of weeks he lived in a state of anxiety. A dozen times he +had the idea of going to Fagerolles’ for information, but a feeling of +shame restrained him. Besides, as the committee proceeded in alphabetical +order, nothing perhaps was yet decided. However, one evening, on the Boulevard +de Clichy, he felt his heart thump as he saw two broad shoulders, with whose +lolloping motion he was well acquainted, coming towards him. +</p> + +<p> +They were the shoulders of Bongrand, who seemed embarrassed. He was the first +to speak, and said: +</p> + +<p> +‘You know matters aren’t progressing very well over yonder with +those brutes. But everything isn’t lost. Fagerolles and I are on the +watch. Still, you must rely on Fagerolles; as for me, my dear fellow, I am +awfully afraid of compromising your chances.’ +</p> + +<p> +To tell the truth, there was constant hostility between Bongrand and the +President of the hanging committee, Mazel, a famous master of the School of +Arts, and the last rampart of the elegant, buttery, conventional style of art. +Although they called each other ‘dear colleague’ and made a great +show of shaking hands, their hostility had burst forth the very first day; one +of them could never ask for the admission of a picture without the other one +voting for its rejection. Fagerolles, who had been elected secretary, had, on +the contrary, made himself Mazel’s amuser, his vice, and Mazel forgave +his old pupil’s defection, so skilfully did the renegade flatter him. +Moreover, the young master, a regular turncoat, as his comrades said, showed +even more severity than the members of the Institute towards audacious +beginners. He only became lenient and sociable when he wanted to get a picture +accepted, on those occasions showing himself extremely fertile in devices, +intriguing and carrying the vote with all the supple deftness of a conjurer. +</p> + +<p> +The committee work was really a hard task, and even Bongrand’s strong +legs grew tired of it. It was cut out every day by the assistants. An endless +row of large pictures rested on the ground against the handrails, all along the +first-floor galleries, right round the Palace; and every afternoon, at one +o’clock precisely, the forty committee-men, headed by their president, +who was equipped with a bell, started off on a promenade, until all the letters +in the alphabet, serving as exhibitors’ initials, had been exhausted. +They gave their decisions standing, and the work was got through as fast as +possible, the worst canvases being rejected without going to the vote. At +times, however, discussions delayed the party, there came a ten minutes’ +quarrel, and some picture which caused a dispute was reserved for the evening +revision. Two men, holding a cord some thirty feet long, kept it stretched at a +distance of four paces from the line of pictures, so as to restrain the +committee-men, who kept on pushing each other in the heat of their dispute, and +whose stomachs, despite everything, were ever pressing against the cord. Behind +the committee marched seventy museum-keepers in white blouses, executing +evolutions under the orders of a brigadier. At each decision communicated to +them by the secretaries, they sorted the pictures, the accepted paintings being +separated from the rejected ones, which were carried off like corpses after a +battle. And the round lasted during two long hours, without a moment’s +respite, and without there being a single chair to sit upon. The committee-men +had to remain on their legs, tramping on in a tired way amid icy draughts, +which compelled even the least chilly among them to bury their noses in the +depths of their fur-lined overcoats. +</p> + +<p> +Then the three o’clock snack proved very welcome: there was half an +hour’s rest at a buffet, where claret, chocolate, and sandwiches could be +obtained. It was there that the market of mutual concessions was held, that the +bartering of influence and votes was carried on. In order that nobody might be +forgotten amid the hailstorm of applications which fell upon the committee-men, +most of them carried little note-books, which they consulted; and they promised +to vote for certain exhibitors whom a colleague protected on condition that +this colleague voted for the ones in whom they were interested. Others, +however, taking no part in these intrigues, either from austerity or +indifference, finished the interval in smoking a cigarette and gazing vacantly +about them. +</p> + +<p> +Then the work began again, but more agreeably, in a gallery where there were +chairs, and even tables with pens and paper and ink. All the pictures whose +height did not reach four feet ten inches were judged there—‘passed +on the easel,’ as the expression goes—being ranged, ten or twelve +together, on a kind of trestle covered with green baize. A good many +committee-men then grew absent-minded, several wrote their letters, and the +president had to get angry to obtain presentable majorities. Sometimes a gust +of passion swept by; they all jostled each other; the votes, usually given by +raising the hand, took place amid such feverish excitement that hats and +walking-sticks were waved in the air above the tumultuous surging of heads. +</p> + +<p> +And it was there, ‘on the easel,’ that ‘The Dead Child’ +at last made its appearance. During the previous week Fagerolles, whose +pocket-book was full of memoranda, had resorted to all kinds of complicated +bartering in order to obtain votes in Claude’s favour; but it was a +difficult business, it did not tally with his other engagements, and he only +met with refusals as soon as he mentioned his friend’s name. He +complained, moreover, that he could get no help from Bongrand, who did not +carry a pocket-book, and who was so clumsy, too, that he spoilt the best causes +by his outbursts of unseasonable frankness. A score of times already would +Fagerolles have forsaken Claude, had it not been for his obstinate desire to +try his power over his colleagues by asking for the admittance of a work by +Lantier, which was a reputed impossibility. However, people should see if he +wasn’t yet strong enough to force the committee into compliance with his +wishes. Moreover, perhaps from the depths of his conscience there came a cry +for justice, an unconfessed feeling of respect for the man whose ideas he had +stolen. +</p> + +<p> +As it happened, Mazel was in a frightfully bad humour that day. At the outset +of the sitting the brigadier had come to him, saying: ‘There was a +mistake yesterday, Monsieur Mazel. A <i>hors-concours</i>* picture was +rejected. You know, No. 2520, a nude woman under a tree.’ +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +* A painting by one of those artists who, from the fact that they had obtained +medals at previous Salons, had the right to go on exhibiting at long as they +lived, the committee being debarred from rejecting their work however bad it +might be.—ED. +</p> + +<p> +In fact, on the day before, this painting had been consigned to the grave amid +unanimous contempt, nobody having noticed that it was the work of an old +classical painter highly respected by the Institute; and the brigadier’s +fright, and the amusing circumstance of a picture having thus been condemned by +mistake, enlivened the younger members of the committee and made them sneer in +a provoking manner. +</p> + +<p> +Mazel, who detested such mishaps, which he rightly felt were disastrous for the +authority of the School of Arts, made an angry gesture, and drily said: +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, fish it out again, and put it among the admitted pictures. It +isn’t so surprising, there was an intolerable noise yesterday. How can +one judge anything like that at a gallop, when one can’t even obtain +silence?’ +</p> + +<p> +He rang his bell furiously, and added: +</p> + +<p> +‘Come, gentlemen, everything is ready—a little good will, if you +please.’ +</p> + +<p> +Unluckily, a fresh misfortune occurred as soon as the first paintings were set +on the trestle. One canvas among others attracted Mazel’s attention, so +bad did he consider it, so sharp in tone as to make one’s very teeth +grate. As his sight was failing him, he leant forward to look at the signature, +muttering the while: ‘Who’s the pig—’ +</p> + +<p> +But he quickly drew himself up, quite shocked at having read the name of one of +his friends, an artist who, like himself, was a rampart of healthy principles. +Hoping that he had not been overheard, he thereupon called out: +</p> + +<p> +‘Superb! No. 1, eh, gentlemen?’ +</p> + +<p> +No. 1 was granted—the formula of admission which entitled the picture to +be hung on the line. Only, some of the committee-men laughed and nudged each +other, at which Mazel felt very hurt, and became very fierce. +</p> + +<p> +Moreover, they all made such blunders at times. A great many of them eased +their feelings at the first glance, and then recalled their words as soon as +they had deciphered the signature. This ended by making them cautious, and so +with furtive glances they made sure of the artist’s name before +expressing any opinion. Besides, whenever a colleague’s work, some fellow +committee-man’s suspicious-looking canvas, was brought forward, they took +the precaution to warn each other by making signs behind the painter’s +back, as if to say, ‘Take care, no mistake, mind; it’s his +picture.’ +</p> + +<p> +Fagerolles, despite his colleagues’ fidgety nerves, carried the day on a +first occasion. It was a question of admitting a frightful portrait painted by +one of his pupils, whose family, a very wealthy one, received him on a footing +of intimacy. To achieve this he had taken Mazel on one side in order to try to +move him with a sentimental story about an unfortunate father with three +daughters, who were starving. But the president let himself be entreated for a +long while, saying that a man shouldn’t waste his time painting when he +was dying for lack of food, and that he ought to have a little more +consideration for his three daughters! However, in the result, Mazel raised his +hand, alone, with Fagerolles. Some of the others then angrily protested, and +even two members of the Institute seemed disgusted, whereupon Fagerolles +whispered to them in a low key: +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s for Mazel! He begged me to vote. The painter’s a +relative of his, I think; at all events, he greatly wants the picture to be +accepted.’ +</p> + +<p> +At this the two academicians promptly raised their hands, and a large majority +declared itself in favour of the portrait. +</p> + +<p> +But all at once laughter, witticisms, and indignant cries rang out: ‘The +Dead Child’ had just been placed on the trestle. Were they to have the +Morgue sent to them now? said some. And while the old men drew back in alarm, +the younger ones scoffed at the child’s big head, which was plainly that +of a monkey who had died from trying to swallow a gourd. +</p> + +<p> +Fagerolles at once understood that the game was lost. At first he tried to +spirit the vote away by a joke, in accordance with his skilful tactics: +</p> + +<p> +‘Come, gentlemen, an old combatant—’ +</p> + +<p> +But furious exclamations cut him short. Oh, no! not that one. They knew him, +that old combatant! A madman who had been persevering in his obstinacy for +fifteen years past—a proud, stuck-up fellow who posed for being a genius, +and who had talked about demolishing the Salon, without even sending a picture +that it was possible to accept. All their hatred of independent originality, of +the competition of the ‘shop over the way,’ which frightened them, +of that invincible power which triumphs even when it is seemingly defeated, +resounded in their voices. No, no; away with it! +</p> + +<p> +Then Fagerolles himself made the mistake of getting irritated, yielding to the +anger he felt at finding what little real influence he possessed. +</p> + +<p> +‘You are unjust; at least, be impartial,’ he said. +</p> + +<p> +Thereupon the tumult reached a climax. He was surrounded and jostled, arms +waved about him in threatening fashion, and angry words were shot out at him +like bullets. +</p> + +<p> +‘You dishonour the committee, monsieur!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘If you defend that thing, it’s simply to get your name in the +newspapers!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You aren’t competent to speak on the subject!’ +</p> + +<p> +Then Fagerolles, beside himself, losing even the pliancy of his bantering +disposition, retorted: +</p> + +<p> +‘I’m as competent as you are.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Shut up!’ resumed a comrade, a very irascible little painter with +a fair complexion. ‘You surely don’t want to make us swallow such a +turnip as that?’ +</p> + +<p> +Yes, yes, a turnip! They all repeated the word in tones of +conviction—that word which they usually cast at the very worst smudges, +at the pale, cold, glairy painting of daubers. +</p> + +<p> +‘All right,’ at last said Fagerolles, clenching his teeth. ‘I +demand the vote.’ +</p> + +<p> +Since the discussion had become envenomed, Mazel had been ringing his bell, +extremely flushed at finding his authority ignored. +</p> + +<p> +‘Gentlemen—come, gentlemen; it’s extraordinary that one +can’t settle matters without shouting—I beg of you, +gentlemen—’ +</p> + +<p> +At last he obtained a little silence. In reality, he was not a bad-hearted man. +Why should not they admit that little picture, although he himself thought it +execrable? They admitted so many others! +</p> + +<p> +‘Come, gentlemen, the vote is asked for.’ +</p> + +<p> +He himself was, perhaps, about to raise his hand, when Bongrand, who had +hitherto remained silent, with the blood rising to his cheeks in the anger he +was trying to restrain, abruptly went off like a pop-gun, most unseasonably +giving vent to the protestations of his rebellious conscience. +</p> + +<p> +‘But, curse it all! there are not four among us capable of turning out +such a piece of work!’ +</p> + +<p> +Some grunts sped around; but the sledge-hammer blow had come upon them with +such force that nobody answered. +</p> + +<p> +‘Gentlemen, the vote is asked for,’ curtly repeated Mazel, who had +turned pale. +</p> + +<p> +His tone sufficed to explain everything: it expressed all his latent hatred of +Bongrand, the fierce rivalry that lay hidden under their seemingly good-natured +handshakes. +</p> + +<p> +Things rarely came to such a pass as this. They almost always arranged matters. +But in the depths of their ravaged pride there were wounds which always bled; +they secretly waged duels which tortured them with agony, despite the smile +upon their lips. +</p> + +<p> +Bongrand and Fagerolles alone raised their hands, and ‘The Dead +Child,’ being rejected, could only perhaps be rescued at the general +revision. +</p> + +<p> +This general revision was the terrible part of the task. Although, after twenty +days’ continuous toil, the committee allowed itself forty-eight +hours’ rest, so as to enable the keepers to prepare the final work, it +could not help shuddering on the afternoon when it came upon the assemblage of +three thousand rejected paintings, from among which it had to rescue as many +canvases as were necessary for the then regulation total of two thousand five +hundred admitted works to be complete. Ah! those three thousand pictures, +placed one after the other alongside the walls of all the galleries, including +the outer one, deposited also even on the floors, and lying there like stagnant +pools, between which the attendants devised little paths—they were like +an inundation, a deluge, which rose up, streamed over the whole Palais de +l’Industrie, and submerged it beneath the murky flow of all the +mediocrity and madness to be found in the river of Art. And but a single +afternoon sitting was held, from one till seven o’clock—six hours +of wild galloping through a maze! At first they held out against fatigue and +strove to keep their vision clear; but the forced march soon made their legs +give way, their eyesight was irritated by all the dancing colours, and yet it +was still necessary to march on, to look and judge, even until they broke down +with fatigue. By four o’clock the march was like a rout—the +scattering of a defeated army. Some committee-men, out of breath, dragged +themselves along very far in the rear; others, isolated, lost amid the frames, +followed the narrow paths, renouncing all prospect of emerging from them, +turning round and round without any hope of ever getting to the end! How could +they be just and impartial, good heavens? What could they select from amid that +heap of horrors? Without clearly distinguishing a landscape from a portrait, +they made up the number they required in pot-luck fashion. Two hundred, two +hundred and forty—another eight, they still wanted eight more. That one? +No, that other. As you like! Seven, eight, it was over! At last they had got to +the end, and they hobbled away, saved—free! +</p> + +<p> +In one gallery a fresh scene drew them once more round ‘The Dead +Child,’ lying on the floor among other waifs. But this time they jested. +A joker pretended to stumble and set his foot in the middle of the canvas, +while others trotted along the surrounding little paths, as if trying to find +out which was the picture’s top and which its bottom, and declaring that +it looked much better topsy-turvy. +</p> + +<p> +Fagerolles himself also began to joke. +</p> + +<p> +‘Come, a little courage, gentlemen; go the round, examine it, +you’ll be repaid for your trouble. Really now, gentlemen, be kind, rescue +it; pray do that good action!’ +</p> + +<p> +They all grew merry in listening to him, but with cruel laughter they refused +more harshly than ever. ‘No, no, never!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Will you take it for your “charity”?’ cried a comrade. +</p> + +<p> +This was a custom; the committee-men had a right to a ‘charity’; +each of them could select a canvas among the lot, no matter how execrable it +might be, and it was thereupon admitted without examination. As a rule, the +bounty of this admission was bestowed upon poor artists. The forty paintings +thus rescued at the eleventh hour, were those of the beggars at the +door—those whom one allowed to glide with empty stomachs to the far end +of the table. +</p> + +<p> +‘For my “charity,”’ repeated Fagerolles, feeling very +much embarrassed; ‘the fact is, I meant to take another painting for my +“charity.” Yes, some flowers by a lady—’ +</p> + +<p> +He was interrupted by loud jeers. Was she pretty? In front of the women’s +paintings the gentlemen were particularly prone to sneer, never displaying the +least gallantry. And Fagerolles remained perplexed, for the ‘lady’ +in question was a person whom Irma took an interest in. He trembled at the idea +of the terrible scene which would ensue should he fail to keep his promise. An +expedient occurred to him. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, and you, Bongrand? You might very well take this funny little dead +child for your charity.’ +</p> + +<p> +Bongrand, wounded to the heart, indignant at all the bartering, waved his long +arms: +</p> + +<p> +‘What! <i>I</i>? <i>I</i> insult a real painter in that fashion? Let him +be prouder, dash it, and never send anything to the Salon!’ +</p> + +<p> +Then, as the others still went on sneering, Fagerolles, desirous that victory +should remain to him, made up his mind, with a proud air, like a man who is +conscious of his strength and does not fear being compromised. +</p> + +<p> +‘All right, I’ll take it for my “charity,”’ he +said. +</p> + +<p> +The others shouted bravo, and gave him a bantering ovation, with a series of +profound bows and numerous handshakes. All honour to the brave fellow who had +the courage of his opinions! And an attendant carried away in his arms the poor +derided, jolted, soiled canvas; and thus it was that a picture by the painter +of ‘In the Open Air’ was at last accepted by the hanging committee +of the Salon. +</p> + +<p> +On the very next morning a note from Fagerolles apprised Claude, in a couple of +lines, that he had succeeded in getting ‘The Dead Child’ admitted, +but that it had not been managed without trouble. Claude, despite the gladness +of the tidings, felt a pang at his heart; the note was so brief, and was +written in such a protecting, pitying style, that all the humiliating features +of the business were apparent to him. For a moment he felt sorry over this +victory, so much so that he would have liked to take his work back and hide it. +Then his delicacy of feeling, his artistic pride again gave way, so much did +protracted waiting for success make his wretched heart bleed. Ah! to be seen, +to make his way despite everything! He had reached the point when conscience +capitulates; he once more began to long for the opening of the Salon with all +the feverish impatience of a beginner, again living in a state of illusion +which showed him a crowd, a press of moving heads acclaiming his canvas. +</p> + +<p> +By degrees Paris had made it the fashion to patronise ‘varnishing +day’—that day formerly set aside for painters only to come and +finish the toilets of their pictures. Now, however, it was like a feast of +early fruit, one of those solemnities which set the city agog and attract a +tremendous crowd. For a week past the newspaper press, the streets, and the +public had belonged to the artists. They held Paris in their grasp; the only +matters talked of were themselves, their exhibits, their sayings or +doings—in fact, everything connected with them. It was one of those +infatuations which at last draw bands of country folk, common soldiers, and +even nursemaids to the galleries on days of gratuitous admission, in such wise +that fifty thousand visitors are recorded on some fine Sundays, an entire army, +all the rear battalions of the ignorant lower orders, following society, and +marching, with dilated eyes, through that vast picture shop. +</p> + +<p> +That famous ‘varnishing day’ at first frightened Claude, who was +intimidated by the thought of all the fine people whom the newspapers spoke +about, and he resolved to wait for the more democratic day of the real +inauguration. He even refused to accompany Sandoz. But he was consumed by such +a fever, that after all he started off abruptly at eight o’clock in the +morning, barely taking time to eat a bit of bread and cheese beforehand. +Christine, who lacked the courage to go with him, kissed him again and again, +feeling anxious and moved. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mind, my dear, don’t worry, whatever happens,’ said she. +</p> + +<p> +Claude felt somewhat oppressed as he entered the Gallery of Honour. His heart +was beating fast from the swiftness with which he had climbed the grand +staircase. There was a limpid May sky out of doors, and through the linen +awnings, stretched under the glazed roof, there filtered a bright white light, +while the open doorways, communicating with the garden gallery, admitted moist +gusts of quivering freshness. For a moment Claude drew breath in that +atmosphere which was already tainted with a vague smell of varnish and the +odour of the musk with which the women present perfumed themselves. At a glance +he took stock of the pictures on the walls: a huge massacre scene in front of +him, streaming with carmine; a colossal, pallid, religious picture on his left; +a Government order, the commonplace delineation of some official festivity, on +the right; and then a variety of portraits, landscapes, and indoor scenes, all +glaring sharply amid the fresh gilding of their frames. However, the fear which +he retained of the folks usually present at this solemnity led him to direct +his glances upon the gradually increasing crowd. On a circular settee in the +centre of the gallery, from which sprang a sheaf of tropical foliage, there sat +three ladies, three monstrously fat creatures, attired in an abominable +fashion, who had settled there to indulge in a whole day’s backbiting. +Behind him he heard somebody crushing harsh syllables in a hoarse voice. It was +an Englishman in a check-pattern jacket, explaining the massacre scene to a +yellow woman buried in the depths of a travelling ulster. There were some +vacant spaces; groups of people formed, scattered, and formed again further on; +all heads were raised; the men carried walking-sticks and had overcoats on +their arms, the women strolled about slowly, showing distant profiles as they +stopped before the pictures; and Claude’s artistic eye was caught by the +flowers in their hats and bonnets, which seemed very loud in tint amid the dark +waves of the men’s silk hats. He perceived three priests, two common +soldiers who had found their way there no one knew whence, some endless +processions of gentlemen decorated with the ribbon of the Legion of Honour, and +troops of girls and their mothers, who constantly impeded the circulation. +However, a good many of these people knew each other; there were smiles and +bows from afar, at times a rapid handshake in passing. And conversation was +carried on in a discreet tone of voice, above which rose the continuous +tramping of feet. +</p> + +<p> +Then Claude began to look for his own picture. He tried to find his way by +means of the initial letters inscribed above the entrances of the galleries, +but made a mistake, and went through those on the left hand. There was a +succession of open entrances, a perspective of old tapestry door-hangings, with +glimpses of the distant pictures. He went as far as the great western gallery, +and came back by the parallel suite of smaller galleries without finding that +allotted to the letter L. And when he reached the Gallery of Honour again, the +crowd had greatly increased. In fact, it was now scarcely possible for one to +move about there. Being unable to advance, he looked around, and recognised a +number of painters, that nation of painters which was at home there that day, +and was therefore doing the honours of its abode. Claude particularly remarked +an old friend of the Boutin Studio—a young fellow consumed with the +desire to advertise himself, who had been working for a medal, and who was now +pouncing upon all the visitors possessed of any influence and forcibly taking +them to see his pictures. Then there was a celebrated and wealthy painter who +received his visitors in front of his work with a smile of triumph on his lips, +showing himself compromisingly gallant with the ladies, who formed quite a +court around him. And there were all the others: the rivals who execrated one +another, although they shouted words of praise in full voices; the savage +fellows who covertly watched their comrades’ success from the corner of a +doorway; the timid ones whom one could not for an empire induce to pass through +the gallery where their pictures were hung; the jokers who hid the bitter +mortification of their defeat under an amusing witticism; the sincere ones who +were absorbed in contemplation, trying to understand the various works, and +already in fancy distributing the medals. And the painters’ families were +also there. One charming young woman was accompanied by a coquettishly bedecked +child; a sour-looking, skinny matron of middle-class birth was flanked by two +ugly urchins in black; a fat mother had foundered on a bench amid quite a tribe +of dirty brats; and a lady of mature charms, still very good-looking, stood +beside her grown-up daughter, quietly watching a hussy pass—this hussy +being the father’s mistress. And then there were also the +models—women who pulled one another by the sleeve, who showed one another +their own forms in the various pictorial nudities, talking very loudly the +while and dressed without taste, spoiling their superb figures by such wretched +gowns that they seemed to be hump-backed beside the well-dressed +dolls—those Parisiennes who owed their figures entirely to their +dressmakers. +</p> + +<p> +When Claude got free of the crowd, he enfiladed the line of doorways on the +right hand. His letter was on that side; but he searched the galleries marked +with an L without finding anything. Perhaps his canvas had gone astray and +served to fill up a vacancy elsewhere. So when he had reached the large eastern +gallery, he set off along a number of other little ones, a secluded suite +visited by very few people, where the pictures seemed to frown with boredom. +And there again he found nothing. Bewildered, distracted, he roamed about, went +on to the garden gallery, searching among the superabundant exhibits which +overflowed there, pallid and shivering in the crude light; and eventually, +after other distant excursions, he tumbled into the Gallery of Honour for the +third time. +</p> + +<p> +There was now quite a crush there. All those who in any way create a stir in +Paris were assembled together—the celebrities, the wealthy, the adored, +talent, money and grace, the masters of romance, of the drama and of +journalism, clubmen, racing men and speculators, women of every category, +hussies, actresses and society belles. And Claude, angered by his vain search, +grew amazed at the vulgarity of the faces thus massed together, at the +incongruity of the toilets—but a few of which were elegant, while so many +were common looking—at the lack of majesty which that vaunted +‘society’ displayed, to such a point, indeed, that the fear which +had made him tremble was changed into contempt. Were these the people, then, +who were going to jeer at his picture, provided it were found again? Two little +reporters with fair complexions were completing a list of persons whose names +they intended to mention. A critic pretended to take some notes on the margin +of his catalogue; another was holding forth in professor’s style in the +centre of a party of beginners; a third, all by himself, with his hands behind +his back, seemed rooted to one spot, crushing each work beneath his august +impassibility. And what especially struck Claude was the jostling flock-like +behaviour of the people, their banded curiosity in which there was nothing +youthful or passionate, the bitterness of their voices, the weariness to be +read on their faces, their general appearance of suffering. Envy was already at +work; there was the gentleman who makes himself witty with the ladies; the one +who, without a word, looks, gives a terrible shrug of the shoulders, and then +goes off; and there were the two who remain for a quarter of an hour leaning +over the handrail, with their noses close to a little canvas, whispering very +low and exchanging the knowing glances of conspirators. +</p> + +<p> +But Fagerolles had just appeared, and amid the continuous ebb and flow of the +groups there seemed to be no one left but him. With his hand outstretched, he +seemed to show himself everywhere at the same time, lavishly exerting himself +to play the double part of a young ‘master’ and an influential +member of the hanging committee. Overwhelmed with praise, thanks, and +complaints, he had an answer ready for everybody without losing aught of his +affability. Since early morning he had been resisting the assault of the petty +painters of his set who found their pictures badly hung. It was the usual +scamper of the first moment, everybody looking for everybody else, rushing to +see one another and bursting into recriminations—noisy, interminable +fury. Either the picture was too high up, or the light did not fall upon it +properly, or the paintings near it destroyed its effect; in fact, some talked +of unhooking their works and carrying them off. One tall thin fellow was +especially tenacious, going from gallery to gallery in pursuit of Fagerolles, +who vainly explained that he was innocent in the matter and could do nothing. +Numerical order was followed, the pictures for each wall were deposited on the +floor below and then hung up without anybody being favoured. He carried his +obligingness so far as to promise his intervention when the galleries were +rearranged after the medals had been awarded; but even then he did not manage +to calm the tall thin fellow, who still continued pursuing him. +</p> + +<p> +Claude for a moment elbowed his way through the crowd to go and ask Fagerolles +where his picture had been hung. But on seeing his friend so surrounded, pride +restrained him. Was there not something absurd and painful about this constant +need of another’s help? Besides, he suddenly reflected that he must have +skipped a whole suite of galleries on the right-hand side; and, indeed, there +were fresh leagues of painting there. He ended by reaching a gallery where a +stifling crowd was massed in front of a large picture which filled the central +panel of honour. At first he could not see it, there was such a surging sea of +shoulders, such a thick wall of heads, such a rampart of hats. People rushed +forward with gaping admiration. At length, however, by dint of rising on +tiptoe, he perceived the marvel, and recognised the subject, by what had been +told him. +</p> + +<p> +It was Fagerolles’ picture. And in that ‘Picnic’ he found his +own forgotten work, ‘In the Open Air,’ the same light key of +colour, the same artistic formula, but softened, trickishly rendered, spoilt by +skin-deep elegance, everything being ‘arranged’ with infinite skill +to satisfy the low ideal of the public. Fagerolles had not made the mistake of +stripping his three women; but, clad in the audacious toilets of women of +society, they showed no little of their persons. As for the two gallant +gentlemen in summer jackets beside them, they realised the ideal of everything +most <i>distingué</i>; while afar off a footman was pulling a hamper off the +box of a landau drawn up behind the trees. The whole of it, the figures, the +drapery, the bits of still life of the repast, stood out gaily in full sunlight +against the darkened foliage of the background; and the supreme skill of the +painter lay in his pretended audacity, in a mendacious semblance of forcible +treatment which just sufficed to send the multitude into ecstasies. It was like +a storm in a cream-jug! +</p> + +<p> +Claude, being unable to approach, listened to the remarks around him. At last +there was a man who depicted real truth! He did not press his points like those +fools of the new school; he knew how to convey everything without showing +anything. Ah! the art of knowing where to draw the line, the art of letting +things be guessed, the respect due to the public, the approval of good society! +And withal such delicacy, such charm and art! He did not unseasonably deliver +himself of passionate things of exuberant design; no, when he had taken three +notes from nature, he gave those three notes, nothing more. A newspaper man who +arrived went into raptures over the ‘Picnic,’ and coined the +expression ‘a very Parisian style of painting.’ It was repeated, +and people no longer passed without declaring that the picture was ‘very +Parisian’ indeed. +</p> + +<p> +All those bent shoulders, all those admiring remarks rising from a sea of +spines, ended by exasperating Claude; and seized with a longing to see the +faces of the folk who created success, he manoeuvred in such a way as to lean +his back against the handrail hard by. From that point, he had the public in +front of him in the grey light filtering through the linen awning which kept +the centre of the gallery in shade; whilst the brighter light, gliding from the +edges of the blinds, illumined the paintings on the walls with a white flow, in +which the gilding of the frames acquired a warm sunshiny tint. Claude at once +recognised the people who had formerly derided him—if these were not the +same, they were at least their relatives—serious, however, and +enraptured, their appearance greatly improved by their respectful attention. +The evil look, the weariness, which he had at first remarked on their faces, as +envious bile drew their skin together and dyed it yellow, disappeared here +while they enjoyed the treat of an amiable lie. Two fat ladies, open-mouthed, +were yawning with satisfaction. Some old gentlemen opened their eyes wide with +a knowing air. A husband explained the subject to his young wife, who jogged +her chin with a pretty motion of the neck. There was every kind of marvelling, +beatifical, astonished, profound, gay, austere, amidst unconscious smiles and +languid postures of the head. The men threw back their black silk hats, the +flowers in the women’s bonnets glided to the napes of their necks. And +all the faces, after remaining motionless for a moment, were then drawn aside +and replaced by others exactly like them. +</p> + +<p> +Then Claude, stupefied by that triumph, virtually forgot everything else. The +gallery was becoming too small, fresh bands of people constantly accumulated +inside it. There were no more vacant spaces, as there had been early in the +morning; no more cool whiffs rose from the garden amid the ambient smell of +varnish; the atmosphere was now becoming hot and bitter with the perfumes +scattered by the women’s dresses. Before long the predominant odour +suggested that of a wet dog. It must have been raining outside; one of those +sudden spring showers had no doubt fallen, for the last arrivals brought +moisture with them—their clothes hung about them heavily and seemed to +steam as soon as they encountered the heat of the gallery. And, indeed, patches +of darkness had for a moment been passing above the awning of the roof. Claude, +who raised his eyes, guessed that large clouds were galloping onward lashed by +the north wind, that driving rain was beating upon the glass panes. Moire-like +shadows darted along the walls, all the paintings became dim, the spectators +themselves were blended in obscurity until the cloud was carried away, +whereupon the painter saw the heads again emerge from the twilight, ever agape +with idiotic rapture. +</p> + +<p> +But there was another cup of bitterness in reserve for Claude. On the left-hand +panel, facing Fagerolles’, he perceived Bongrand’s picture. And in +front of that painting there was no crush whatever; the visitors walked by with +an air of indifference. Yet it was Bongrand’s supreme effort, the thrust +he had been trying to give for years, a last work conceived in his obstinate +craving to prove the virility of his decline. The hatred he harboured against +the ‘Village Wedding,’ that first masterpiece which had weighed +upon all his toilsome after-life, had impelled him to select a contrasting but +corresponding subject: the ‘Village Funeral’—the funeral of a +young girl, with relatives and friends straggling among fields of rye and oats. +Bongrand had wrestled with himself, saying that people should see if he were +done for, if the experience of his sixty years were not worth all the lucky +dash of his youth; and now experience was defeated, the picture was destined to +be a mournful failure, like the silent fall of an old man, which does not even +stay passers-by in their onward course. There were still some masterly bits, +the choirboy holding the cross, the group of daughters of the Virgin carrying +the bier, whose white dresses and ruddy flesh furnished a pretty contrast with +the black Sunday toggery of the rustic mourners, among all the green stuff; +only the priest in his alb, the girl carrying the Virgin’s banner, the +family following the body, were drily handled; the whole picture, in fact, was +displeasing in its very science and the obstinate stiffness of its treatment. +One found in it a fatal, unconscious return to the troubled romanticism which +had been the starting-point of the painter’s career. And the worst of the +business was that there was justification for the indifference with which the +public treated that art of another period, that cooked and somewhat dull style +of painting, which no longer stopped one on one’s way, since great blazes +of light had come into vogue. +</p> + +<p> +It precisely happened that Bongrand entered the gallery with the hesitating +step of a timid beginner, and Claude felt a pang at his heart as he saw him +give a glance at his neglected picture and then another at Fagerolles’, +which was bringing on a riot. At that moment the old painter must have been +acutely conscious of his fall. If he had so far been devoured by the fear of +slow decline, it was because he still doubted; and now he obtained sudden +certainty; he was surviving his reputation, his talent was dead, he would never +more give birth to living, palpitating works. He became very pale, and was +about to turn and flee, when Chambouvard, the sculptor, entering the gallery by +the other door, followed by his customary train of disciples, called to him +without caring a fig for the people present: +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! you humbug, I catch you at it—admiring yourself!’ +</p> + +<p> +He, Chambouvard, exhibited that year an execrable ‘Reaping Woman,’ +one of those stupidly spoilt figures which seemed like hoaxes on his part, so +unworthy they were of his powerful hands; but he was none the less radiant, +feeling certain that he had turned out yet another masterpiece, and promenading +his god-like infallibility through the crowd which he did not hear laughing at +him. +</p> + +<p> +Bongrand did not answer, but looked at him with eyes scorched by fever. +</p> + +<p> +‘And my machine downstairs?’ continued the sculptor. ‘Have +you seen it? The little fellows of nowadays may try it on, but we are the only +masters—we, old France!’ +</p> + +<p> +And thereupon he went off, followed by his court and bowing to the astonished +public. +</p> + +<p> +‘The brute!’ muttered Bongrand, suffocating with grief, as +indignant as at the outburst of some low-bred fellow beside a deathbed. +</p> + +<p> +He perceived Claude, and approached him. Was it not cowardly to flee from this +gallery? And he determined to show his courage, his lofty soul, into which envy +had never entered. +</p> + +<p> +‘Our friend Fagerolles has a success and no mistake,’ he said. +‘I should be a hypocrite if I went into ecstasies over his picture, which +I scarcely like; but he himself is really a very nice fellow indeed. Besides, +you know how he exerted himself on your behalf.’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude was trying to find a word of admiration for the ‘Village +Funeral.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The little cemetery in the background is so pretty!’ he said at +last. ‘Is it possible that the public—’ +</p> + +<p> +But Bongrand interrupted him in a rough voice: +</p> + +<p> +‘No compliments of condolence, my friend, eh? I see clear enough.’ +</p> + +<p> +At this moment somebody nodded to them in a familiar way, and Claude recognised +Naudet—a Naudet who had grown and expanded, gilded by the success of his +colossal strokes of business. Ambition was turning his head; he talked about +sinking all the other picture dealers; he had built himself a palace, in which +he posed as the king of the market, centralising masterpieces, and there +opening large art shops of the modern style. One heard a jingle of millions on +the very threshold of his hall; he held exhibitions there, even ran up other +galleries elsewhere; and each time that May came round, he awaited the visits +of the American amateurs whom he charged fifty thousand francs for a picture +which he himself had purchased for ten thousand. Moreover, he lived in princely +style, with a wife and children, a mistress, a country estate in Picardy, and +extensive shooting grounds. His first large profits had come from the rise in +value of works left by illustrious artists, now defunct, whose talent had been +denied while they lived, such as Courbet, Millet, and Rousseau; and this had +ended by making him disdain any picture signed by a still struggling artist. +However, ominous rumours were already in circulation. As the number of +well-known pictures was limited, and the number of amateurs could barely be +increased, a time seemed to be coming when business would prove very difficult. +There was talk of a syndicate, of an understanding with certain bankers to keep +up the present high prices; the expedient of simulated sales was resorted to at +the Hôtel Drouot—pictures being bought in at a big figure by the dealer +himself—and bankruptcy seemed to be at the end of all that Stock Exchange +jobbery, a perfect tumble head-over-heels after all the excessive, mendacious +<i>agiotage</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘Good-day, dear master,’ said Naudet, who had drawn near. ‘So +you have come, like everybody else, to see my Fagerolles, eh?’ +</p> + +<p> +He no longer treated Bongrand in the wheedling, respectful manner of yore. And +he spoke of Fagerolles as of a painter belonging to him, of a workman to whom +he paid wages, and whom he often scolded. It was he who had settled the young +artist in the Avenue de Villiers, compelling him to have a little mansion of +his own, furnishing it as he would have furnished a place for a hussy, running +him into debt with supplies of carpets and nick-nacks, so that he might +afterwards hold him at his mercy; and now he began to accuse him of lacking +orderliness and seriousness, of compromising himself like a feather-brain. Take +that picture, for instance, a serious painter would never have sent it to the +Salon; it made a stir, no doubt, and people even talked of its obtaining the +medal of honour; but nothing could have a worse effect on high prices. When a +man wanted to get hold of the Yankees, he ought to know how to remain at home, +like an idol in the depths of his tabernacle. +</p> + +<p> +‘You may believe me or not, my dear fellow,’ he said to Bongrand, +‘but I would have given twenty thousand francs out of my pocket to +prevent those stupid newspapers from making all this row about my Fagerolles +this year.’ +</p> + +<p> +Bongrand, who, despite his sufferings, was listening bravely, smiled. +</p> + +<p> +‘In point of fact,’ he said, ‘they are perhaps carrying +indiscretion too far. I read an article yesterday in which I learnt that +Fagerolles ate two boiled eggs every morning.’ +</p> + +<p> +He laughed over the coarse puffery which, after a first article on the +‘young master’s’ picture, as yet seen by nobody, had for a +week past kept all Paris occupied about him. The whole fraternity of reporters +had been campaigning, stripping Fagerolles to the skin, telling their readers +all about his father, the artistic zinc manufacturer, his education, the house +in which he resided, how he lived, even revealing the colour of his socks, and +mentioning a habit he had of pinching his nose. And he was the passion of the +hour, the ‘young master’ according to the tastes of the day, one +who had been lucky enough to miss the Prix de Rome, and break off with the +School of Arts, whose principles, however, he retained. After all, the success +of that style of painting which aims merely at approximating reality, not at +rendering it in all its truth, was the fortune of a season which the wind +brings and blows away again, a mere whim on the part of the great lunatic city; +the stir it caused was like that occasioned by some accident, which upsets the +crowd in the morning and is forgotten by night amidst general indifference. +</p> + +<p> +However, Naudet noticed the ‘Village Funeral.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Hullo! that’s your picture, eh?’ he said. ‘So you +wanted to give a companion to the “Wedding”? Well, I should have +tried to dissuade you! Ah! the “Wedding”! the +“Wedding”!’ +</p> + +<p> +Bongrand still listened to him without ceasing to smile. Barely a twinge of +pain passed over his trembling lips. He forgot his masterpieces, the certainty +of leaving an immortal name, he was only cognisant of the vogue which that +youngster, unworthy of cleaning his palette, had so suddenly and easily +acquired, that vogue which seemed to be pushing him, Bongrand, into +oblivion—he who had struggled for ten years before he had succeeded in +making himself known. Ah! when the new generations bury a man, if they only +knew what tears of blood they make him shed in death! +</p> + +<p> +However, as he had remained silent, he was seized with the fear that he might +have let his suffering be divined. Was he falling to the baseness of envy? +Anger with himself made him raise his head—a man should die erect. And +instead of giving the violent answer which was rising to his lips, he said in a +familiar way: +</p> + +<p> +‘You are right, Naudet, I should have done better if I had gone to bed on +the day when the idea of that picture occurred to me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! there he is; excuse me!’ cried the dealer, making off. +</p> + +<p> +It was Fagerolles showing himself at the entrance of the gallery. He discreetly +stood there without entering, carrying his good fortune with the ease of a man +who knows what he is about. Besides, he was looking for somebody; he made a +sign to a young man, and gave him an answer, a favourable one, no doubt, for +the other brimmed over with gratitude. Then two other persons sprang forward to +congratulate him; a woman detained him, showing him, with a martyr’s +gesture, a bit of still life hung in a dark corner. And finally he disappeared, +after casting but one glance at the people in raptures before his picture. +</p> + +<p> +Claude, who had looked and listened, was overwhelmed with sadness. The crush +was still increasing, he now had nought before him but faces gaping and +sweating in the heat, which had become intolerable. Above the nearer shoulders +rose others, and so on and so on as far as the door, whence those who could see +nothing pointed out the painting to each other with the tips of their +umbrellas, from which dripped the water left by the showers outside. And +Bongrand remained there out of pride, erect in defeat, firmly planted on his +legs, those of an old combatant, and gazing with limpid eyes upon ungrateful +Paris. He wished to finish like a brave man, whose kindness of heart is +boundless. Claude, who spoke to him without receiving any answer, saw very well +that there was nothing behind that calm, gay face; the mind was absent, it had +flown away in mourning, bleeding with frightful torture; and thereupon, full of +alarm and respect, he did not insist, but went off. And Bongrand, with his +vacant eyes, did not even notice his departure. +</p> + +<p> +A new idea had just impelled Claude onward through the crowd. He was lost in +wonderment at not having been able to discover his picture. But nothing could +be more simple. Was there not some gallery where people grinned, some corner +full of noise and banter, some gathering of jesting spectators, insulting a +picture? That picture would assuredly be his. He could still hear the laughter +of the bygone Salon of the Rejected. And now at the door of each gallery he +listened to ascertain if it were there that he was being hissed. +</p> + +<p> +However, as he found himself once more in the eastern gallery, that hall where +great art agonises, that depository where vast, cold, and gloomy historical and +religious compositions are accumulated, he started, and remained motionless +with his eyes turned upward. He had passed through that gallery twice already, +and yet that was certainly his picture up yonder, so high up that he hesitated +about recognising it. It looked, indeed, so little, poised like a swallow at +the corner of a frame—the monumental frame of an immense painting +five-and-thirty feet long, representing the Deluge, a swarming of yellow +figures turning topsy-turvy in water of the hue of wine lees. On the left, +moreover, there was a pitiable ashen portrait of a general; on the right a +colossal nymph in a moonlit landscape, the bloodless corpse of a murdered woman +rotting away on some grass; and everywhere around there were mournful +violet-shaded things, mixed up with a comic scene of some bibulous monks, and +an ‘Opening of the Chamber of Deputies,’ with a whole page of +writing on a gilded cartouch, bearing the heads of the better-known deputies, +drawn in outline, together with their names. And high up, high up, amid those +livid neighbours, the little canvas, over-coarse in treatment, glared +ferociously with the painful grimace of a monster. +</p> + +<p> +Ah! ‘The Dead Child.’ At that distance the wretched little creature +was but a confused lump of flesh, the lifeless carcase of some shapeless +animal. Was that swollen, whitened head a skull or a stomach? And those poor +hands twisted among the bedclothes, like the bent claws of a bird killed by +cold! And the bed itself, that pallidity of the sheets, below the pallidity of +the limbs, all that white looking so sad, those tints fading away as if typical +of the supreme end! Afterwards, however, one distinguished the light eyes +staring fixedly, one recognised a child’s head, and it all seemed to +suggest some disease of the brain, profoundly and frightfully pitiful. +</p> + +<p> +Claude approached, and then drew back to see the better. The light was so bad +that refractions darted from all points across the canvas. How they <i>had</i> +hung his little Jacques! no doubt out of disdain, or perhaps from shame, so as +to get rid of the child’s lugubrious ugliness. But Claude evoked the +little fellow such as he had once been, and beheld him again over yonder in the +country, so fresh and pinky, as he rolled about in the grass; then in the Rue +de Douai, growing pale and stupid by degrees, and then in the Rue Tourlaque, no +longer able to carry his head, and dying one night, all alone, while his mother +was asleep; and he beheld her also, that mother, the sad woman who had stopped +at home, to weep there, no doubt, as she was now in the habit of doing for +entire days. No matter, she had done right in not coming; ‘twas too +mournful—their little Jacques, already cold in his bed, cast on one side +like a pariah, and so brutalised by the dancing light that his face seemed to +be laughing, distorted by an abominable grin. +</p> + +<p> +But Claude suffered still more from the loneliness of his work. Astonishment +and disappointment made him look for the crowd, the rush which he had +anticipated. Why was he not hooted? Ah! the insults of yore, the mocking, the +indignation that had rent his heart, but made him live! No, nothing more, not +even a passing expectoration: this was death. The visitors filed rapidly +through the long gallery, seized with boredom. There were merely some people in +front of the ‘Opening of the Chamber,’ where they collected to read +the inscriptions, and show each other the deputies’ heads. At last, +hearing some laughter behind him, he turned round; but nobody was jeering, some +visitors were simply making merry over the tipsy monks, the comic success of +the Salon, which some gentlemen explained to some ladies, declaring that it was +brilliantly witty. And all these people passed beneath little Jacques, and not +a head was raised, not a soul even knew that he was up there. +</p> + +<p> +However, the painter had a gleam of hope. On the central settee, two +personages, one of them fat and the other thin, and both of them decorated with +the Legion of Honour, sat talking, reclining against the velvet, and looking at +the pictures in front of them. Claude drew near them and listened. +</p> + +<p> +‘And I followed them,’ said the fat fellow. ‘They went along +the Rue St. Honoré, the Rue St. Roch, the Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin, the +Rue la Fayette—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And you spoke to them?’ asked the thin man, who appeared to be +deeply interested. +</p> + +<p> +‘No, I was afraid of getting in a rage.’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude went off and returned on three occasions, his heart beating fast each +time that some visitor stopped short and glanced slowly from the line to the +ceiling. He felt an unhealthy longing to hear one word, but one. Why exhibit? +How fathom public opinion? Anything rather than such torturing silence! And he +almost suffocated when he saw a young married couple approach, the husband a +good-looking fellow with little fair moustaches, the wife, charming, with the +delicate slim figure of a shepherdess in Dresden china. She had perceived the +picture, and asked what the subject was, stupefied that she could make nothing +out of it; and when her husband, turning over the leaves of the catalogue, had +found the title, ‘The Dead Child,’ she dragged him away, +shuddering, and raising this cry of affright: +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, the horror! The police oughtn’t to allow such horrors!’ +</p> + +<p> +Then Claude remained there, erect, unconscious and haunted, his eyes raised on +high, amid the continuous flow of the crowd which passed on, quite indifferent, +without one glance for that unique sacred thing, visible to him alone. And it +was there that Sandoz came upon him, amid the jostling. +</p> + +<p> +The novelist, who had been strolling about alone—his wife having remained +at home beside his ailing mother—had just stopped short, heart-rent, +below the little canvas, which he had espied by chance. Ah! how disgusted he +felt with life! He abruptly lived the days of his youth over again. He recalled +the college of Plassans, his freaks with Claude on the banks of the Viorne, +their long excursions under the burning sun, and all the flaming of their early +ambition; and, later on, when they had lived side by side, he remembered their +efforts, their certainty of coming glory, that fine irresistible, immoderate +appetite that had made them talk of swallowing Paris at one bite! How many +times, at that period, had he seen in Claude a great man, whose unbridled +genius would leave the talent of all others far behind in the rear! First had +come the studio of the Impasse des Bourdonnais; later, the studio of the Quai +de Bourbon, with dreams of vast compositions, projects big enough to make the +Louvre burst; and, meanwhile, the struggle was incessant; the painter laboured +ten hours a day, devoting his whole being to his work. And then what? After +twenty years of that passionate life he ended thus—he finished with that +poor, sinister little thing, which nobody noticed, which looked so +distressfully sad in its leper-like solitude! So much hope and torture, a +lifetime spent in the toil of creating, to come to that, to that, good God! +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz recognised Claude standing by, and fraternal emotion made his voice +quake as he said to him: +</p> + +<p> +‘What! so you came? Why did you refuse to call for me, then?’ +</p> + +<p> +The painter did not even apologise. He seemed very tired, overcome with +somniferous stupor. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, don’t stay here,’ added Sandoz. ‘It’s past +twelve o’clock, and you must lunch with me. Some people were to wait for +me at Ledoyen’s; but I shall give them the go-by. Let’s go down to +the buffet; we shall pick up our spirits there, eh, old fellow?’ +</p> + +<p> +And then Sandoz led him away, holding his arm, pressing it, warming it, and +trying to draw him from his mournful silence. +</p> + +<p> +‘Come, dash it all! you mustn’t give way like that. Although they +have hung your picture badly, it is all the same superb, a real bit of genuine +painting. Oh! I know that you dreamt of something else! But you are not dead +yet, it will be for later on. And, just look, you ought to be proud, for +it’s you who really triumph at the Salon this year. Fagerolles +isn’t the only one who pillages you; they all imitate you now; you have +revolutionised them since your “Open Air,” which they laughed so +much about. Look, look! there’s an “open air” effect, and +there’s another, and here and there—they all do it.’ +</p> + +<p> +He waved his hand towards the pictures as he and Claude passed along the +galleries. In point of fact, the dash of clear light, introduced by degrees +into contemporary painting, had fully burst forth at last. The dingy Salons of +yore, with their pitchy canvases, had made way for a Salon full of sunshine, +gay as spring itself. It was the dawn, the aurora which had first gleamed at +the Salon of the Rejected, and which was now rising and rejuvenating art with a +fine, diffuse light, full of infinite shades. On all sides you found +Claude’s famous ‘bluey tinge,’ even in the portraits and the +<i>genre</i> scenes, which had acquired the dimensions and the serious +character of historical paintings. The old academical subjects had disappeared +with the cooked juices of tradition, as if the condemned doctrine had carried +its people of shadows away with it; rare were the works of pure imagination, +the cadaverous nudities of mythology and catholicism, the legendary subjects +painted without faith, the anecdotic bits destitute of life—in fact, all +the bric-a-brac of the School of Arts used up by generations of tricksters and +fools; and the influence of the new principle was evident even among those +artists who lingered over the antique recipes, even among the former masters +who had now grown old. The flash of sunlight had penetrated to their studios. +From afar, at every step you took, you saw a painting transpierce the wall and +form, as it were, a window open upon Nature. Soon the walls themselves would +fall, and Nature would walk in; for the breach was a broad one, and the assault +had driven routine away in that gay battle waged by audacity and youth. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! your lot is a fine one, all the same, old fellow!’ continued +Sandoz. ‘The art of to-morrow will be yours; you have made them +all.’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude thereupon opened his mouth, and, with an air of gloomy brutality, said +in a low voice: +</p> + +<p> +‘What do I care if I <i>have</i> made them all, when I haven’t made +myself? See here, it’s too big an affair for me, and that’s what +stifles me.’ +</p> + +<p> +He made a gesture to finish expressing his thought, his consciousness of his +inability to prove the genius of the formula he had brought with him, the +torture he felt at being merely a precursor, the one who sows the idea without +reaping the glory, his grief at seeing himself pillaged, devoured by men who +turned out hasty work, by a whole flight of fellows who scattered their efforts +and lowered the new form of art, before he or another had found strength enough +to produce the masterpiece which would make the end of the century a date in +art. +</p> + +<p> +But Sandoz protested, the future lay open. Then, to divert Claude, he stopped +him while crossing the Gallery of Honour and said: +</p> + +<p> +‘Just look at that lady in blue before that portrait! What a slap Nature +does give to painting! You remember when we used to look at the dresses and the +animation of the galleries in former times? Not a painting then withstood the +shock. And yet now there are some which don’t suffer overmuch. I even +noticed over there a landscape, the general yellowish tinge of which completely +eclipsed all the women who approached it.’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude was quivering with unutterable suffering. +</p> + +<p> +‘Pray, let’s go,’ he said. ‘Take me away—I +can’t stand it any longer.’ +</p> + +<p> +They had all the trouble in the world to find a free table in the refreshment +room. People were pressed together in that big, shady retreat, girt round with +brown serge drapery under the girders of the lofty iron flooring of the +upstairs galleries. In the background, and but partially visible in the +darkness, stood three dressers displaying dishes of preserved fruit +symmetrically ranged on shelves; while, nearer at hand, at counters placed on +the right and left, two ladies, a dark one and a fair one, watched the crowd +with a military air; and from the dim depths of this seeming cavern rose a sea +of little marble tables, a tide of chairs, serried, entangled, surging, +swelling, overflowing and spreading into the garden, under the broad, pallid +light which fell from the glass roof. +</p> + +<p> +At last Sandoz saw some people rise. He darted forward and conquered the vacant +table by sheer struggling with the mob. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! dash it! we are here at all events. What will you have to +eat?’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude made a gesture of indifference. The lunch was execrable; there was some +trout softened by over-boiling, some undercut of beef dried up in the oven, +some asparagus smelling of moist linen, and, in addition, one had to fight to +get served; for the hustled waiters, losing their heads, remained in distress +in the narrow passages which the chairs were constantly blocking. Behind the +hangings on the left, one could hear a racket of saucepans and crockery; the +kitchen being installed there on the sand, like one of those Kermesse +cook-shops set up by the roadside in the open air. +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz and Claude had to eat, seated obliquely and half strangled between two +parties of people whose elbows almost ended by getting into their plates; and +each time that a waiter passed he gave their chairs a shake with his hips. +However, the inconvenience, like the abominable cookery, made one gay. People +jested about the dishes, different tables fraternised together, common +misfortune brought about a kind of pleasure party. Strangers ended by +sympathising; friends kept up conversations, although they were seated three +rows distant from one another, and were obliged to turn their heads and +gesticulate over their neighbours’ shoulders. The women particularly +became animated, at first rather anxious as to the crush, and then ungloving +their hands, catching up their skirts, and laughing at the first thimbleful of +neat wine they drank. +</p> + +<p> +However, Sandoz, who had renounced finishing his meat, raised his voice amid +the terrible hubbub caused by the chatter and the serving: +</p> + +<p> +‘A bit of cheese, eh? And let’s try to get some coffee.’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude, whose eyes looked dreamy, did not hear. He was gazing into the garden. +From his seat he could see the central clump of verdure, some lofty palms which +stood in relief against the grey hangings with which the garden was decorated +all round. A circle of statues was set out there; and you could see the back of +a faun; the profile of a young girl with full cheeks; the face of a bronze +Gaul, a colossal bit of romanticism which irritated one by its stupid +assumption of patriotism; the trunk of a woman hanging by the wrists, some +Andromeda of the Place Pigalle; and others, and others still following the +bends of the pathways; rows of shoulders and hips, heads, breasts, legs, and +arms, all mingling and growing indistinct in the distance. On the left +stretched a line of busts—such delightful ones—furnishing a most +comical and uncommon suite of noses. There was the huge pointed nose of a +priest, the tip-tilted nose of a soubrette, the handsome classical nose of a +fifteenth-century Italian woman, the mere fancy nose of a sailor—in fact, +every kind of nose, both the magistrate’s and the manufacturer’s, +and the nose of the gentleman decorated with the Legion of Honour—all of +them motionless and ranged in endless succession! +</p> + +<p> +However, Claude saw nothing of them; to him they were but grey spots in the +hazy, greenish light. His stupor still lasted, and he was only conscious of one +thing, the luxuriousness of the women’s dresses, of which he had formed a +wrong estimate amid the pushing in the galleries, and which were here freely +displayed, as if the wearers had been promenading over the gravel in the +conservatory of some château. All the elegance of Paris passed by, the women +who had come to show themselves, in dresses thoughtfully combined and destined +to be described in the morrow’s newspapers. People stared a great deal at +an actress, who walked about with a queen-like tread, on the arm of a gentleman +who assumed the complacent airs of a prince consort. The women of society +looked like so many hussies, and they all of them took stock of one another +with that slow glance which estimates the value of silk and the length of lace, +and which ferrets everywhere, from the tips of boots to the feathers upon +bonnets. This was neutral ground, so to say; some ladies who were seated had +drawn their chairs together, after the fashion in the garden of the Tuileries, +and occupied themselves exclusively with criticising those of their own sex who +passed by. Two female friends quickened their pace, laughing. Another woman, +all alone, walked up and down, mute, with a black look in her eyes. Some +others, who had lost one another, met again, and began ejaculating about the +adventure. And, meantime, the dark moving mass of men came to a standstill, +then set off again till it stopped short before a bit of marble, or eddied back +to a bit of bronze. And among the mere bourgeois, who were few in number, +though all of them looked out of their element there, moved men with celebrated +names—all the <i>illustrations</i> of Paris. A name of resounding glory +re-echoed as a fat, ill-clad gentleman passed by; the winged name of a poet +followed as a pale man with a flat, common face approached. A living wave was +rising from this crowd in the even, colourless light when suddenly a flash of +sunshine, from behind the clouds of a final shower, set the glass panes on high +aflame, making the stained window on the western side resplendent, and raining +down in golden particles through the still atmosphere; and then everything +became warm—the snowy statues amid the shiny green stuff, the soft lawns +parted by the yellow sand of the pathways, the rich dresses with their glossy +satin and bright beads, even the very voices, whose hilarious murmur seemed to +crackle like a bright fire of vine shoots. Some gardeners, completing the +arrangements of the flower-beds, turned on the taps of the stand-pipes and +promenaded about with their pots, the showers squirting from which came forth +again in tepid steam from the drenched grass. And meanwhile a plucky sparrow, +who had descended from the iron girders, despite the number of people, dipped +his beak in the sand in front of the buffet, eating some crumbs which a young +woman threw him by way of amusement. Of all the tumult, however, Claude only +heard the ocean-like din afar, the rumbling of the people rolling onwards in +the galleries. And a recollection came to him, he remembered that noise which +had burst forth like a hurricane in front of his picture at the Salon of the +Rejected. But nowadays people no longer laughed at him; upstairs the giant roar +of Paris was acclaiming Fagerolles! +</p> + +<p> +It so happened that Sandoz, who had turned round, said to Claude: ‘Hallo! +there’s Fagerolles!’ +</p> + +<p> +And, indeed, Fagerolles and Jory had just laid hands on a table near by without +noticing their friends, and the journalist, continuing in his gruff voice a +conversation which had previously begun, remarked: +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, I saw his “Dead Child”! Ah! the poor devil! what an +ending!’ +</p> + +<p> +But Fagerolles nudged Jory, and the latter, having caught sight of his two old +comrades, immediately added: +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! that dear old Claude! How goes it, eh? You know that I haven’t +yet seen your picture. But I’m told that it’s superb.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Superb!’ declared Fagerolles, who then began to express his +surprise. ‘So you lunched here. What an idea! Everything is so awfully +bad. We two have just come from Ledoyen’s. Oh! such a crowd and such +hustling, such mirth! Bring your table nearer and let us chat a bit.’ +</p> + +<p> +They joined the two tables together. But flatterers and petitioners were +already after the triumphant young master. Three friends rose up and noisily +saluted him from afar. A lady became smilingly contemplative when her husband +had whispered his name in her ear. And the tall, thin fellow, the artist whose +picture had been badly hung, and who had pursued him since the morning, as +enraged as ever, left a table where he was seated at the further end of the +buffet, and again hurried forward to complain, imperatively demanding +‘the line’ at once. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh! go to the deuce!’ at last cried Fagerolles, his patience and +amiability exhausted. And he added, when the other had gone off, mumbling some +indistinct threats: ‘It’s true; a fellow does all he can to be +obliging, but those chaps would drive one mad! All of them on the +“line”! leagues of “line” then! Ah! what a business it +is to be a committee-man! One wears out one’s legs, and one only reaps +hatred as reward.’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude, who was looking at him with his oppressed air, seemed to wake up for a +moment, and murmured: +</p> + +<p> +‘I wrote to you; I wanted to go and see you to thank you. Bongrand told +me about all the trouble you had. So thanks again.’ +</p> + +<p> +But Fagerolles hastily broke in: +</p> + +<p> +‘Tut, tut! I certainly owed that much to our old friendship. It’s I +who am delighted to have given you any pleasure.’ +</p> + +<p> +He showed the embarrassment which always came upon him in presence of the +acknowledged master of his youth, that kind of humility which filled him +perforce when he was with the man whose mute disdain, even at this moment, +sufficed to spoil all his triumph. +</p> + +<p> +‘Your picture is very good,’ slowly added Claude, who wished to be +kind-hearted and generous. +</p> + +<p> +This simple praise made Fagerolles’ heart swell with exaggerated, +irresistible emotion, springing he knew not whence; and this rascal, who +believed in nothing, who was usually so proficient in humbug, answered in a +shaky voice: +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! my dear fellow, ah! it’s very kind of you to tell me +that!’ +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz had at last obtained two cups of coffee, and as the waiter had forgotten +to bring any sugar, he had to content himself with some pieces which a party +had left on an adjoining table. A few tables, indeed, had now become vacant, +but the general freedom had increased, and one woman’s laughter rang out +so loudly that every head turned round. The men were smoking, and a bluish +cloud slowly rose above the straggling tablecloths, stained by wine and +littered with dirty plates and dishes. When Fagerolles, on his aide, succeeded +in obtaining two glasses of chartreuse for himself and Jory, he began to talk +to Sandoz, whom he treated with a certain amount of deference, divining that +the novelist might become a power. And Jory thereupon appropriated Claude, who +had again become mournful and silent. +</p> + +<p> +‘You know, my dear fellow,’ said the journalist, ‘I +didn’t send you any announcement of my marriage. On account of our +position we managed it on the quiet without inviting any guests. All the same, +I should have liked to let you know. You will excuse me, won’t +you?’ +</p> + +<p> +He showed himself expansive, gave particulars, full of the happiness of life, +and egotistically delighted to feel fat and victorious in front of that poor +vanquished fellow. He succeeded with everything, he said. He had given up +leader-writing, feeling the necessity of settling down seriously, and he had +risen to the editorship of a prominent art review, on which, so it was +asserted, he made thirty thousand francs a year, without mentioning certain +profits realised by shady trafficking in the sale of art collections. The +middle-class rapacity which he had inherited from his mother, the hereditary +passion for profit which had secretly impelled him to embark in petty +speculations as soon as he had gained a few coppers, now openly displayed +itself, and ended by making him a terrible customer, who bled all the artists +and amateurs who came under his clutches. +</p> + +<p> +It was amidst this good luck of his that Mathilde, now all-powerful, had +brought him to the point of begging her, with tears in his eyes, to become his +wife, a request which she had proudly refused during six long months. +</p> + +<p> +‘When folks are destined to live together,’ he continued, +‘the best course is to set everything square. You experienced it +yourself, my dear fellow; you know something about it, eh? And if I told you +that she wouldn’t consent at first—yes, it’s a fact—for +fear of being misjudged and of doing me harm. Oh! she has such grandeur, such +delicacy of mind! No, nobody can have an idea of that woman’s qualities. +Devoted, taking all possible care of one, economical, and acute, too, and such +a good adviser! Ah! it was a lucky chance that I met her! I no longer do +anything without consulting her; I let her do as she likes; she manages +everything, upon my word.’ +</p> + +<p> +The truth was that Mathilde had finished by reducing him to the frightened +obedience of a little boy. The once dissolute she-ghoul had become a +dictatorial spouse, eager for respect, and consumed with ambition and love of +money. She showed, too, every form of sourish virtue. It was said that they had +been seen taking the Holy Communion together at Notre Dame de Lorette. They +kissed one another before other people, and called each other by endearing +nicknames. Only, of an evening, he had to relate how he had spent his time +during the day, and if the employment of a single hour remained suspicious, if +he did not bring home all the money he had received, down to the odd coppers, +she led him the most abominable life imaginable. +</p> + +<p> +This, of course, Jory left unmentioned. By way of conclusion he exclaimed: +‘And so we waited for my father’s death, and then I married +her.’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude, whose mind had so far been wandering, and who had merely nodded without +listening, was struck by that last sentence. +</p> + +<p> +‘What! you married her—married Mathilde?’ +</p> + +<p> +That exclamation summed up all the astonishment that the affair caused him, all +the recollections that occurred to him of Mahoudeau’s shop. That Jory, +why, he could still hear him talking about Mathilde in an abominable manner; +and yet he had married her! It was really stupid for a fellow to speak badly of +a woman, for he never knew if he might not end by marrying her some day or +other! +</p> + +<p> +However, Jory was perfectly serene, his memory was dead, he never allowed +himself an allusion to the past, never showed the slightest embarrassment when +his comrades’ eyes were turned on him. Besides, Mathilde seemed to be a +new-comer. He introduced her to them as if they knew nothing whatever about +her. +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz, who had lent an ear to the conversation, greatly interested by this +fine business, called out as soon as Jory and Claude became silent: +</p> + +<p> +‘Let’s be off, eh? My legs are getting numbed.’ +</p> + +<p> +But at that moment Irma Bécot appeared, and stopped in front of the buffet. +With her hair freshly gilded, she had put on her best looks—all the +tricky sheen of a tawny hussy, who seemed to have just stepped out of some old +Renaissance frame; and she wore a train of light blue brocaded silk, with a +satin skirt covered with Alençon lace, of such richness that quite an escort of +gentlemen followed her in admiration. On perceiving Claude among the others, +she hesitated for a moment, seized, as it were, with cowardly shame in front of +that ill-clad, ugly, derided devil. Then, becoming valiant, as it were, it was +his hand that she shook the first amid all those well-dressed men, who opened +their eyes in amazement. She laughed with an affectionate air, and spoke to him +in a friendly, bantering way. +</p> + +<p> +Fagerolles, however, was already paying for the two chartreuses he had ordered, +and at last he went off with Irma, whom Jory also decided to follow. Claude +watched them walk away together, she between the two men, moving on in regal +fashion, greatly admired, and repeatedly bowed to by people in the crowd. +</p> + +<p> +‘One can see very well that Mathilde isn’t here,’ quietly +remarked Sandoz. ‘Ah! my friend, what clouts Jory would receive on +getting home!’ +</p> + +<p> +The novelist now asked for the bill. All the tables were becoming vacant; there +only remained a litter of bones and crusts. A couple of waiters were wiping the +marble slabs with sponges, whilst a third raked up the soiled sand. Behind the +brown serge hangings the staff of the establishment was lunching—one +could hear a grinding of jaws and husky laughter, a rumpus akin to that of a +camp of gipsies devouring the contents of their saucepans. +</p> + +<p> +Claude and Sandoz went round the garden, where they discovered a statue by +Mahoudeau, very badly placed in a corner near the eastern vestibule. It was the +bathing girl at last, standing erect, but of diminutive proportions, being +scarcely as tall as a girl ten years old, but charmingly delicate—with +slim hips and a tiny bosom, displaying all the exquisite hesitancy of a +sprouting bud. The figure seemed to exhale a perfume, that grace which nothing +can give, but which flowers where it lists, stubborn, invincible, perennial +grace, springing still and ever from Mahoudeau’s thick fingers, which +were so ignorant of their special aptitude that they had long treated this very +grace with derision. +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz could not help smiling. +</p> + +<p> +‘And to think that this fellow has done everything he could to warp his +talent. If his figure were better placed, it would meet with great +success.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, great success,’ repeated Claude. ‘It is very +pretty.’ +</p> + +<p> +Precisely at that moment they perceived Mahoudeau, already in the vestibule, +and going towards the staircase. They called him, ran after him, and then all +three remained talking together for a few minutes. The ground-floor gallery +stretched away, empty, with its sanded pavement, and the pale light streaming +through its large round windows. One might have fancied oneself under a railway +bridge. Strong pillars supported the metallic framework, and an icy chillness +blew from above, moistening the sand in which one’s feet sank. In the +distance, behind a torn curtain, one could see rows of statues, the rejected +sculptural exhibits, the casts which poor sculptors did not even remove, +gathered together in a livid kind of Morgue, in a state of lamentable +abandonment. But what surprised one, on raising one’s head, was the +continuous din, the mighty tramp of the public over the flooring of the upper +galleries. One was deafened by it; it rolled on without a pause, as if +interminable trains, going at full speed, were ever and ever shaking the iron +girders. +</p> + +<p> +When Mahoudeau had been complimented, he told Claude that he had searched for +his picture in vain. In the depths of what hole could they have put it? Then, +in a fit of affectionate remembrance for the past, he asked anxiously after +Gagnière and Dubuche. Where were the Salons of yore which they had all reached +in a band, the mad excursions through the galleries as in an enemy’s +country, the violent disdain they had felt on going away, the discussions which +had made their tongues swell and emptied their brains? Nobody now saw Dubuche. +Two or three times a month Gagnière came from Melun, in a state of +bewilderment, to attend some concert; and he now took such little interest in +painting that he had not even looked in at the Salon, although he exhibited his +usual landscape, the same view of the banks of the Seine which he had been +sending for the last fifteen years—a picture of a pretty greyish tint, so +conscientious and quiet that the public had never remarked it. +</p> + +<p> +‘I was going upstairs,’ resumed Mahoudeau. ‘Will you come +with me?’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude, pale with suffering, raised his eyes every second. Ah! that terrible +rumbling, that devouring gallop of the monster overhead, the shock of which he +felt in his very limbs! +</p> + +<p> +He held out his hand without speaking. +</p> + +<p> +‘What! are you going to leave us?’ exclaimed Sandoz. Take just +another turn with us, and we’ll go away together.’ +</p> + +<p> +Then, on seeing Claude so weary, a feeling of pity made his heart contract. He +divined that the poor fellow’s courage was exhausted, that he was +desirous of solitude, seized with a desire to fly off alone and hide his wound. +</p> + +<p> +‘Then, good-bye, old man: I’ll call and see you to-morrow.’ +</p> + +<p> +Staggering, and as if pursued by the tempest upstairs, Claude disappeared +behind the clumps of shrubbery in the garden. But two hours later Sandoz, who +after losing Mahoudeau had just found him again with Jory and Fagerolles, +perceived the unhappy painter again standing in front of his picture, at the +same spot where he had met him the first time. At the moment of going off the +wretched fellow had come up there again, harassed and attracted despite +himself. +</p> + +<p> +There was now the usual five o’clock crush. The crowd, weary of winding +round the galleries, became distracted, and pushed and shoved without ever +finding its way out. Since the coolness of the morning, the heat of all the +human bodies, the odour of all the breath exhaled there had made the atmosphere +heavy, and the dust of the floors, flying about, rose up in a fine mist. People +still took each other to see certain pictures, the subjects of which alone +struck and attracted the crowd. Some went off, came back, and walked about +unceasingly. The women were particularly obstinate in not retiring; they seemed +determined to remain there till the attendants should push them out when six +o’clock began to strike. Some fat ladies had foundered. Others, who had +failed to find even the tiniest place to sit down, leaned heavily on their +parasols, sinking, but still obstinate. Every eye was turned anxiously and +supplicatingly towards the settees laden with people. And all that those +thousands of sight-seers were now conscious of, was that last fatigue of +theirs, which made their legs totter, drew their features together, and +tortured them with headache—that headache peculiar to fine-art shows, +which is caused by the constant straining of one’s neck and the blinding +dance of colours. +</p> + +<p> +Alone on the little settee where at noon already they had been talking about +their private affairs, the two decorated gentlemen were still chatting quietly, +with their minds a hundred leagues away from the place. Perhaps they had +returned thither, perhaps they had not even stirred from the spot. +</p> + +<p> +‘And so,’ said the fat one, ‘you went in, pretending not to +understand?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Quite so,’ replied the thin one. ‘I looked at them and took +off my hat. It was clear, eh?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Astonishing! You really astonish me, my dear friend.’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude, however, only heard the low beating of his heart, and only beheld the +‘Dead Child’ up there in the air, near the ceiling. He did not take +his eyes off it, a prey to a fascination which held him there, quite +independent of his will. The crowd turned round him, people’s feet trod +on his own, he was pushed and carried away; and, like some inert object, he +abandoned himself, waved about, and ultimately found himself again on the same +spot as before without having once lowered his head, quite ignorant of what was +occurring below, all his life being concentrated up yonder beside his work, his +little Jacques, swollen in death. Two big tears which stood motionless between +his eyelids prevented him from seeing clearly. And it seemed to him as if he +would never have time to see enough. +</p> + +<p> +Then Sandoz, in his deep compassion, pretended he did not perceive his old +friend; it was as if he wished to leave him there, beside the tomb of his +wrecked life. Their comrades once more went past in a band. Fagerolles and Jory +darted on ahead, and, Mahoudeau having asked Sandoz where Claude’s +picture was hung, the novelist told a lie, drew him aside and took him off. All +of them went away. +</p> + +<p> +In the evening Christine only managed to draw curt words from Claude; +everything was going on all right, said he; the public showed no ill-humour; +the picture had a good effect, though it was hung perhaps rather high up. +However, despite this semblance of cold tranquillity, he seemed so strange that +she became frightened. +</p> + +<p> +After dinner, as she returned from carrying the dirty plates into the kitchen, +she no longer found him near the table. He had opened a window which overlooked +some waste ground, and he stood there, leaning out to such a degree that she +could scarcely see him. At this she sprang forward, terrified, and pulled him +violently by his jacket. +</p> + +<p> +‘Claude! Claude! what are you doing?’ +</p> + +<p> +He turned round, with his face as white as a sheet and his eyes haggard. +</p> + +<p> +‘I’m looking,’ he said. +</p> + +<p> +But she closed the window with trembling hands, and after that significant +incident such anguish clung to her that she no longer slept at night-time. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"></a> +XI</h2> + +<p> +CLAUDE set to work again on the very next day, and months elapsed, indeed the +whole summer went by, in heavy quietude. He had found a job, some little +paintings of flowers for England, the proceeds of which sufficed for their +daily bread. All his available time was again devoted to his large canvas, and +he no longer went into the same fits of anger over it, but seemed to resign +himself to that eternal task, evincing obstinate, hopeless industry. However, +his eyes retained their crazy expression—one could see the death of +light, as it were, in them, when they gazed upon the failure of his existence. +</p> + +<p> +About this period Sandoz also experienced great grief. His mother died, his +whole life was upset—that life of three together, so homely in its +character, and shared merely by a few friends. He began to hate the pavilion of +the Rue Nollet, and, moreover, success suddenly declared itself with respect to +his books, which hitherto had sold but moderately well. So, prompted by the +advent of comparative wealth, he rented in the Rue de Londres a spacious flat, +the arrangements of which occupied him and his wife for several months. +Sandoz’s grief had drawn him closer to Claude again, both being disgusted +with everything. After the terrible blow of the Salon, the novelist had felt +very anxious about his old chum, divining that something had irreparably +snapped within him, that there was some wound by which life ebbed away unseen. +Then, however, finding Claude so cold and quiet, he ended by growing somewhat +reassured. +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz often walked up to the Rue Tourlaque, and whenever he found only +Christine at home, he questioned her, realising that she also lived in +apprehension of a calamity of which she never spoke. Her face bore a look of +worry, and now and again she started nervously, like a mother who watches over +her child and trembles at the slightest sound, with the fear that death may be +entering the chamber. +</p> + +<p> +One July morning Sandoz asked her: ‘Well, are you pleased? Claude’s +quiet, he works a deal.’ +</p> + +<p> +She gave the large picture her usual glance, a side glance full of terror and +hatred. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, yes, he works,’ she said. ‘He wants to finish +everything else before taking up the woman again.’ And without confessing +the fear that harassed her, she added in a lower tone: ‘But his +eyes—have you noticed his eyes? They always have the same wild +expression. I know very well that he lies, despite his pretence of taking +things so easily. Pray, come and see him, and take him out with you, so as to +change the current of his thoughts. He only has you left; help me, do help +me!’ +</p> + +<p> +After that Sandoz diligently devised motives for various walks, arriving at +Claude’s early in the morning, and carrying him away from his work +perforce. It was almost always necessary to drag him from his steps, on which +he habitually sat, even when he was not painting. A feeling of weariness +stopped him, a kind of torpor benumbed him for long minutes, during which he +did not give a single stroke with the brush. In those moments of mute +contemplation, his gaze reverted with pious fervour to the woman’s figure +which he no longer touched: it was like a hesitating desire combined with +sacred awe, a passion which he refused to satisfy, as he felt certain that it +would cost him his life. When he set to work again at the other figures and the +background of the picture, he well knew that the woman’s figure was still +there, and his glance wavered whenever he espied it; he felt that he would only +remain master of himself as long as he did not touch it again. +</p> + +<p> +One evening, Christine, who now visited at Sandoz’s and never missed a +single Thursday there, in the hope of seeing her big sick child of an artist +brighten up in the society of his friends, took the novelist aside and begged +him to drop in at their place on the morrow. And on the next day Sandoz, who, +as it happened, wanted to take some notes for a novel, on the other side of +Montmartre, went in search of Claude, carried him off and kept him idling about +until night-time. +</p> + +<p> +On this occasion they went as far as the gate of Clignancourt, where a +perpetual fair was held, with merry-go-rounds, shooting-galleries, and taverns, +and on reaching the spot they were stupefied to find themselves face to face +with Chaîne, who was enthroned in a large and stylish booth. It was a kind of +chapel, highly ornamented. There were four circular revolving stands set in a +row and loaded with articles in china and glass, all sorts of ornaments and +nick-nacks, whose gilding and polish shone amid an harmonica-like tinkling +whenever the hand of a gamester set the stand in motion. It then spun round, +grating against a feather, which, on the rotatory movement ceasing, indicated +what article, if any, had been won. The big prize was a live rabbit, adorned +with pink favours, which waltzed and revolved unceasingly, intoxicated with +fright. And all this display was set in red hangings, scalloped at the top; and +between the curtains one saw three pictures hanging at the rear of the booth, +as in the sanctuary of some tabernacle. They were Chaîne’s three +masterpieces, which now followed him from fair to fair, from one end of Paris +to the other. The ‘Woman taken in Adultery’ in the centre, the copy +of the Mantegna on the left, and Mahoudeau’s stove on the right. Of an +evening, when the petroleum lamps flamed and the revolving stands glowed and +radiated like planets, nothing seemed finer than those pictures hanging amid +the blood-tinged purple of the hangings, and a gaping crowd often flocked to +view them. +</p> + +<p> +The sight was such that it wrung an exclamation from Claude: ‘Ah, good +heavens! But those paintings look very well—they were surely intended for +this.’ +</p> + +<p> +The Mantegna, so naively harsh in treatment, looked like some faded coloured +print nailed there for the delectation of simple-minded folk; whilst the +minutely painted stove, all awry, hanging beside the gingerbread Christ +absolving the adulterous woman, assumed an unexpectedly gay aspect. +</p> + +<p> +However, Chaîne, who had just perceived the two friends, held out his hand to +them, as if he had left them merely the day before. He was calm, neither proud +nor ashamed of his booth, and he had not aged, having still a leathery aspect; +though, on the other hand, his nose had completely vanished between his cheeks, +whilst his mouth, clammy with prolonged silence, was buried in his moustache +and beard. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hallo! so we meet again!’ said Sandoz, gaily. ‘Do you know, +your paintings have a lot of effect?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The old humbug!’ added Claude. ‘Why, he has his little Salon +all to himself. That’s very cute indeed.’ +</p> + +<p> +Chaîne’s face became radiant, and he dropped the remark: ‘Of +course!’ +</p> + +<p> +Then, as his artistic pride was roused, he, from whom people barely wrung +anything but growls, gave utterance to a whole sentence: +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! it’s quite certain that if I had had any money, like you +fellows, I should have made my way, just as you have done, in spite of +everything.’ +</p> + +<p> +That was his conviction. He had never doubted of his talent, he had simply +forsaken the profession because it did not feed him. When he visited the +Louvre, at sight of the masterpieces hanging there he felt convinced that time +alone was necessary to turn out similar work. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah, me!’ said Claude, who had become gloomy again. +‘Don’t regret what you’ve done; you alone have succeeded. +Business is brisk, eh?’ +</p> + +<p> +But Chaîne muttered bitter words. No, no, there was nothing doing, not even in +his line. People wouldn’t play for prizes; all the money found its way to +the wine-shops. In spite of buying paltry odds and ends, and striking the table +with the palm of one’s hand, so that the feather might not indicate one +of the big prizes, a fellow barely had water to drink nowadays. Then, as some +people had drawn near, he stopped short in his explanation to call out: +‘Walk up, walk up, at every turn you win!’ in a gruff voice which +the two others had never known him to possess, and which fairly stupefied them. +</p> + +<p> +A workman who was carrying a sickly little girl with large covetous eyes, let +her play two turns. The revolving stands grated and the nick-nacks danced round +in dazzling fashion, while the live rabbit, with his ears lowered, revolved and +revolved so rapidly that the outline of his body vanished and he became nothing +but a whitish circle. There was a moment of great emotion, for the little girl +had narrowly missed winning him. +</p> + +<p> +Then, after shaking hands with Chaîne, who was still trembling with the fright +this had given him, the two friends walked away. +</p> + +<p> +‘He’s happy,’ said Claude, after they had gone some fifty +paces in silence. +</p> + +<p> +‘He!’ cried Sandoz; ‘why, he believes he has missed becoming +a member of the Institute, and it’s killing him.’ +</p> + +<p> +Shortly after this meeting, and towards the middle of August, Sandoz devised a +real excursion which would take up a whole day. He had met +Dubuche—Dubuche, careworn and mournful, who had shown himself plaintive +and affectionate, raking up the past and inviting his two old chums to lunch at +La Richaudière, where he should be alone with his two children for another +fortnight. Why shouldn’t they go and surprise him there, since he seemed +so desirous of renewing the old intimacy? But in vain did Sandoz repeat that he +had promised Dubuche on oath to bring Claude with him; the painter obstinately +refused to go, as if he were frightened at the idea of again beholding +Bennecourt, the Seine, the islands, all the stretch of country where his happy +years lay dead and buried. It was necessary for Christine to interfere, and he +finished by giving way, although full of repugnance to the trip. It precisely +happened that on the day prior to the appointment he had worked at his painting +until very late, being taken with the old fever again. And so the next +morning—it was Sunday—being devoured with a longing to paint, he +went off most reluctantly, tearing himself away from his picture with a pang. +What was the use of returning to Bennecourt? All that was dead, it no longer +existed. Paris alone remained, and even in Paris there was but one view, the +point of the Cité, that vision which haunted him always and everywhere, that +one corner where he ever left his heart. +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz, finding him nervous in the railway carriage, and seeing that his eyes +remained fixed on the window as if he had been leaving the city—which had +gradually grown smaller and seemed shrouded in mist—for years, did all he +could to divert his mind, telling him, for instance, what he knew about +Dubuche’s real position. At the outset, old Margaillan, glorifying in his +bemedalled son-in-law, had trotted him about and introduced him everywhere as +his partner and successor. There was a fellow who would conduct business +briskly, who would build houses more cheaply and in finer style than ever, for +hadn’t he grown pale over books? But Dubuche’s first idea proved +disastrous; on some land belonging to his father-in-law in Burgundy he +established a brickyard in so unfavourable a situation, and after so defective +a plan, that the venture resulted in the sheer loss of two hundred thousand +francs. Then he turned his attention to erecting houses, insisting upon +bringing personal ideas into execution, a certain general scheme of his which +would revolutionise the building art. These ideas were the old theories he held +from the revolutionary chums of his youth, everything that he had promised he +would realise when he was free; but he had not properly reduced the theories to +method, and he applied them unseasonably, with the awkwardness of a pupil +lacking the sacred fire; he experimented with terra-cotta and pottery +ornamentation, large bay windows, and especially with the employment of +iron—iron girders, iron staircases, and iron roofings; and as the +employment of these materials increased the outlay, he again ended with a +catastrophe, which was all the greater as he was a pitiful manager, and had +lost his head since he had become rich, rendered the more obtuse, it seemed, by +money, quite spoilt and at sea, unable even to revert to his old habits of +industry. This time Margaillan grew angry; he for thirty years had been buying +ground, building and selling again, estimating at a glance the cost and return +of house property; so many yards of building at so much the foot having to +yield so many suites of rooms at so much rent. He wouldn’t have anything +more to do with a fellow who blundered about lime, bricks, millstones, and in +fact everything, who employed oak when deal would have suited, and who could +not bring himself to cut up a storey—like a consecrated wafer—into +as many little squares as was necessary. No, no, none of that! He rebelled +against art, after having been ambitious to introduce a little of it into his +routine, in order to satisfy a long-standing worry about his own ignorance. And +after that matters had gone from bad to worse, terrible quarrels had arisen +between the son-in-law and the father-in-law, the former disdainful, +intrenching himself behind his science, and the latter shouting that the +commonest labourer knew more than an architect did. The millions were in +danger, and one fine day Margaillan turned Dubuche out of his offices, +forbidding him ever to set foot in them again, since he did not even know how +to direct a building-yard where only four men worked. It was a disaster, a +lamentable failure, the School of Arts collapsing, derided by a mason! +</p> + +<p> +At this point of Sandoz’s story, Claude, who had begun to listen to his +friend, inquired: +</p> + +<p> +‘Then what is Dubuche doing now?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t know—nothing probably,’ answered Sandoz. +‘He told me that he was anxious about his children’s health, and +was taking care of them.’ +</p> + +<p> +That pale woman, Madame Margaillan, as slender as the blade of a knife, had +died of tubercular consumption, which was plainly the hereditary disease, the +source of the family’s degeneracy, for her daughter, Régine, had been +coughing ever since her marriage. She was now drinking the waters at Mont-Dore, +whither she had not dared to take her children, as they had been very poorly +the year before, after a season spent in that part, where the air was too keen +for them. This explained the scattering of the family: the mother over yonder +with her maid; the grandfather in Paris, where he had resumed his great +building enterprises, battling amid his four hundred workmen, and crushing the +idle and the incapable beneath his contempt; and the father in exile at La +Richaudière, set to watch over his son and daughter, shut up there, after the +very first struggle, as if it had broken him down for life. In a moment of +effusion Dubuche had even let Sandoz understand that as his wife was so +extremely delicate he now lived with her merely on friendly terms. +</p> + +<p> +‘A nice marriage,’ said Sandoz, simply, by way of conclusion. +</p> + +<p> +It was ten o’clock when the two friends rang at the iron gate of La +Richaudière. The estate, with which they were not acquainted, amazed them. +There was a superb park, a garden laid out in the French style, with +balustrades and steps spreading away in regal fashion; three huge +conservatories and a colossal cascade—quite a piece of folly, with its +rocks brought from afar, and the quantity of cement and the number of conduits +that had been employed in arranging it. Indeed, the owner had sunk a fortune in +it, out of sheer vanity. But what struck the friends still more was the +melancholy, deserted aspect of the domain; the gravel of the avenues carefully +raked, with never a trace of footsteps; the distant expanses quite deserted, +save that now and then a solitary gardener passed by; and the house looking +lifeless, with all its windows closed, excepting two, which were barely set +ajar. +</p> + +<p> +However, a valet who had decided to show himself began to question them, and +when he learnt that they wished to see ‘monsieur,’ he became +insolent, and replied that ‘monsieur’ was behind the house in the +gymnasium, and then went indoors again. +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz and Claude followed a path which led them towards a lawn, and what they +saw there made them pause. Dubuche, who stood in front of a trapeze, was +raising his arms to support his son, Gaston, a poor sickly boy who, at ten +years of age, still had the slight, soft limbs of early childhood; while the +girl, Alice, sat in a perambulator awaiting her turn. She was so imperfectly +developed that, although she was six years old, she could not yet walk. The +father, absorbed in his task, continued exercising the slim limbs of his little +boy, swinging him backwards and forwards, and vainly trying to make him raise +himself up by his wrists. Then, as this slight effort sufficed to bring on +perspiration, he removed the little fellow from the trapeze and rolled him in a +rug. And all this was done amid complete silence, alone under the far expanse +of sky, his face wearing a look of distressful pity as he knelt there in that +splendid park. However, as he rose up he perceived the two friends. +</p> + +<p> +‘What! it’s you? On a Sunday, and without warning me!’ +</p> + +<p> +He had made a gesture of annoyance, and at once explained that the maid, the +only woman to whom he could trust the children, went to Paris on Sundays, and +that it was consequently impossible for him to leave Gaston and Alice for a +minute. +</p> + +<p> +‘I’ll wager that you came to lunch?’ he added. +</p> + +<p> +As Claude gave Sandoz an imploring glance, the novelist made haste to answer: +</p> + +<p> +‘No, no. As it happens, we only have time enough to shake hands with you. +Claude had to come down here on a business matter. He lived at Bennecourt, as +you know. And as I accompanied him, we took it into our heads to walk as far as +here. But there are people waiting for us, so don’t disturb yourself in +the least.’ +</p> + +<p> +Thereupon, Dubuche, who felt relieved, made a show of detaining them. They +certainly had an hour to spare, dash it all! And they all three began to talk. +Claude looked at Dubuche, astonished to find him so aged; his flabby face had +become wrinkled—it was of a yellowish hue, and streaked with red, as if +bile had splashed his skin; whilst his hair and his moustaches were already +growing grey. In addition, his figure appeared to have become more compact; a +bitter weariness made each of his gestures seem an effort. Were defeats in +money matters as hard to bear, then, as defeats in art? Everything about this +vanquished man—his voice, his glance—proclaimed the shameful +dependency in which he had to live: the bankruptcy of his future which was cast +in his teeth, with the accusation of having allowed a talent he did not possess +to be set down as an asset in the marriage contract. Then there was the family +money which he nowadays stole, the money spent on what he ate, the clothes he +wore, and the pocket-money he needed—in fact, the perpetual alms which +were bestowed upon him, just as they might have been bestowed upon some vulgar +swindler, whom one unluckily could not get rid of. +</p> + +<p> +‘Wait a bit,’ resumed Dubuche; ‘I have to stop here five +minutes longer with one of my poor duckies, and afterwards we’ll go +indoors.’ +</p> + +<p> +Gently, and with infinite motherly precautions, he removed little Alice from +the perambulator and lifted her to the trapeze. Then, stammering coaxing words +and smiling, he encouraged her, and left her hanging for a couple of minutes, +so as to develop her muscles; but he remained with open arms, watching each +movement with the fear of seeing her smashed to pieces, should her weak little +wax-like hands relax their hold. She did not say anything, but obeyed him in +spite of the terror that this exercise caused her; and she was so pitifully +light in weight that she did not even fully stretch the ropes, being like one +of those poor scraggy little birds which fall from a young tree without as much +as bending it. +</p> + +<p> +At this moment, Dubuche, having given Gaston a glance, became distracted on +remarking that the rug had slipped and that the child’s legs were +uncovered. +</p> + +<p> +‘Good heavens! good heavens! Why, he’ll catch cold on this grass! +And I, who can’t move! Gaston, my little dear! It’s the same thing +every day; you wait till I’m occupied with your sister. Sandoz, pray +cover him over! Ah, thanks! Pull the rug up more; don’t be afraid!’ +</p> + +<p> +So this was the outcome of his splendid marriage—those two poor, weak +little beings, whom the least breath from the sky threatened to kill like +flies. Of the fortune he had married, all that remained to him was the constant +grief of beholding those woeful children stricken by the final degeneracy of +scrofula and phthisis. However, this big, egotistical fellow showed himself an +admirable father. The only energy that remained to him consisted in a +determination to make his children live, and he struggled on hour after hour, +saving them every morning, and dreading to lose them every night. They alone +existed now amid his finished existence, amid the bitterness of his +father-in-law’s insulting reproaches, the coldness of his sorry, ailing +wife. And he kept to his task in desperation; he finished bringing those +children into the world, as it were, by dint of unremitting tenderness. +</p> + +<p> +‘There, my darling, that’s enough, isn’t it?’ he said. +‘You’ll soon see how big and pretty you’ll become.’ +</p> + +<p> +He then placed Alice in the perambulator again, took Gaston, who was still +wrapped up, on one of his arms; and when his friends wished to help him, he +declined their offer, pushing the little girl’s vehicle along with his +right hand, which had remained free. +</p> + +<p> +‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘I’m accustomed to it. Ah! the poor +darlings are not heavy; and besides, with servants one can never be sure of +anything.’ +</p> + +<p> +On entering the house, Sandoz and Claude again saw the valet who had been so +insolent; and they noticed that Dubuche trembled before him. The kitchen and +the hall shared the contempt of the father-in-law, who paid for everything, and +treated ‘madame’s’ husband like a beggar whose presence was +merely tolerated out of charity. Each time that a shirt was got ready for him, +each time that he asked for some more bread, the servants’ impolite +gestures made him feel that he was receiving alms. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, good-bye, we must leave you,’ said Sandoz, who suffered at +the sight of it all. +</p> + +<p> +‘No, no, wait a bit. The children are going to breakfast, and afterwards +I’ll accompany you with them. They must go for their outing.’ +</p> + +<p> +Each day was regulated hour by hour. Of a morning came the baths and the +gymnastics; then the breakfast, which was quite an affair, as the children +needed special food, which was duly discussed and weighed. And matters were +carried to such a point that even their wine and water was slightly warmed, for +fear that too chilly a drop might give them a cold. On this occasion they each +partook of the yolk of an egg diluted in some broth, and a mutton cutlet, which +the father cut up into tiny morsels. Then, prior to the siesta, came the +promenade. +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz and Claude found themselves once more out-of-doors, walking down the +broad avenues with Dubuche, who again propelled Alice’s perambulator, +whilst Gaston walked beside him. They talked about the estate as they went +towards the gate. The master glanced over the park with timid, nervous eyes, as +if he did not feel at home. Besides he did not know anything; he did not occupy +himself about anything. He appeared even to have forgotten the profession which +he was said to be ignorant of, and seemed to have gone astray, to be bowed down +by sheer inaction. +</p> + +<p> +‘And your parents, how are they?’ asked Sandoz. +</p> + +<p> +A spark was once more kindled in Dubuche’s dim eyes. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh! my parents are happy,’ he said; ‘I bought them a little +house, where they live on the annuity which I had specified in my marriage +contract. Well, you see, mamma had advanced enough money for my education, and +I had to return it to her, as I had promised, eh? Yes, I can at least say that +my parents have nothing to reproach me with.’ +</p> + +<p> +Having reached the gate, they tarried there for a few minutes. At last, still +looking crushed, Dubuche shook hands with his old comrades; and retaining +Claude’s hand in his, he concluded, as if making a simple statement of +fact quite devoid of anger: +</p> + +<p> +‘Good-bye; try to get out of worry! As for me, I’ve spoilt my +life.’ +</p> + +<p> +And they watched him walk back towards the house, pushing the perambulator, and +supporting Gaston, who was already stumbling with fatigue—he, Dubuche, +himself having his back bent and the heavy tread of an old man. +</p> + +<p> +One o’clock was striking, and they both hurried down towards Bennecourt, +saddened and ravenous. But mournfulness awaited them there as well; a murderous +blast had swept over the place, both Faucheurs, husband and wife, and old +Porrette, were all dead; and the inn, having fallen into the hands of that +goose Mélie, was becoming repugnant with its filth and coarseness. An +abominable repast was served them, an omelette with hairs in it, and cutlets +smelling of grease, in the centre of the common room, to which an open window +admitted the pestilential odour of a dung heap, while the place was so full of +flies that they positively blackened the tables. The heat of the burning +afternoon came in with the stench, and Claude and Sandoz did not even feel the +courage to order any coffee; they fled. +</p> + +<p> +‘And you who used to extol old Mother Faucheur’s omelettes!’ +said Sandoz. ‘The place is done for. We are going for a turn, eh?’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude was inclined to refuse. Ever since the morning he had had but one +idea—that of walking on as fast as possible, as if each step would +shorten the disagreeable task and bring him back to Paris. His heart, his head, +his whole being had remained there. He looked neither to right nor to left, he +glided along without distinguishing aught of the fields or trees, having but +one fixed idea in his brain, a prey to such hallucinations that at certain +moments he fancied the point of the Cité rose up and called to him from amid +the vast expanse of stubble. However, Sandoz’s proposal aroused memories +in his mind; and, softening somewhat, he replied: +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, that’s it, we’ll have a look.’ +</p> + +<p> +But as they advanced along the river bank, he became indignant and grieved. He +could scarcely recognise the place. A bridge had been built to connect +Bennecourt with Bonnières: a bridge, good heavens! in the place of the old +ferry-boat, grating against its chain—the old black boat which, cutting +athwart the current, had been so full of interest to the artistic eye. +Moreover, a dam established down-stream at Port-Villez had raised the level of +the river, most of the islands of yore were now submerged, and the little +armlets of the stream had become broader. There were no more pretty nooks, no +more rippling alleys amid which one could lose oneself; it was a disaster that +inclined one to strangle all the river engineers! +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, that clump of pollards still emerging from the water on the +left,’ cried Claude, ‘was the Barreux Island, where we used to chat +together, lying on the grass! You remember, don’t you? Ah! the +scoundrels!’ +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz, who could never see a tree felled without shaking his fist at the +wood-cutter, turned pale with anger, and felt exasperated that the authorities +had thus dared to mutilate nature. +</p> + +<p> +Then, as Claude approached his old home, he became silent, and his teeth +clenched. The house had been sold to some middle-class folk, and now there was +an iron gate, against which he pressed his face. The rose-bushes were all dead, +the apricot trees were dead also; the garden, which looked very trim, with its +little pathways and its square-cut beds of flowers and vegetables, bordered +with box, was reflected in a large ball of plated glass set upon a stand in the +very centre of it; and the house, newly whitewashed and painted at the corners +and round the doors and windows, in a manner to imitate freestone, suggested +some clownish parvenu awkwardly arrayed in his Sunday toggery. The sight fairly +enraged the painter. No, no, nothing of himself, nothing of Christine, nothing +of the great love of their youth remained there! He wished to look still +further; he turned round behind the house, and sought for the wood of oak trees +where they had left the living quiver of their embraces; but the wood was dead, +dead like all the rest, felled, sold, and burnt! Then he made a gesture of +anathema, in which he cast all his grief to that stretch of country which was +now so changed that he could not find in it one single token of his past life. +And so a few years sufficed to efface the spot where one had laboured, loved, +and suffered! What was the use of man’s vain agitation if the wind behind +him swept and carried away all the traces of his footsteps? He had rightly +realised that he ought not to return thither, for the past is simply the +cemetery of our illusions, where our feet for ever stumble against tombstones! +</p> + +<p> +‘Let us go!’ he cried; ‘let us go at once! It’s stupid +to torture one’s heart like this!’ +</p> + +<p> +When they were on the new bridge, Sandoz tried to calm him by showing him the +view which had not formerly existed, the widened bed of the Seine, full to the +brim, as it were, and the water flowing onward, proudly and slowly. But this +water failed to interest Claude, until he reflected that it was the same water +which, as it passed through Paris, had bathed the old quay walls of the Cité; +and then he felt touched, he leant over the parapet of the bridge for a moment, +and thought that he could distinguish glorious reflections in it—the +towers of Notre-Dame, and the needle-like spire of the Sainte-Chapelle, carried +along by the current towards the sea. +</p> + +<p> +The two friends missed the three o’clock train, and it was real torture +to have to spend two long hours more in that region, where everything weighed +so heavily on their shoulders. Fortunately, they had forewarned Christine and +Madame Sandoz that they might return by a night train if they were detained. So +they resolved upon a bachelor dinner at a restaurant on the Place du Havre, +hoping to set themselves all right again by a good chat at dessert as in former +times. Eight o’clock was about to strike when they sat down to table. +</p> + +<p> +Claude, on leaving the terminus, with his feet once more on the Paris pavement, +had lost his nervous agitation, like a man who at last finds himself once more +at home. And with the cold, absent-minded air which he now usually displayed, +he listened to Sandoz trying to enliven him. The novelist treated his friend +like a mistress whose head he wished to turn; they partook of delicate, highly +spiced dishes and heady wines. But mirth was rebellious, and Sandoz himself +ended by becoming gloomy. All his hopes of immortality were shaken by his +excursion to that ungrateful country village, that Bennecourt, so loved and so +forgetful, where he and Claude had not found a single stone retaining any +recollection of them. If things which are eternal forget so soon, can one place +any reliance for one hour on the memory of man? +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you know, old fellow,’ said the novelist, ‘it’s +that which sometimes sends me into a cold sweat. Have you ever reflected that +posterity may not be the faultless dispenser of justice that we dream of? One +consoles oneself for being insulted and denied, by relying on the equity of the +centuries to come; just as the faithful endure all the abominations of this +earth in the firm belief of another life, in which each will be rewarded +according to his deserts. But suppose Paradise exists no more for the artist +than it does for the Catholic, suppose that future generations prolong the +misunderstanding and prefer amiable little trifles to vigorous works! Ah! what +a sell it would be, eh? To have led a convict’s life—to have +screwed oneself down to one’s work—all for a mere delusion! Please +notice that it’s quite possible, after all. There are some consecrated +reputations which I wouldn’t give a rap for. Classical education has +deformed everything, and has imposed upon us as geniuses men of correct, facile +talent, who follow the beaten track. To them one may prefer men of free +tendencies, whose work is at times unequal; but these are only known to a few +people of real culture, so that it looks as if immortality might really go +merely to the middle-class “average” talent, to the men whose names +are forced into our brains at school, when we are not strong enough to defend +ourselves. But no, no, one mustn’t say those things; they make me +shudder! Should I have the courage to go on with my task, should I be able to +remain erect amid all the jeering around me if I hadn’t the consoling +illusion that I shall some day be appreciated?’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude had listened with his dolorous expression, and he now made a gesture of +indifference tinged with bitterness. +</p> + +<p> +‘Bah! what does it matter? Well, there’s nothing hereafter. We are +even madder than the fools who kill themselves for a woman. When the earth +splits to pieces in space like a dry walnut, our works won’t add one atom +to its dust.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That’s quite true,’ summed up Sandoz, who was very pale. +‘What’s the use of trying to fill up the void of space? And to +think that we know it, and that our pride still battles all the same!’ +</p> + +<p> +They left the restaurant, roamed about the streets, and foundered again in the +depths of a café, where they philosophised. They had come by degrees to raking +up the memories of their childhood, and this ended by filling their hearts with +sadness. One o’clock in the morning struck when they decided to go home. +</p> + +<p> +However, Sandoz talked of seeing Claude as far as the Rue Tourlaque. That +August night was a superb one, the air was warm, the sky studded with stars. +And as they went the round by way of the Quartier de l’Europe, they +passed before the old Café Baudequin on the Boulevard des Batignolles. It had +changed hands three times. It was no longer arranged inside in the same manner +as formerly; there were now a couple of billiard tables on the right hand; and +several strata of customers had followed each other thither, one covering the +other, so that the old frequenters had disappeared like buried nations. +However, curiosity, the emotion they had derived from all the past things they +had been raking up together, induced them to cross the boulevard and to glance +into the café through the open doorway. They wanted to see their table of yore, +on the left hand, right at the back of the room. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, look!’ said Sandoz, stupefied. +</p> + +<p> +‘Gagnière!’ muttered Claude. +</p> + +<p> +It was indeed Gagnière, seated all alone at that table at the end of the empty +café. He must have come from Melun for one of the Sunday concerts to which he +treated himself; and then, in the evening, while astray in Paris, an old habit +of his legs had led him to the Café Baudequin. Not one of the comrades ever set +foot there now, and he, who had beheld another age, obstinately remained there +alone. He had not yet touched his glass of beer; he was looking at it, so +absorbed in thought that he did not even stir when the waiters began piling the +chairs on the tables, in order that everything might be ready for the +morrow’s sweeping. +</p> + +<p> +The two friends hurried off, upset by the sight of that dim figure, seized as +it were with a childish fear of ghosts. They parted in the Rue Tourlaque. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! that poor devil Dubuche!’ said Sandoz as he pressed +Claude’s hand, ‘he spoilt our day for us.’ +</p> + +<p> +As soon as November had come round, and when all the old friends were back in +Paris again, Sandoz thought of gathering them together at one of those Thursday +dinners which had remained a habit with him. They were always his greatest +delight. The sale of his books was increasing, and he was growing rich; the +flat in the Rue de Londres was becoming quite luxurious compared with the +little house at Batignolles; but he himself remained immutable. On this +occasion, he was anxious, in his good nature, to procure real enjoyment for +Claude by organising one of the dear evenings of their youth. So he saw to the +invitations; Claude and Christine naturally must come; next Jory and his wife, +the latter of whom it had been necessary to receive since her marriage, then +Dubuche, who always came alone, with Fagerolles, Mahoudeau, and finally +Gagnière. There would be ten of them—all the men comrades of the old +band, without a single outsider, in order that the good understanding and +jollity might be complete. +</p> + +<p> +Henriette, who was more mistrustful than her husband, hesitated when this list +of guests was decided upon. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh! Fagerolles? You believe in having Fagerolles with the others? They +hardly like him—nor Claude either; I fancied I noticed a +coolness—’ +</p> + +<p> +But he interrupted her, bent on not admitting it. +</p> + +<p> +‘What! a coolness? It’s really funny, but women can’t +understand that fellows chaff each other. All that doesn’t prevent them +from having their hearts in the right place.’ +</p> + +<p> +Henriette took especial care in preparing the menu for that Thursday dinner. +She now had quite a little staff to overlook, a cook, a man-servant, and so on; +and if she no longer prepared any of the dishes herself, she still saw that +very delicate fare was provided, out of affection for her husband, whose sole +vice was gluttony. She went to market with the cook, and called in person on +the tradespeople. She and her husband had a taste for gastronomical curiosities +from the four corners of the world. On this occasion they decided to have some +ox-tail soup, grilled mullet, undercut of beef with mushrooms, <i>raviolis</i> +in the Italian fashion, hazel-hens from Russia, and a salad of truffles, +without counting caviare and <i>kilkis</i> as side-dishes, a <i>glace +pralinée</i>, and a little emerald-coloured Hungarian cheese, with fruit and +pastry. As wine, some old Bordeaux claret in decanters, chambertin with the +roast, and sparkling moselle at dessert, in lieu of champagne, which was voted +commonplace. +</p> + +<p> +At seven o’clock Sandoz and Henriette were waiting for their guests, he +simply wearing a jacket, and she looking very elegant in a plain dress of black +satin. People dined at their house in frock-coats, without any fuss. The +drawing-room, the arrangements of which they were now completing, was becoming +crowded with old furniture, old tapestry, nick-nacks of all countries and all +times—a rising and now overflowing stream of things which had taken +source at Batignolles with an old pot of Rouen ware, which Henriette had given +her husband on one of his fête days. They ran about to the curiosity shops +together; a joyful passion for buying possessed them. Sandoz satisfied the +longings of his youth, the romanticist ambitions which the first books he had +read had given birth to. Thus this writer, so fiercely modern, lived amid the +worm-eaten middle ages which he had dreamt of when he was a lad of fifteen. As +an excuse, he laughingly declared that handsome modern furniture cost too much, +whilst with old things, even common ones, you immediately obtained something +with effect and colour. There was nothing of the collector about him, he was +entirely concerned as to decoration and broad effects; and to tell the truth, +the drawing-room, lighted by two lamps of old Delft ware, had quite a soft warm +tint with the dull gold of the dalmaticas used for upholstering the seats, the +yellowish incrustations of the Italian cabinets and Dutch show-cases, the faded +hues of the Oriental door-hangings, the hundred little notes of the ivory, +crockery and enamel work, pale with age, which showed against the dull red +hangings of the room. +</p> + +<p> +Claude and Christine were the first to arrive. The latter had put on her only +silk dress—an old, worn-out garment which she preserved with especial +care for such occasions. Henriette at once took hold of both her hands and drew +her to a sofa. She was very fond of her, and questioned her, seeing her so +strange, touchingly pale, and with anxious eyes. What was the matter? Did she +feel poorly? No, no, she answered that she was very gay and very pleased to +come; but while she spoke, she kept on glancing at Claude, as if to study him, +and then looked away. He seemed excited, evincing a feverishness in his words +and gestures which he had not shown for a month past. At intervals, however, +his agitation subsided, and he remained silent, with his eyes wide open, gazing +vacantly into space at something which he fancied was calling him. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! old man,’ he said to Sandoz, ‘I finished reading your +book last night. It’s deucedly clever; you have shut up their mouths this +time!’ +</p> + +<p> +They both talked standing in front of the chimney-piece, where some logs were +blazing. Sandoz had indeed just published a new novel, and although his critics +did not disarm, there was at last that stir of success which establishes a +man’s reputation despite the persistent attacks of his adversaries. +Besides, he had no illusions; he knew very well that the battle, even if it +were won, would begin again at each fresh book he wrote. The great work of his +life was advancing, that series of novels which he launched forth in volumes +one after another in stubborn, regular fashion, marching towards the goal he +had selected without letting anything, obstacles, insults, or fatigue, conquer +him. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s true,’ he gaily replied, ‘they are weakening this +time. There’s even one who has been foolish enough to admit that +I’m an honest man! See how everything degenerates! But they’ll make +up for it, never fear! I know some of them whose nuts are too much unlike my +own to let them accept my literary formula, my boldness of language, and my +physiological characters acting under the influence of circumstances; and I +refer to brother writers who possess self-respect; I leave the fools and the +scoundrels on one side. For a man to be able to work on pluckily, it is best +for him to expect neither good faith nor justice. To be in the right he must +begin by dying.’ +</p> + +<p> +At this Claude’s eyes abruptly turned towards a corner of the +drawing-room, as if to pierce the wall and go far away yonder, whither +something had summoned him. Then they became hazy and returned from their +journey, whilst he exclaimed: +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh! you speak for yourself! I should do wrong to kick the bucket. No +matter, your book sent me into a deuced fever. I wanted to paint to-day, but I +couldn’t. Ah! it’s lucky that I can’t get jealous of you, +else you would make me too unhappy.’ +</p> + +<p> +However, the door had opened, and Mathilde came in, followed by Jory. She was +richly attired in a tunic of nasturtium-hued velvet and a skirt of +straw-coloured satin, with diamonds in her ears and a large bouquet of roses on +her bosom. What astonished Claude the most was that he did not recognise her, +for she had become plump, round, and fair skinned, instead of thin and sunburnt +as he had known her. Her disturbing ugliness had departed in a swelling of the +face; her mouth, once noted for its black voids, now displayed teeth which +looked over-white whenever she condescended to smile, with a disdainful curling +of the upper lip. You could guess that she had become immoderately respectable; +her five and forty summers gave her weight beside her husband, who was younger +than herself and seemed to be her nephew. The only thing of yore that clung to +her was a violent perfume; she drenched herself with the strongest essences, as +if she had been anxious to wash from her skin the smell of all the aromatic +simples with which she had been impregnated by her herbalist business; however, +the sharpness of rhubarb, the bitterness of elder-seed, and the warmth of +peppermint clung to her; and as soon as she crossed the drawing-room, it was +filled with an undefinable smell like that of a chemist’s shop, relieved +by an acute odour of musk. +</p> + +<p> +Henriette, who had risen, made her sit down beside Christine, saying: +</p> + +<p> +‘You know each other, don’t you? You have already met here.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mathilde gave but a cold glance at the modest attire of that woman who had +lived for a long time with a man, so it was said, before being married to him. +She herself was exceedingly rigid respecting such matters since the tolerance +prevailing in literary and artistic circles had admitted her to a few +drawing-rooms. Henriette hated her, however, and after the customary exchange +of courtesies, not to be dispensed with, resumed her conversation with +Christine. +</p> + +<p> +Jory had shaken hands with Claude and Sandoz, and, standing near them, in front +of the fireplace, he apologised for an article slashing the novelist’s +new book which had appeared that very morning in his review. +</p> + +<p> +‘As you know very well, my dear fellow, one is never the master in +one’s own house. I ought to see to everything, but I have so little time! +I hadn’t even read that article, I relied on what had been told me about +it. So you will understand how enraged I was when I read it this afternoon. I +am dreadfully grieved, dreadfully grieved—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, let it be! It’s the natural order of things,’ replied +Sandoz, quietly. ‘Now that my enemies are beginning to praise me, +it’s only proper that my friends should attack me.’ +</p> + +<p> +The door again opened, and Gagnière glided in softly, like a +will-o’-the-wisp. He had come straight from Melun, and was quite alone, +for he never showed his wife to anybody. When he thus came to dinner he brought +the country dust with him on his boots, and carried it back with him the same +night on taking the last train. On the other hand, he did not alter; or, +rather, age seemed to rejuvenate him; his complexion became fairer as he grew +old. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hallo! Why, Gagnière’s here!’ exclaimed Sandoz. +</p> + +<p> +Then, just as Gagnière was making up his mind to bow to the ladies, Mahoudeau +entered. He had already grown grey, with a sunken, fierce-looking face and +childish, blinking eyes. He still wore trousers which were a good deal too +short for him, and a frock-coat which creased in the back, in spite of the +money which he now earned; for the bronze manufacturer for whom he worked had +brought out some charming statuettes of his, which one began to see on +middle-class mantel-shelves and consoles. +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz and Claude had turned round, inquisitive to witness the meeting between +Mahoudeau and Mathilde. However, matters passed off very quietly. The sculptor +bowed to her respectfully, while Jory, the husband, with his air of serene +unconsciousness, thought fit to introduce her to him, for the twentieth time, +perhaps. +</p> + +<p> +‘Eh! It’s my wife, old fellow. Shake hands together.’ +</p> + +<p> +Thereupon, both very grave, like people of society who are forced somewhat +over-promptly into familiarity, Mathilde and Mahoudeau shook hands. Only, as +soon as the latter had got rid of the job and had found Gagnière in a corner of +the drawing-room, they both began sneering and recalling, in terrible language, +all the abominations of yore. +</p> + +<p> +Dubuche was expected that evening, for he had formally promised to come. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes,’ explained Henriette, ‘there will only be nine of us. +Fagerolles wrote this morning to apologise; he is forced to go to some official +dinner, but he hopes to escape, and will join us at about eleven +o’clock.’ +</p> + +<p> +At that moment, however, a servant came in with a telegram. It was from +Dubuche, who wired: ‘Impossible to stir. Alice has an alarming +cough.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, we shall only be eight, then,’ resumed Henriette, with the +somewhat peevish resignation of a hostess disappointed by her guests. +</p> + +<p> +And the servant having opened the dining-room door and announced that dinner +was ready, she added: +</p> + +<p> +‘We are all here. Claude, offer me your arm.’ +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz took Mathilde’s, Jory charged himself with Christine, while +Mahoudeau and Gagnière brought up the rear, still joking coarsely about what +they called the beautiful herbalist’s padding. +</p> + +<p> +The dining-room which they now entered was very spacious, and the light was +gaily bright after the subdued illumination of the drawing-room. The walls, +covered with specimens of old earthenware, displayed a gay medley of colours, +reminding one of cheap coloured prints. Two sideboards, one laden with glass +and the other with silver plate, sparkled like jewellers’ show-cases. And +in the centre of the room, under the big hanging lamp girt round with tapers, +the table glistened like a <i>catafalque</i> with the whiteness of its cloth, +laid in perfect style, with decorated plates, cut-glass decanters white with +water or ruddy with wine, and symmetrical side-dishes, all set out around the +centre-piece, a silver basket full of purple roses. +</p> + +<p> +They sat down, Henriette between Claude and Mahoudeau, Sandoz with Mathilde and +Christine beside him, Jory and Gagnière at either end; and the servant had +barely finished serving the soup, when Madame Jory made a most unfortunate +remark. Wishing to show herself amiable, and not having heard her +husband’s apologies, she said to the master of the house: +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, were you pleased with the article in this morning’s number? +Edouard personally revised the proofs with the greatest care!’ +</p> + +<p> +On hearing this, Jory became very much confused and stammered: +</p> + +<p> +‘No, no! you are mistaken! It was a very bad article indeed, and you know +very well that it was “passed” the other evening while I was +away.’ +</p> + +<p> +By the silent embarrassment which ensued she guessed her blunder. But she made +matters still worse, for, giving her husband a sharp glance, she retorted in a +very loud voice, so as to crush him, as it were, and disengage her own +responsibility: +</p> + +<p> +‘Another of your lies! I repeat what you told me. I won’t allow you +to make me ridiculous, do you hear?’ +</p> + +<p> +This threw a chill over the beginning of the dinner. Henriette recommended the +<i>kilkis</i>, but Christine alone found them very nice. When the grilled +mullet appeared, Sandoz, who was amused by Jory’s embarrassment, gaily +reminded him of a lunch they had had together at Marseilles in the old days. +Ah! Marseilles, the only city where people know how to eat! +</p> + +<p> +Claude, who for a little while had been absorbed in thought, now seemed to +awaken from a dream, and without any transition he asked: +</p> + +<p> +‘Is it decided? Have they selected the artists for the new decorations of +the Hôtel de Ville?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No,’ said Mahoudeau, ‘they are going to do so. I +sha’n’t get anything, for I don’t know anybody. Fagerolles +himself is very anxious. If he isn’t here to-night, it’s because +matters are not going smoothly. Ah! he has had his bite at the cherry; all that +painting for millions is cracking to bits!’ +</p> + +<p> +There was a laugh, expressive of spite finally satisfied, and even Gagnière at +the other end of the table joined in the sneering. Then they eased their +feelings in malicious words, and rejoiced over the sudden fall of prices which +had thrown the world of ‘young masters’ into consternation. It was +inevitable, the predicted time was coming, the exaggerated rise was about to +finish in a catastrophe. Since the amateurs had been panic-stricken, seized +with consternation like that of speculators when a ‘slump’ sweeps +over a Stock Exchange, prices were giving way day by day, and nothing more was +sold. It was a sight to see the famous Naudet amid the rout; he had held out at +first, he had invented ‘the dodge of the Yankee’—the unique +picture hidden deep in some gallery, in solitude like an idol—the picture +of which he would not name the price, being contemptuously certain that he +could never find a man rich enough to purchase it, but which he finally sold +for two or three hundred thousand francs to some pig-dealer of Chicago, who +felt glorious at carrying off the most expensive canvas of the year. But those +fine strokes of business were not to be renewed at present, and Naudet, whose +expenditure had increased with his gains, drawn on and swallowed up in the mad +craze which was his own work, could now hear his regal mansion crumbling +beneath him, and was reduced to defend it against the assault of creditors. +</p> + +<p> +‘Won’t you take some more mushrooms, Mahoudeau?’ obligingly +interrupted Henriette. +</p> + +<p> +The servant was now handing round the undercut. They ate, and emptied the +decanters; but their bitterness was so great that the best things were offered +without being tasted, which distressed the master and mistress of the house. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mushrooms, eh?’ the sculptor ended by repeating. ‘No, +thanks.’ And he added: ‘The funny part of it all is, that Naudet is +suing Fagerolles. Oh, quite so! he’s going to distrain on him. Ah! it +makes me laugh! We shall see a pretty scouring in the Avenue de Villiers among +all those petty painters with mansions of their own. House property will go for +nothing next spring! Well, Naudet, who had compelled Fagerolles to build a +house, and who furnished it for him as he would have furnished a place for a +hussy, wanted to get hold of his nick-nacks and hangings again. But Fagerolles +had borrowed money on them, so it seems. You can imagine the state of affairs; +the dealer accuses the artist of having spoilt his game by exhibiting with the +vanity of a giddy fool; while the painter replies that he doesn’t mean to +be robbed any longer; and they’ll end by devouring each other—at +least, I hope so.’ +</p> + +<p> +Gagnière raised his voice, the gentle but inexorable voice of a dreamer just +awakened. +</p> + +<p> +‘Fagerolles is done for. Besides, he never had any success.’ +</p> + +<p> +The others protested. Well, what about the hundred thousand francs’ worth +of pictures he had sold a year, and his medals and his cross of the Legion of +Honour? But Gagnière, still obstinate, smiled with a mysterious air, as if +facts could not prevail against his inner conviction. He wagged his head and, +full of disdain, replied: +</p> + +<p> +‘Let me be! He never knew anything about chiaroscuro.’ +</p> + +<p> +Jory was about to defend the talent of Fagerolles, whom he considered to be his +own creation, when Henriette solicited a little attention for the +<i>raviolis</i>. There was a short slackening of the quarrel amid the +crystalline clinking of the glasses and the light clatter of the forks. The +table, laid with such fine symmetry, was already in confusion, and seemed to +sparkle still more amid the ardent fire of the quarrel. And Sandoz, growing +anxious, felt astonished. What was the matter with them all that they attacked +Fagerolles so harshly? Hadn’t they all begun together, and were they not +all to reach the goal in the same victory? For the first time, a feeling of +uneasiness disturbed his dream of eternity, that delight in his Thursdays, +which he had pictured following one upon another, all alike, all of them happy +ones, into the far distance of the future. But the feeling was as yet only skin +deep, and he laughingly exclaimed: +</p> + +<p> +‘Husband your strength, Claude, here are the hazel-hens. Eh! Claude, +where are you?’ +</p> + +<p> +Since silence had prevailed, Claude had relapsed into his dream, gazing about +him vacantly, and taking a second help of <i>raviolis</i> without knowing what +he was about; Christine, who said nothing, but sat there looking sad and +charming, did not take her eyes off him. He started when Sandoz spoke, and +chose a leg from amid the bits of hazel-hen now being served, the strong fumes +of which filled the room with a resinous smell. +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you smell that?’ exclaimed Sandoz, amused; ‘one would +think one were swallowing all the forests of Russia.’ +</p> + +<p> +But Claude returned to the matter which worried him. +</p> + +<p> +‘Then you say that Fagerolles will be entrusted with the paintings for +the Municipal Council’s assembly room?’ +</p> + +<p> +And this remark sufficed; Mahoudeau and Gagnière, set on the track, at once +started off again. Ah! a nice wishy-washy smearing it would be if that assembly +room were allotted to him; and he was doing plenty of dirty things to get it. +He, who had formerly pretended to spit on orders for work, like a great artist +surrounded by amateurs, was basely cringing to the officials, now that his +pictures no longer sold. Could anything more despicable be imagined than a +painter soliciting a functionary, bowing and scraping, showing all kinds of +cowardice and making all kinds of concessions? It was shameful that art should +be dependent upon a Minister’s idiotic good pleasure! Fagerolles, at that +official dinner he had gone to, was no doubt conscientiously licking the boots +of some chief clerk, some idiot who was only fit to be made a guy of. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well,’ said Jory, ‘he effects his purpose, and he’s +quite right. <i>You</i> won’t pay his debts.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Debts? Have I any debts, I who have always starved?’ answered +Mahoudeau in a roughly arrogant tone. ‘Ought a fellow to build himself a +palace and spend money on creatures like that Irma Bécot, who’s ruining +Fagerolles?’ +</p> + +<p> +At this Jory grew angry, while the others jested, and Irma’s name went +flying over the table. But Mathilde, who had so far remained reserved and +silent by way of making a show of good breeding, became intensely indignant. +‘Oh! gentlemen, oh! gentlemen,’ she exclaimed, ‘to talk +before <i>us</i> about that creature. No, not that creature, I implore you! +</p> + +<p> +After that Henriette and Sandoz, who were in consternation, witnessed the rout +of their menu. The truffle salad, the ice, the dessert, everything was +swallowed without being at all appreciated amidst the rising anger of the +quarrel; and the chambertin and sparkling moselle were imbibed as if they had +merely been water. In vain did Henriette smile, while Sandoz good-naturedly +tried to calm them by making allowances for human weakness. Not one of them +retreated from his position; a single word made them spring upon each other. +There was none of the vague boredom, the somniferous satiety which at times had +saddened their old gatherings; at present there was real ferocity in the +struggle, a longing to destroy one another. The tapers of the hanging lamp +flared up, the painted flowers of the earthenware on the walls bloomed, the +table seemed to have caught fire amid the upsetting of its symmetrical +arrangements and the violence of the talk, that demolishing onslaught of +chatter which had filled them with fever for a couple of hours past. +</p> + +<p> +And amid the racket, when Henriette made up her mind to rise so as to silence +them, Claude at length remarked: +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! if I only had the Hôtel de Ville work, and if I could! It used to be +my dream to cover all the walls of Paris!’ +</p> + +<p> +They returned to the drawing-room, where the little chandelier and the +bracket-candelabra had just been lighted. It seemed almost cold there in +comparison with the kind of hot-house which had just been left; and for a +moment the coffee calmed the guests. Nobody beyond Fagerolles was expected. The +house was not an open one by any means, the Sandozes did not recruit literary +dependents or muzzle the press by dint of invitations. The wife detested +society, and the husband said with a laugh that he needed ten years to take a +liking to anybody, and then he must like him always. But was not that real +happiness, seldom realised? A few sound friendships and a nook full of family +affection. No music was ever played there, and nobody had ever read a page of +his composition aloud. +</p> + +<p> +On that particular Thursday the evening seemed a long one, on account of the +persistent irritation of the men. The ladies had begun to chat before the +smouldering fire; and when the servant, after clearing the table, reopened the +door of the dining-room, they were left alone, the men repairing to the +adjoining apartment to smoke and sip some beer. +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz and Claude, who were not smokers, soon returned, however, and sat down, +side by side, on a sofa near the doorway. The former, who was glad to see his +old friend excited and talkative, recalled the memories of Plassans apropos of +a bit of news he had learnt the previous day. Pouillaud, the old jester of +their dormitory, who had become so grave a lawyer, was now in trouble over some +adventure with a woman. Ah! that brute of a Pouillaud! But Claude did not +answer, for, having heard his name mentioned in the dining-room, he listened +attentively, trying to understand. +</p> + +<p> +Jory, Mahoudeau, and Gagnière, unsatiated and eager for another bite, had +started on the massacre again. Their voices, at first mere whispers, gradually +grew louder, till at last they began to shout. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh! the man, I abandon the man to you,’ said Jory, who was +speaking of Fagerolles. ‘He isn’t worth much. And he out-generalled +you, it’s true. Ah! how he did get the better of you fellows, by breaking +off from you and carving success for himself on your backs! You were certainly +not at all cute.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mahoudeau, waxing furious, replied: +</p> + +<p> +‘Of course! It sufficed for us to be with Claude, to be turned away +everywhere.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It was Claude who did for us!’ so Gagnière squarely asserted. +</p> + +<p> +And thus they went on, relinquishing Fagerolles, whom they reproached for +toadying the newspapers, for allying himself with their enemies and wheedling +sexagenarian baronesses, to fall upon Claude, who now became the great culprit. +Well, after all, the other was only a hussy, one of the many found in the +artistic fraternity, fellows who accost the public at street corners, leave +their comrades in the lurch, and victimise them so as to get the bourgeois into +their studios. But Claude, that abortive great artist, that impotent fellow who +couldn’t set a figure on its legs in spite of all his pride, hadn’t +he utterly compromised them, hadn’t he let them in altogether? Ah! yes, +success might have been won by breaking off. If they had been able to begin +over again, they wouldn’t have been idiots enough to cling obstinately to +impossible principles! And they accused Claude of having paralysed them, of +having traded on them—yes, traded on them, but in so clumsy and +dull-witted a manner that he himself had not derived any benefit by it. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, as for me,’ resumed Mahoudeau, ‘didn’t he make me +quite idiotic at one moment? When I think of it, I sound myself, and remain +wondering why I ever joined his band. Am I at all like him? Was there ever any +one thing in common between us, eh? Ah! it’s exasperating to find the +truth out so late in the day!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And as for myself,’ said Gagnière, ‘he robbed me of my +originality. Do you think it has amused me, each time I have exhibited a +painting during the last fifteen years, to hear people saying behind me, +“That’s a Claude!” Oh! I’ve had enough of it, I prefer +not to paint any more. All the same, if I had seen clearly in former times, I +shouldn’t have associated with him.’ +</p> + +<p> +It was a stampede, the snapping of the last ties, in their stupefaction at +suddenly finding that they were strangers and enemies, after a long youth of +fraternity together. Life had disbanded them on the road, and the great +dissimilarity of their characters stood revealed; all that remained in them was +the bitterness left by the old enthusiastic dream, that erstwhile hope of +battle and victory to be won side by side, which now increased their spite. +</p> + +<p> +‘The fact is,’ sneered Jory, ‘that Fagerolles did not let +himself be pillaged like a simpleton.’ +</p> + +<p> +But Mahoudeau, feeling vexed, became angry. ‘You do wrong to +laugh,’ he said, ‘for you are a nice backslider yourself. Yes, you +always told us that you would give us a lift up when you had a paper of your +own.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! allow me, allow me—’ +</p> + +<p> +Gagnière, however, united with Mahoudeau: ‘That’s quite +true!’ he said. ‘You can’t say any more that what you write +about us is cut out, for you are the master now. And yet, never a word! You +didn’t even name us in your articles on the last Salon.’ +</p> + +<p> +Then Jory, embarrassed and stammering, in his turn flew into a rage. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! well, it’s the fault of that cursed Claude! I don’t care +to lose my subscribers simply to please you fellows. It’s impossible to +do anything for you! There! do you understand? You, Mahoudeau, may wear +yourself out in producing pretty little things; you, Gagnière, may even never +do anything more; but you each have a label on the back, and you’ll need +ten years’ efforts before you’ll be able to get it off. In fact, +there have been some labels that would never come off! The public is amused by +it, you know; there were only you fellows to believe in the genius of that big +ridiculous lunatic, who will be locked up in a madhouse one of these fine +mornings!’ +</p> + +<p> +Then the dispute became terrible, they all three spoke at once, coming at last +to abominable reproaches, with such outbursts, and such furious motion of the +jaw, that they seemed to be biting one another. +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz, seated on the sofa, and disturbed in the gay memories he was recalling, +was at last obliged to lend ear to the tumult which reached him through the +open doorway. +</p> + +<p> +‘You hear them?’ whispered Claude, with a dolorous smile; +‘they are giving it me nicely! No, no, stay here, I won’t let you +stop them; I deserve it, since I have failed to succeed.’ +</p> + +<p> +And Sandoz, turning pale, remained there, listening to that bitter quarrelling, +the outcome of the struggle for life, that grappling of conflicting +personalities, which bore all his chimera of everlasting friendship away. +</p> + +<p> +Henriette, fortunately, became anxious on hearing the violent shouting. She +rose and went to shame the smokers for thus forsaking the ladies to go and +quarrel together. They then returned to the drawing-room, perspiring, breathing +hard, and still shaken by their anger. And as Henriette, with her eyes on the +clock, remarked that they certainly would not see Fagerolles that evening, +they, began to sneer again, exchanging glances. Ah! he had a fine scent, and no +mistake; he wouldn’t be caught associating with old friends, who had +become troublesome, and whom he hated. +</p> + +<p> +In fact, Fagerolles did not come. The evening finished laboriously. They once +more went back to the dining-room, where the tea was served on a Russian +tablecloth embroidered with a stag-hunt in red thread; and under the tapers a +plain cake was displayed, with plates full of sweetstuff and pastry, and a +barbarous collection of liqueurs and spirits, whisky, hollands, Chio raki, and +kummel. The servant also brought some punch, and bestirred himself round the +table, while the mistress of the house filled the teapot from the samovar +boiling in front of her. But all the comfort, all the feast for the eyes and +the fine perfume of the tea did not move their hearts. The conversation again +turned on the success that some men achieved and the ill-luck that befell +others. For instance, was it not shameful that art should be dishonoured by all +those medals, all those crosses, all those rewards, which were so badly +distributed to boot? Were artists always to remain like little boys at school? +All the universal platitude came from the docility and cowardice which were +shown, as in the presence of ushers, so as to obtain good marks. +</p> + +<p> +They had repaired to the drawing-room once more, and Sandoz, who was greatly +distressed, had begun to wish that they would take themselves off, when he +noticed Mathilde and Gagnière seated side by side on a sofa and talking +languishingly of music, while the others remained exhausted, lacking saliva and +power of speech. Gagnière philosophised and poetised in a state of ecstasy, +while Mathilde rolled up her eyes and went into raptures as if titillated by +some invisible wing. They had caught sight of each other on the previous Sunday +at the concert at the Cirque, and they apprised each other of their enjoyment +in alternate, far-soaring sentences. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! that Meyerbeer, monsieur, the overture of “Struensee,” +that funereal strain, and then that peasant dance, so full of dash and colour; +and then the mournful burden which returns, the duo of the violoncellos. Ah! +monsieur, the violoncellos, the violoncellos!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And Berlioz, madame, the festival air in “Romeo.” Oh! the +solo of the clarionets, the beloved women, with the harp accompaniment! +Something enrapturing, something white as snow which ascends! The festival +bursts upon you, like a picture by Paul Veronese, with the tumultuous +magnificence of the “Marriage of Cana”; and then the love-song +begins again, oh, how softly! Oh! always higher! higher still—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Did you notice, monsieur, in Beethoven’s Symphony in A, that knell +which ever and ever comes back and beats upon your heart? Yes, I see very well, +you feel as I do, music is a communion—Beethoven, ah, me! how sad and +sweet it is to be two to understand him and give way—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And Schumann, madame, and Wagner, madame—Schumann’s +“Reverie,” nothing but the stringed instruments, a warm shower +falling on acacia leaves, a sunray which dries them, barely a tear in space. +Wagner! ah, Wagner! the overture of the “Flying Dutchman,” are you +not fond of it?—tell me you are fond of it! As for myself, it overcomes +me. There is nothing left, nothing left, one expires—’ +</p> + +<p> +Their voices died away; they did not even look at each other, but sat there +elbow to elbow, with their faces turned upward, quite overcome. +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz, who was surprised, asked himself where Mathilde could have picked up +that jargon. In some article of Jory’s, perhaps. Besides, he had remarked +that women talk music very well, even without knowing a note of it. And he, +whom the bitterness of the others had only grieved, became exasperated at sight +of Mathilde’s languishing attitude. No, no, that was quite enough; the +men tore each other to bits; still that might pass, after all; but what an end +to the evening it was, that feminine fraud, cooing and titillating herself with +thoughts of Beethoven’s and Schumann’s music! Fortunately, Gagnière +suddenly rose. He knew what o’clock it was even in the depths of his +ecstasy, and he had only just time left him to catch his last train. So, after +exchanging nerveless and silent handshakes with the others, he went off to +sleep at Melun. +</p> + +<p> +‘What a failure he is!’ muttered Mahoudeau. ‘Music has killed +painting; he’ll never do anything!’ +</p> + +<p> +He himself had to leave, and the door had scarcely closed behind his back when +Jory declared: +</p> + +<p> +‘Have you seen his last paperweight? He’ll end by sculpturing +sleeve-links. There’s a fellow who has missed his mark! To think that he +prided himself on being vigorous!’ +</p> + +<p> +But Mathilde was already afoot, taking leave of Christine with a curt little +inclination of the head, affecting social familiarity with Henriette, and +carrying off her husband, who helped her on with her cloak in the ante-room, +humble and terrified at the severe glance she gave him, for she had an account +to settle. +</p> + +<p> +Then, the door having closed behind them, Sandoz, beside himself, cried out: +‘That’s the end! The journalist was bound to call the others +abortions—yes, the journalist who, after patching up articles, has fallen +to trading upon public credulity! Ah! luckily there’s Mathilde the +Avengeress!’ +</p> + +<p> +Of the guests Christine and Claude alone were left. The latter, since the +drawing-room had been growing empty, had remained ensconced in the depths of an +arm-chair, no longer speaking, but overcome by that species of magnetic slumber +which stiffened him, and fixed his eyes on something far away beyond the walls. +He protruded his face, a convulsive kind of attention seemed to carry it +forward; he certainly beheld something invisible, and heard a summons in the +silence. +</p> + +<p> +Christine having risen in her turn, and apologised for being the last to leave, +Henriette took hold of her hands, repeated how fond she was of her, begged her +to come and see her frequently, and to dispose of her in all things as she +would with a sister. But Claude’s sorrowful wife, looking so sadly +charming in her black dress, shook her head with a pale smile. +</p> + +<p> +‘Come,’ said Sandoz in her ear, after giving a glance at Claude, +‘you mustn’t distress yourself like that. He has talked a great +deal, he has been gayer this evening. He’s all right.’ +</p> + +<p> +But in a terrified voice she answered: +</p> + +<p> +‘No, no; look at his eyes—I shall tremble as long as he has his +eyes like that. You have done all you could, thanks. What you haven’t +done no one will do. Ah! how I suffer at being unable to hope, at being unable +to do anything!’ +</p> + +<p> +Then in a loud tone she asked: +</p> + +<p> +‘Are you coming, Claude?’ +</p> + +<p> +She had to repeat her question twice, for at first he did not hear her; he +ended by starting, however, and rose to his feet, saying, as if he had answered +the summons from the horizon afar off: +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, I’m coming, I’m coming.’ +</p> + +<p> +When Sandoz and his wife at last found themselves alone in the drawing-room, +where the atmosphere now was stifling—heated by the lights and heavy, as +it were, with melancholy silence after all the outbursts of the +quarrelling—they looked at one another and let their arms fall, quite +heart-rent by the unfortunate issue of their dinner party. Henrietta tried to +laugh it off, however, murmuring: +</p> + +<p> +‘I warned you, I quite understood—’ +</p> + +<p> +But he interrupted her with a despairing gesture. What! was that, then, the end +of his long illusion, that dream of eternity which had made him set happiness +in a few friendships, formed in childhood, and shared until extreme old age? +Ah! what a wretched band, what a final rending, what a terrible balance-sheet +to weep over after that bankruptcy of the human heart! And he grew astonished +on thinking of the friends who had fallen off by the roadside, of the great +affections lost on the way, of the others unceasingly changing around himself, +in whom he found no change. His poor Thursdays filled him with pity, so many +memories were in mourning, it was the slow death of all that one loves! Would +his wife and himself have to resign themselves to live as in a desert, to +cloister themselves in utter hatred of the world? Ought they rather to throw +their doors wide open to a throng of strangers and indifferent folk? By degrees +a certainty dawned in the depths of his grief: everything ended and nothing +began again in life. He seemed to yield to evidence, and, heaving a big sigh, +exclaimed: +</p> + +<p> +‘You were right. We won’t invite them to dinner again—they +would devour one another.’ +</p> + +<p> +As soon as Claude and Christine reached the Place de la Trinite on their way +home, the painter let go of his wife’s arm; and, stammering that he had +to go somewhere, he begged her to return to the Rue Tourlaque without him. She +had felt him shuddering, and she remained quite scared with surprise and fear. +Somewhere to go at that hour—past midnight! Where had he to go, and what +for? He had turned round and was making off, when she overtook him, and, +pretending that she was frightened, begged that he would not leave her to climb +up to Montmartre alone at that time of night. This consideration alone brought +him back. He took her arm again; they ascended the Rue Blanche and the Rue +Lepic, and at last found themselves in the Rue Tourlaque. And on reaching their +door, he rang the bell, and then again left her. +</p> + +<p> +‘Here you are,’ he said; ‘I’m going.’ +</p> + +<p> +He was already hastening away, taking long strides, and gesticulating like a +madman. Without even closing the door which had been opened, she darted off, +bent on following him. In the Rue Lepic she drew near; but for fear of exciting +him still more she contented herself with keeping him in sight, walking some +thirty yards in the rear, without his knowing that she was behind him. On +reaching the end of the Rue Lepic he went down the Rue Blanche again, and then +proceeded by way of the Rue de la Chaussée-d’Antin and the Rue du Dix +Decembre as far as the Rue de Richelieu. When she saw him turn into the +last-named thoroughfare, a mortal chill came over her: he was going towards the +Seine; it was the realisation of the frightful fear which kept her of a night +awake, full of anguish! And what could she do, good Lord? Go with him, hang +upon his neck over yonder? She was now only able to stagger along, and as each +step brought them nearer to the river, she felt life ebbing from her limbs. +Yes, he was going straight there; he crossed the Place du Théâtre Français, +then the Carrousel, and finally reached the Pont des Saints-Pères. After taking +a few steps along the bridge, he approached the railing overlooking the water; +and at the thought that he was about to jump over, a loud cry was stifled in +her contracted throat. +</p> + +<p> +But no; he remained motionless. Was it then only the Cité over yonder that +haunted him, that heart of Paris which pursued him everywhere, which he +conjured up with his fixed eyes, even through walls, and which, when he was +leagues away, cried out the constant summons heard by him alone? She did not +yet dare to hope it; she had stopped short, in the rear, watching him with +giddy anxiety, ever fancying that she saw him take the terrible leap, but +resisting her longing to draw nearer, for fear lest she might precipitate the +catastrophe by showing herself. Oh, God! to think that she was there with her +devouring passion, her bleeding motherly heart—that she was there +beholding everything, without daring to risk one movement to hold him back! +</p> + +<p> +He stood erect, looking very tall, quite motionless, and gazing into the night. +</p> + +<p> +It was a winter’s night, with a misty sky of sooty blackness, and was +rendered extremely cold by a sharp wind blowing from the west. Paris, lighted +up, had gone to sleep, showing no signs of life save such as attached to the +gas-jets, those specks which scintillated and grew smaller and smaller in the +distance till they seemed but so much starry dust. The quays stretched away +showing double rows of those luminous beads whose reverberation glimmered on +the nearer frontages. On the left were the houses of the Quai du Louvre, on the +right the two wings of the Institute, confused masses of monuments and +buildings, which became lost to view in the darkening gloom, studded with +sparks. Then between those cordons of burners, extending as far as the eye +could reach, the bridges stretched bars of lights, ever slighter and slighter, +each formed of a train of spangles, grouped together and seemingly hanging in +mid-air. And in the Seine there shone the nocturnal splendour of the animated +water of cities; each gas-jet there cast a reflection of its flame, like the +nucleus of a comet, extending into a tail. The nearer ones, mingling together, +set the current on fire with broad, regular, symmetrical fans of light, glowing +like live embers, while the more distant ones, seen under the bridges, were but +little motionless sparks of fire. But the large burning tails appeared to be +animated, they waggled as they spread out, all black and gold, with a constant +twirling of scales, in which one divined the flow of the water. The whole Seine +was lighted up by them, as if some fête were being given in its +depths—some mysterious, fairy-like entertainment, at which couples were +waltzing beneath the river’s red-flashing window-panes. High above those +fires, above the starry quays, the sky, in which not a planet was visible, +showed a ruddy mass of vapour, that warm, phosphorescent exhalation which every +night, above the sleep of the city, seems to set the crater of a volcano. +</p> + +<p> +The wind blew hard, and Christine, shivering, her eyes full of tears, felt the +bridge move under her, as if it were bearing her away amid a smash up of the +whole scene. Had not Claude moved? Was he not climbing over the rail? No; +everything became motionless again, and she saw him still on the same spot, +obstinately stiff, with his eyes turned towards the point of the Cité, which he +could not see. +</p> + +<p> +It had summoned him, and he had come, and yet he could not see it in the depths +of the darkness. He could only distinguish the bridges, with their light +framework standing out blackly against the sparkling water. But farther off +everything became confused, the island had disappeared, he could not even have +told its exact situation if some belated cabs had not passed from time to time +over the Pont-Neuf, with their lamps showing like those shooting sparks which +dart at times through embers. A red lantern, on a level with the dam of the +Mint, cast a streamlet of blood, as it were, into the water. Something huge and +lugubrious, some drifting form, no doubt a lighter which had become unmoored, +slowly descended the stream amid the reflections. Espied for a moment, it was +immediately afterwards lost in the darkness. Where had the triumphal island +sunk? In the depths of that flow of water? Claude still gazed, gradually +fascinated by the great rushing of the river in the night. He leant over its +broad bed, chilly like an abyss, in which the mysterious flames were dancing. +And the loud, sad wail of the current attracted him, and he listened to its +call, despairing, unto death. +</p> + +<p> +By a shooting pain at her heart, Christine this time realised that the terrible +thought had just occurred to him. She held out her quivering hands which the +wind was lashing. But Claude remained there, struggling against the sweetness +of death; indeed he did not move for another hour, he lingered there +unconscious of the lapse of time, with his eyes still turned in the direction +of the Cité, as if by a miracle of power they were about to create light, and +conjure up the island so that he might behold it. +</p> + +<p> +When Claude at last left the bridge, with stumbling steps, Christine had to +pass in front and run in order to be home in the Rue Tourlaque before him. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"></a> +XII</h2> + +<p> +IT was nearly three o’clock when they went to bed that night, with the +bitter cold November wind blowing through their little room and the big studio. +Christine, breathless from her run, had quickly slipped between the sheets so +that he might not know that she had followed him; and Claude, quite overcome, +had taken his clothes off, one garment after another, without saying a word. +For long months they had been as strangers; until then, however, she had never +felt such a barrier between them, such tomb-like coldness. +</p> + +<p> +She struggled for nearly a quarter of an hour against the sleepiness coming +over her. She was very tired, and a kind of torpor numbed her; still she would +not give way, feeling anxious at leaving him awake. She thus waited every night +until he dozed off, so that she herself might afterwards sleep in peace. But he +had not extinguished the candle, he lay there with his eyes open, fixed upon +its flame. What could he be thinking of? Had he remained in fancy over yonder +in the black night, amid the moist atmosphere of the quays, in front of Paris +studded with stars like a frosty sky? And what inner conflict, what matter that +had to be decided, contracted his face like that? Then, resistance being +impossible, she succumbed and glided into the slumber following upon great +weariness. +</p> + +<p> +An hour later, the consciousness of something missing, the anguish of +uneasiness awoke her with a sudden start. She at once felt the bed beside her, +it was already cold: he was no longer there, she had already divined it while +asleep. And she was growing alarmed, still but half awake, her head heavy and +her ears buzzing, when through the doorway, left ajar, she perceived a ray of +light coming from the studio. She then felt reassured, she thought that in a +fit of sleeplessness he had gone to fetch some book or other; but at last, as +he did not return, she ended by softly rising so as to take a peep. What she +beheld quite unsettled her, and kept her standing on the tiled floor, with her +feet bare, in such surprise that she did not at first dare to show herself. +</p> + +<p> +Claude, who was in his shirt-sleeves, despite the coldness of the temperature, +having merely put on his trousers and slippers in his haste, was standing on +the steps in front of his large picture. His palette was lying at his feet, and +with one hand he held the candle, while with the other he painted. His eyes +were dilated like those of a somnambulist, his gestures were precise and stiff; +he stooped every minute to take some colour on his brush, and then rose up, +casting a large fantastic shadow on the wall. And there was not a sound; +frightful silence reigned in the big dim room. +</p> + +<p> +Christine guessed the truth and shuddered. The besetting worry, made more acute +by that hour spent on the Pont des Saints-Pères, had prevented him from +sleeping and had brought him once more before his canvas, consumed with a +longing to look at it again, in spite of the lateness of the hour. He had, no +doubt, only climbed the steps to fill his eyes the nearer. Then, tortured by +the sight of some faulty shade, upset by some defect, to such a point that he +could not wait for daylight, he had caught up a brush, at first merely wishing +to give a simple touch, and then had been carried on from correction to +correction, until at last, with the candle in his hand, he painted there like a +man in a state of hallucination, amid the pale light which darted hither and +thither as he gesticulated. His powerless creative rage had seized hold of him +again, he was wearing himself out, oblivious of the hour, oblivious of the +world; he wished to infuse life into his work at once. +</p> + +<p> +Ah, what a pitiful sight! And with what tear-drenched eyes did Christine gaze +at him! At first she thought of leaving him to that mad work, as a maniac is +left to the pleasures of his craziness. He would never finish that picture, +that was quite certain now. The more desperately he worked at it, the more +incoherent did it become; the colouring had grown heavy and pasty, the drawing +was losing shape and showing signs of effort. Even the background and the group +of labourers, once so substantial and satisfactory, were getting spoiled; yet +he clung to them, he had obstinately determined to finish everything else +before repainting the central figure, the nude woman, which remained the dread +and the desire of his hours of toil, and which would finish him off whenever he +might again try to invest it with life. For months he had not touched it, and +this had tranquillised Christine and made her tolerant and compassionate, amid +her jealous spite; for as long as he did not return to that feared and desired +mistress, she thought that he betrayed her less. +</p> + +<p> +Her feet were freezing on the tiles, and she was turning to get into bed again +when a shock brought her back to the door. She had not understood at first, but +now at last she saw. With broad curved strokes of his brush, full of colour, +Claude was at once wildly and caressingly modelling flesh. He had a fixed grin +on his lips, and did not feel the burning candle-grease falling on his fingers, +while with silent, passionate see-sawing, his right arm alone moved against the +wall, casting black confusion upon it. He was working at the nude woman. +</p> + +<p> +Then Christine opened the door and walked into the studio. An invincible +revolt, the anger of a wife buffeted at home, impelled her forward. Yes, he was +with that other, he was painting her like a visionary, whom wild craving for +truth had brought to the madness of the unreal; and those limbs were being +gilded like the columns of a tabernacle, that trunk was becoming a star, +shimmering with yellow and red, splendid and unnatural. Such strange +nudity—like unto a monstrance gleaming with precious stones and intended +for religious adoration—brought her anger to a climax. She had suffered +too much, she would not tolerate it. +</p> + +<p> +And yet at first she simply showed herself despairing and supplicating. It was +but the mother remonstrating with her big mad boy of an artist that spoke. +</p> + +<p> +‘What are you doing there, Claude? Is it reasonable, Claude, to have such +ideas? Come to bed, I beg of you, don’t stay on those steps where you +will catch your death of cold!’ +</p> + +<p> +He did not answer; he stooped again to take some more paint on his brush, and +made the figure flash with two bright strokes of vermilion. +</p> + +<p> +‘Listen to me, Claude, in pity come to me—you know that I love +you—you see how anxious you have made me. Come, oh! come, if you +don’t want me to die of cold and waiting for you.’ +</p> + +<p> +With his face haggard, he did not look at her; but while he bedecked a part of +the figure with carmine, he grumbled in a husky voice: +</p> + +<p> +‘Just leave me alone, will you? I’m working.’ +</p> + +<p> +Christine remained silent for a moment. She was drawing herself erect, her eyes +began to gleam with fire, rebellion inflated her gentle, charming form. Then +she burst forth, with the growl of a slave driven to extremities. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, no, I won’t leave you alone! I’ve had enough of it. +I’ll tell you what’s stifling me, what has been killing me ever +since I have known you. Ah! that painting, yes, your painting, she’s the +murderess who has poisoned my life! I had a presentiment of it on the first +day; your painting frightened me as if it were a monster. I found it +abominable, execrable; but then, one’s cowardly, I loved you too much not +to like it also; I ended by growing accustomed to it! But later on, how I +suffered!—how it tortured me! For ten years I don’t recollect +having spent a day without shedding tears. No, leave me! I am easing my mind, I +must speak out, since I have found strength enough to do so. For ten years I +have been abandoned and crushed every day. Ah! to be nothing more to you, to +feel myself cast more and more on one side, to fall to the rank of a servant; +and to see that other one, that thief, place herself between you and me and +clutch hold of you and triumph and insult me! For dare, yes, dare to say that +she hasn’t taken possession of you, limb by limb, glided into your brain, +your heart, your flesh, everywhere! She holds you like a vice, she feeds on +you; in fact, she’s your wife, not I. She’s the only one you care +for! Ah! the cursed wretch, the hussy!’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude was now listening to her, in his astonishment at that dolorous outburst; +and being but half roused from his exasperated creative dream, he did not as +yet very well understand why she was talking to him like that. And at sight of +his stupor, the shuddering of a man surprised in a debauch, she flew into a +still greater passion; she mounted the steps, tore the candlestick from his +hand, and in her turn flashed the light in front of the picture. +</p> + +<p> +‘Just look!’ she cried, ‘just tell me how you have improved +matters? It’s hideous, it’s lamentable and grotesque; you’ll +end by seeing so yourself. Come, isn’t it ugly, isn’t it idiotic? +You see very well that you are conquered, so why should you persist any longer? +There is no sense in it, that’s what upsets me. If you can’t be a +great painter, life, at least, remains to us. Ah! life, life!’ +</p> + +<p> +She had placed the candle on the platform of the steps, and as he had gone +down, staggering, she sprang off to join him, and they both found themselves +below, he crouching on the last step, and she pressing his inert, dangling +hands with all her strength. +</p> + +<p> +‘Come, there’s life! Drive your nightmare away, and let us live, +live together. Isn’t it too stupid, to be we two together, to be growing +old already, and to torture ourselves, and fail in every attempt to find +happiness? Oh! the grave will take us soon enough, never fear. Let’s try +to live, and love one another. Remember Bennecourt! Listen to my dream. I +should like to be able to take you away to-morrow. We would go far from this +cursed Paris, we would find a quiet spot somewhere, and you would see how +pleasant I would make your life; how nice it would be to forget everything +together! Of a morning there are strolls in the sunlight, the breakfast which +smells nice, the idle afternoon, the evening spent side by side under the lamp! +And no more worrying about chimeras, nothing but the delight of living! +Doesn’t it suffice that I love you, that I adore you, that I am willing +to be your servant, your slave, to exist solely for your pleasures? Do you +hear, I love you, I love you? there is nothing else, and that is enough—I +love you!’ +</p> + +<p> +He had freed his hands, and making a gesture of refusal, he said, in a gloomy +voice: +</p> + +<p> +‘No, it is not enough! I <i>won’t</i> go away with you, I +<i>won’t</i> be happy, I <i>will paint</i>!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And I shall die of it, eh? And you will die of it, and we shall end by +leaving all our blood and all our tears in it! There’s nothing beyond +Art, that is the fierce almighty god who strikes us with his thunder, and whom +you honour! he may crush us, since he is the master, and you will still bless +his name!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, I belong to that god, he may do what he pleases with me. I should +die if I no longer painted, and I prefer to paint and die of it. Besides, my +will is nothing in the matter. Nothing exists beyond art; let the world +burst!’ +</p> + +<p> +She drew herself up in a fresh spurt of anger. Her voice became harsh and +passionate again. +</p> + +<p> +‘But I—I am alive, and the women you love are lifeless! Oh! +don’t say no! I know very well that all those painted women of yours are +the only ones you care about! Before I was yours I had already perceived it. +Then, for a short time you appeared to love me. It was at that period you told +me all that nonsense about your fondness for your creations. You held such +shadows in pity when you were with me; but it didn’t last. You returned +to them, oh! like a maniac returns to his mania. I, though living, no longer +existed for you; it was they, the visions, who again became the only realities +of your life. What I then endured you never knew, for you are wonderfully +ignorant of women. I have lived by your side without your ever understanding +me. Yes, I was jealous of those painted creatures. When I posed to you, only +one idea lent me the courage that I needed. I wanted to fight them, I hoped to +win you back; but you granted me nothing, not even a kiss on my shoulder! Oh, +God! how ashamed I sometimes felt! What grief I had to force back at finding +myself thus disdained and thus betrayed!’ +</p> + +<p> +She continued boldly, she spoke out freely—she, so strangely compounded +of passion and modesty. And she was not mistaken in her jealousy when she +accused his art of being responsible for his neglect of herself. At the bottom +of it all, there was the theory which he had repeated a hundred times in her +presence: genius should be chaste, an artist’s only spouse should be his +work. +</p> + +<p> +‘You repulse me,’ she concluded violently; ‘you draw back +from me as if I displeased you! And you love what? A nothing, a mere semblance, +a little dust, some colour spread upon a canvas! But, once more, look at her, +look at your woman up yonder! See what a monster you have made of her in your +madness! Are there any women like that? Have any women golden limbs, and +flowers on their bodies? Wake up, open your eyes, return to life again!’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude, obeying the imperious gesture with which she pointed to the picture, +had now risen and was looking. The candle, which had remained upon the platform +of the steps, illumined the nude woman like a taper in front of an altar, +whilst the whole room around remained plunged in darkness. He was at length +awakening from his dream, and the woman thus seen from below, at a distance of +a few paces, filled him with stupefaction. Who had just painted that idol of +some unknown religion? Who had wrought her of metals, marbles, and gems? Was it +he who had unconsciously created that symbol of insatiable passion, that +unhuman presentment of flesh, which had become transformed into gold and +diamonds under his fingers, in his vain effort to make it live? He gasped and +felt afraid of his work, trembling at the thought of that sudden plunge into +the infinite, and understanding at last that it had become impossible for him +even to depict Reality, despite his long effort to conquer and remould it, +making it yet more real with his human hands. +</p> + +<p> +‘You see! you see!’ Christine repeated, victoriously. And he, in a +very low voice, stammered: +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh! what have I done? Is it impossible to create, then? Haven’t +our hands the power to create beings?’ +</p> + +<p> +She felt that he was giving way, and she caught him in her arms: +</p> + +<p> +‘But why all this folly?—why think of anyone but me—I who +love you? You took me for your model, but what was the use, say? Are those +paintings of yours worth me? They are frightful, they are as stiff, as cold as +corpses. But I am alive, and I love you!’ +</p> + +<p> +She seemed to be at that moment the very incarnation of passionate love. He +turned and looked at her, and little by little he returned her embrace; she was +softening him and conquering him. +</p> + +<p> +‘Listen!’ she continued. ‘I know that you had a frightful +thought; yes, I never dared to speak to you about it, because one must never +bring on misfortune; but I no longer sleep of a night, you frighten me. This +evening I followed you to that bridge which I hate, and I trembled, oh! I +thought that it was all over—that I had lost you. Oh, God! what would +become of me? I need you—you surely do not wish to kill me! Let us live +and love one another—yes, love one another!’ +</p> + +<p> +Then, in the emotion caused him by her infinite passion and grief, he yielded. +He pressed her to him, sobbing and stammering: +</p> + +<p> +‘It is true I had that frightful thought—I should have done it, and +I only resisted on thinking of that unfinished picture. But can I still live if +work will have nothing more to do with me? How can I live after that, after +what’s there, what I spoilt just now?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I will love you, and you will live.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! you will never love me enough—I know myself. Something which +does not exist would be necessary—something which would make me forget +everything. You were already unable to change me. You cannot accomplish a +miracle!’ +</p> + +<p> +Then, as she protested and kissed him passionately, he went on: ‘Well, +yes, save me! Yes, save me, if you don’t want me to kill myself! Lull me, +annihilate me, so that I may become your thing, slave enough, small enough to +dwell under your feet, in your slippers. Ah! to live only on your perfume, to +obey you like a dog, to eat and sleep—if I could, if I only +<i>could</i>!’ +</p> + +<p> +She raised a cry of victory: ‘At last you are mine! There is only I left, +the other is quite dead!’ +</p> + +<p> +And she dragged him from the execrated painting, she carried him off +triumphantly. The candle, now nearly consumed, flared up for a minute behind +them on the steps, before the big painting, and then went out. It was victory, +yes, but could it last? +</p> + +<p> +Daylight was about to break, and Christine lay asleep beside Claude. She was +breathing softly, and a smile played upon her lips. He had closed his eyes; and +yet, despite himself, he opened them afresh and gazed into the darkness. Sleep +fled from him, and confused ideas again ascended to his brain. As the dawn +appeared, yellowishly dirty, like a splash of liquid mud on the window-panes, +he started, fancying that he heard a loud voice calling to him from the far end +of the studio. Then, irresistibly, despite a few brief hours’ +forgetfulness, all his old thoughts returned, overflowing and torturing him, +hollowing his cheeks and contracting his jaws in the disgust he felt for +mankind. Two wrinkles imparted intense bitterness to the expression of his +face, which looked like the wasted countenance of an old man. And suddenly the +loud voice from the far end of the studio imperiously summoned him a second +time. Then he quite made up his mind: it was all over, he suffered too much, he +could no longer live, since everything was a lie, since there was nothing left +upon earth. Love! what was it? Nought but a passing illusion. This thought at +last mastered him, possessed him entirely; and soon the craving for nothingness +as his only refuge came on him stronger than ever. At first he let +Christine’s head slip down from his shoulder on which it rested. And +then, as a third summons rang out in his mind, he rose and went to the studio, +saying: +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, yes, I’m coming,’ +</p> + +<p> +The sky did not clear, it still remained dirty and mournful—it was one of +those lugubrious winter dawns; and an hour later Christine herself awoke with a +great chilly shiver. She did not understand at first. How did it happen that +she was alone? Then she remembered: she had fallen asleep with her cheek +against his. How was it then that he had left her? Where could he be? Suddenly, +amid her torpor, she sprang out of bed and ran into the studio. Good God! had +he returned to the other then? Had the other seized hold of him again, when she +herself fancied that she had conquered him for ever? +</p> + +<p> +She saw nothing at the first glance she took; in the cold and murky morning +twilight the studio seemed to her to be deserted. But whilst she was +tranquillising herself at seeing nobody there, she raised her eyes to the +canvas, and a terrible cry leapt from her gaping mouth: +</p> + +<p> +‘Claude! oh, Claude!’ +</p> + +<p> +Claude had hanged himself from the steps in front of his spoilt work. He had +simply taken one of the cords which held the frame to the wall, and had mounted +the platform, so as to fasten the rope to an oaken crosspiece, which he himself +had one day nailed to the uprights to consolidate them. Then from up above he +had leapt into space. He was hanging there in his shirt, with his feet bare, +looking horrible, with his black tongue protruding, and his bloodshot eyes +starting from their orbits; he seemed to have grown frightfully tall in his +motionless stiffness, and his face was turned towards the picture, close to the +nude woman, as if he had wished to infuse his soul into her with his last gasp, +and as if he were still looking at her with his expressionless eyes. +</p> + +<p> +Christine, however, remained erect, quite overwhelmed with the grief, fright, +and anger which dilated her body. Only a continuous howl came from her throat. +She opened her arms, stretched them towards the picture, and clenched both +hands. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, Claude! oh, Claude!’ she gasped at last, ‘she has taken +you back—the hussy has killed you, killed you, killed you!’ +</p> + +<p> +Then her legs gave way. She span round and fell all of a heap upon the tiled +flooring. Her excessive suffering had taken all the blood from her heart, and, +fainting away, she lay there, as if she were dead, like a white rag, miserable, +done for, crushed beneath the fierce sovereignty of Art. Above her the nude +woman rose radiant in her symbolic idol’s brightness; painting triumphed, +alone immortal and erect, even when mad. +</p> + +<p> +At nine o’clock on the Monday morning, when Sandoz, after the formalities +and delay occasioned by the suicide, arrived in the Rue Tourlaque for the +funeral, he found only a score of people on the footway. Despite his great +grief, he had been running about for three days, compelled to attend to +everything. At first, as Christine had been picked up half dead, he had been +obliged to have her carried to the Hôpital de Lariboisière; then he had gone +from the municipal offices, to the undertaker’s and the church, paying +everywhere, and full of indifference so far as that went, since the priests +were willing to pray over that corpse with a black circle round its neck. Among +the people who were waiting he as yet only perceived some neighbours, together +with a few inquisitive folk; while other people peered out of the house windows +and whispered together, excited by the tragedy. Claude’s friends would, +no doubt, soon come. He, Sandoz, had not been able to write to any members of +the family, as he did not know their addresses. However, he retreated into the +background on the arrival of two relatives, whom three lines in the newspapers +had roused from the forgetfulness in which Claude himself, no doubt, had left +them. There was an old female cousin,* with the equivocal air of a dealer in +second-hand goods, and a male cousin, of the second degree, a wealthy man, +decorated with the Legion of Honour, and owning one of the large Paris drapery +shops. He showed himself good-naturedly condescending in his elegance, and +desirous of displaying an enlightened taste for art. The female cousin at once +went upstairs, turned round the studio, sniffed at all the bare wretchedness, +and then walked down again, with a hard mouth, as if she were irritated at +having taken the trouble to come. The second cousin, on the contrary, drew +himself up and walked first behind the hearse, filling the part of chief +mourner with proud and pleasant fitness. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +* Madame Sidonie, who figures in M. Zola’s novel, ‘La Curee.’ +The male cousin, mentioned immediately afterwards, is Octave Mouret, the +leading character of ‘Pot-Bouille’ and ‘Au Bonheur des +Dames.’—ED. +</p> + +<p> +As the procession was starting off, Bongrand came up, and, after shaking hands +with Sandoz, remained beside him. He was gloomy, and, glancing at the fifteen +or twenty strangers who followed, he murmured: +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! poor chap! What! are there only we two?’ +</p> + +<p> +Dubuche was at Cannes with his children. Jory and Fagerolles kept away, the +former hating the deceased and the latter being too busy. Mahoudeau alone +caught the party up at the rise of the Rue Lepic, and he explained that +Gagnière must have missed the train. +</p> + +<p> +The hearse slowly ascended the steep thoroughfare which winds round the flanks +of the height of Montmartre; and now and then cross streets, sloping downward, +sudden gaps amid the houses, showed one the immensity of Paris as deep and as +broad as a sea. When the party arrived in front of the Church of St. Pierre, +and the coffin was carried up the steps, it overtopped the great city for a +moment. There was a grey wintry sky overhead, large masses of clouds swept +along, carried away by an icy wind, and in the mist Paris seemed to expand, to +become endless, filling the horizon with threatening billows. The poor fellow +who had wished to conquer it, and had broken his neck in his fruitless efforts, +now passed in front of it, nailed under an oaken board, returning to the earth +like one of the city’s muddy waves. +</p> + +<p> +On leaving the church the female cousin disappeared, Mahoudeau likewise; while +the second cousin again took his position behind the hearse. Seven other +unknown persons decided to follow, and they started for the new cemetery of St. +Ouen, to which the populace has given the disquieting and lugubrious name of +Cayenne. There were ten mourners in all. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, we two shall be the only old friends,’ repeated Bongrand as +he walked on beside Sandoz. +</p> + +<p> +The procession, preceded by the mourning coach in which the priest and the +choirboy were seated, now descended the other side of the height, along winding +streets as precipitous as mountain paths. The horses of the hearse slipped over +the slimy pavement; one could hear the wheels jolting noisily. Right behind, +the ten mourners took short and careful steps, trying to avoid the puddles, and +being so occupied with the difficulty of the descent that they refrained from +speaking. But at the bottom of the Rue du Ruisseau, when they reached the Porte +de Clignancourt and the vast open spaces, where the boulevard running round the +city, the circular railway, the talus and moat of the fortifications are +displayed to view, there came sighs of relief, a few words were exchanged, and +the party began to straggle. +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz and Bongrand by degrees found themselves behind all the others, as if +they had wished to isolate themselves from those folk whom they had never +previously seen. Just as the hearse was passing the city gate, the painter +leant towards the novelist. +</p> + +<p> +‘And the little woman, what is going to be done with her?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! how dreadful it is!’ replied Sandoz. ‘I went to see her +yesterday at the hospital. She has brain fever. The house doctor maintains that +they will save her, but that she will come out of it ten years older and +without any strength. Do you know that she had come to such a point that she no +longer knew how to spell. Such a crushing fall, a young lady abased to the +level of a drudge! Yes, if we don’t take care of her like a cripple, she +will end by becoming a scullery-maid somewhere.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And not a copper, of course?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not a copper. I thought I should find the studies Claude made from +nature for his large picture, those superb studies which he afterwards turned +to such poor account. But I ferreted everywhere; he gave everything away; +people robbed him. No, nothing to sell, not a canvas that could be turned to +profit, nothing but that huge picture, which I demolished and burnt with my own +hands, and right gladly, I assure you, even as one avenges oneself.’ +</p> + +<p> +They became silent for a moment. The broad road leading to St. Ouen stretched +out quite straight as far as the eye could reach; and over the plain went the +procession, pitifully small, lost, as it were, on that highway, along which +there flowed a river of mud. A line of palings bordered it on either side, +waste land extended both to right and left, while afar off one only saw some +factory chimneys and a few lofty white houses, standing alone, obliquely to the +road. They passed through the Clignancourt fête, with booths, circuses, and +roundabouts on either side, all shivering in the abandonment of winter, empty +dancing cribs, mouldy swings, and a kind of stage homestead, ‘The Picardy +Farm,’ looking dismally sad between its broken fences. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! his old canvases,’ resumed Bongrand, ‘the things he had +at the Quai de Bourbon, do you remember them? There were some extraordinary +bits among them. The landscapes he brought back from the south and the academy +studies he painted at Boutin’s—a girl’s legs and a +woman’s trunk, for instance. Oh, that trunk! Old Malgras must have it. A +magisterial study it was, which not one of our “young masters” +could paint. Yes, yes, the fellow was no fool—simply a great +painter.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘When I think,’ said Sandoz, ‘that those little humbugs of +the School and the press accused him of idleness and ignorance, repeating one +after the other that he had always refused to learn his art. Idle! good +heavens! why, I have seen him faint with fatigue after sittings ten hours long; +he gave his whole life to his work, and killed himself in his passion for toil! +And they call him ignorant—how idiotic! They will never understand that +the individual gift which a man brings in his nature is superior to all +acquired knowledge. Delacroix also was ignorant of his profession in their +eyes, simply because he could not confine himself to hard and fast rules! Ah! +the ninnies, the slavish pupils who are incapable of painting anything +incorrectly!’ +</p> + +<p> +He took a few steps in silence, and then he added: +</p> + +<p> +‘A heroic worker, too—a passionate observer whose brain was crammed +with science—the temperament of a great artist endowed with admirable +gifts. And to think that he leaves nothing, nothing!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Absolutely nothing, not a canvas,’ declared Bongrand. ‘I +know nothing of his but rough drafts, sketches, notes carelessly jotted down, +as it were, all that artistic paraphernalia which can’t be submitted to +the public. Yes, indeed, it is really a dead man, dead completely, who is about +to be lowered into the grave.’ +</p> + +<p> +However, the painter and the novelist now had to hasten their steps, for they +had got far behind the others while talking; and the hearse, after rolling past +taverns and shops full of tombstones and crosses, was turning to the right into +the short avenue leading to the cemetery. They overtook it, and passed through +the gateway with the little procession. The priest in his surplice and the +choirboy carrying the holy water receiver, who had both alighted from the +mourning coach, walked on ahead. +</p> + +<p> +It was a large flat cemetery, still in its youth, laid out by rule and line in +the suburban waste land, and divided into squares by broad symmetrical paths. A +few raised tombs bordered the principal avenues, but most of the graves, +already very numerous, were on a level with the soil. They were hastily +arranged temporary sepulchres, for five-year grants were the only ones to be +obtained, and families hesitated to go to any serious expense. Thus, the stones +sinking into the ground for lack of foundations, the scrubby evergreens which +had not yet had time to grow, all the provisional slop kind of mourning that +one saw there, imparted to that vast field of repose a look of poverty and +cold, clean, dismal bareness like that of a barracks or a hospital. There was +not a corner to be found recalling the graveyard nooks sung of in the ballads +of the romantic period, not one leafy turn quivering with mystery, not a single +large tomb speaking of pride and eternity. You were in the new style of Paris +cemetery, where everything is set out straight and duly numbered—the +cemetery of democratic times, where the dead seem to slumber at the bottom of +an office drawer, after filing past one by one, as people do at a fête under +the eyes of the police, so as to avoid obstruction. +</p> + +<p> +‘Dash it!’ muttered Bongrand, ‘it isn’t lively +here.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why not?’ asked Sandoz. ‘It’s commodious; there is +plenty of air. And even although there is no sun, see what a pretty colour it +all has.’ +</p> + +<p> +In fact, under the grey sky of that November morning, in the penetrating quiver +of the wind, the low tombs, laden with garlands and crowns of beads, assumed +soft tints of charming delicacy. There were some quite white, and others all +black, according to the colour of the beads. But the contrast lost much of its +force amid the pale green foliage of the dwarfish trees. Poor families +exhausted their affection for the dear departed in decking those five-year +grants; there were piles of crowns and blooming flowers—freshly brought +there on the recent Day of the Dead. Only the cut flowers had as yet faded, +between their paper collars. Some crowns of yellow immortelles shone out like +freshly chiselled gold. But the beads predominated to such a degree that at the +first glance there seemed to be nothing else; they gushed forth everywhere, +hiding the inscriptions and covering the stones and railings. There were beads +forming hearts, beads in festoons and medallions, beads framing either +ornamental designs or objects under glass, such as velvet pansies, wax hands +entwined, satin bows, or, at times, even photographs of women—yellow, +faded, cheap photographs, showing poor, ugly, touching faces that smiled +awkwardly. +</p> + +<p> +As the hearse proceeded along the Avenue du Rond Point, Sandoz, whose last +remark—since it was of an artistic nature—had brought him back to +Claude, resumed the conversation, saying: +</p> + +<p> +‘This is a cemetery which he would have understood, he who was so mad on +modern things. No doubt he suffered physically, wasted away by the over-severe +lesion that is so often akin to genius, “three grains too little, or +three grains too much, of some substance in the brain,” as he himself +said when he reproached his parents for his constitution. However, his disorder +was not merely a personal affair, he was the victim of our period. Yes, our +generation has been soaked in romanticism, and we have remained impregnated +with it. It is in vain that we wash ourselves and take baths of reality, the +stain is obstinate, and all the scrubbing in the world won’t take it +away.’ +</p> + +<p> +Bongrand smiled. ‘Oh! as for romanticism,’ said he, +‘I’m up to my ears in it. It has fed my art, and, indeed, I’m +impenitent. If it be true that my final impotence is due to that, well, after +all, what does it matter? I can’t deny the religion of my artistic life. +However, your remark is quite correct; you other fellows, you are rebellious +sons. Claude, for instance, with his big nude woman amid the quays, that +extravagant symbol—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah, that woman!’ interrupted Sandoz, ‘it was she who +throttled him! If you knew how he worshipped her! I was never able to cast her +out of him. And how can one possibly have clear perception, a solid, +properly-balanced brain when such phantasmagoria sprouts forth from your skull? +Though coming after yours, our generation is too imaginative to leave healthy +work behind it. Another generation, perhaps two, will be required before people +will be able to paint and write logically, with the high, pure simplicity of +truth. Truth, nature alone, is the right basis, the necessary guide, outside of +which madness begins; and the toiler needn’t be afraid of flattening his +work, his temperament is there, which will always carry him sufficiently away. +Does any one dream of denying personality, the involuntary thumb-stroke which +deforms whatever we touch and constitutes our poor creativeness?’ +</p> + +<p> +However, he turned his head, and involuntarily added: +</p> + +<p> +‘Hallo! what’s burning? Are they lighting bonfires here?’ +</p> + +<p> +The procession had turned on reaching the Rond Point, where the ossuary was +situated—the common vault gradually filled with all the remnants removed +from the graves, and the stone slab of which, in the centre of a circular lawn, +disappeared under a heap of wreaths, deposited there by the pious relatives of +those who no longer had an individual resting-place. And, as the hearse rolled +slowly to the left in transversal Avenue No. 2, there had come a sound of +crackling, and thick smoke had risen above the little plane trees bordering the +path. Some distance ahead, as the party approached, they could see a large pile +of earthy things beginning to burn, and they ended by understanding. The fire +was lighted at the edge of a large square patch of ground, which had been dug +up in broad parallel furrows, so as to remove the coffins before allotting the +soil to other corpses; just as the peasant turns the stubble over before sowing +afresh. The long empty furrows seemed to yawn, the mounds of rich soil seemed +to be purifying under the broad grey sky; and the fire thus burning in that +corner was formed of the rotten wood of the coffins that had been +removed—slit, broken boards, eaten into by the earth, often reduced to a +ruddy humus, and gathered together in an enormous pile. They broke up with +faint detonations, and being damp with human mud, they refused to flame, and +merely smoked with growing intensity. Large columns of the smoke rose into the +pale sky, and were beaten down by the November wind, and torn into ruddy +shreds, which flew across the low tombs of quite one half of the cemetery. +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz and Bongrand had looked at the scene without saying a word. Then, having +passed the fire, the former resumed: +</p> + +<p> +‘No, he did not prove to be the man of the formula he laid down. I mean +that his genius was not clear enough to enable him to set that formula erect +and impose it upon the world by a definite masterpiece. And now see how other +fellows scatter their efforts around him, after him! They go no farther than +roughing off, they give us mere hasty impressions, and not one of them seems to +have strength enough to become the master who is awaited. Isn’t it +irritating, this new notion of light, this passion for truth carried as far as +scientific analysis, this evolution begun with so much originality, and now +loitering on the way, as it were, falling into the hands of tricksters, and +never coming to a head, simply because the necessary man isn’t born? But +pooh! the man will be born; nothing is ever lost, light must be.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Who knows? not always,’ said Bongrand. ‘Life miscarries, +like everything else. I listen to you, you know, but I’m a despairer. I +am dying of sadness, and I feel that everything else is dying. Ah! yes, there +is something unhealthy in the atmosphere of the times—this end of a +century is all demolition, a litter of broken monuments, and soil that has been +turned over and over a hundred times, the whole exhaling a stench of death! Can +anybody remain in good health amid all that? One’s nerves become +unhinged, the great neurosis is there, art grows unsettled, there is general +bustling, perfect anarchy, all the madness of self-love at bay. Never have +people quarrelled more and seen less clearly than since it is pretended that +one knows everything.’ +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz, who had grown pale, watched the large ruddy coils of smoke rolling in +the wind. +</p> + +<p> +‘It was fated,’ he mused in an undertone. ‘Our excessive +activity and pride of knowledge were bound to cast us back into doubt. This +century, which has already thrown so much light over the world, was bound to +finish amid the threat of a fresh flow of darkness—yes, our discomfort +comes from that! Too much has been promised, too much has been hoped for; +people have looked forward to the conquest and explanation of everything, and +now they growl impatiently. What! don’t things go quicker than that? +What! hasn’t science managed to bring us absolute certainty, perfect +happiness, in a hundred years? Then what is the use of going on, since one will +never know everything, and one’s bread will always be as bitter? It is as +if the century had become bankrupt, as if it had failed; pessimism twists +people’s bowels, mysticism fogs their brains; for we have vainly swept +phantoms away with the light of analysis, the supernatural has resumed +hostilities, the spirit of the legends rebels and wants to conquer us, while we +are halting with fatigue and anguish. Ah! I certainly don’t affirm +anything; I myself am tortured. Only it seems to me that this last convulsion +of the old religious terrors was to be foreseen. We are not the end, we are but +a transition, a beginning of something else. It calms me and does me good to +believe that we are marching towards reason, and the substantiality of +science.’ +</p> + +<p> +His voice had become husky with emotion, and he added: +</p> + +<p> +‘That is, unless madness plunges us, topsy-turvy, into night again, and +we all go off throttled by the ideal, like our old friend who sleeps there +between his four boards.’ +</p> + +<p> +The hearse was leaving transversal Avenue No. 2 to turn, on the right, into +lateral Avenue No. 3, and the painter, without speaking, called the +novelist’s attention to a square plot of graves, beside which the +procession was now passing. +</p> + +<p> +There was here a children’s cemetery, nothing but children’s tombs, +stretching far away in orderly fashion, separated at regular intervals by +narrow paths, and looking like some infantile city of death. There were tiny +little white crosses, tiny little white railings, disappearing almost beneath +an efflorescence of white and blue wreaths, on a level with the soil; and that +peaceful field of repose, so soft in colour, with the bluish tint of milk about +it, seemed to have been made flowery by all the childhood lying in the earth. +The crosses recorded various ages, two years, sixteen months, five months. One +poor little cross, destitute of any railing, was out of line, having been set +up slantingly across a path, and it simply bore the words: ‘Eugenie, +three days.’ Scarcely to exist as yet, and withal to sleep there already, +alone, on one side, like the children who on festive occasions dine at a little +side table! +</p> + +<p> +However, the hearse had at last stopped, in the middle of the avenue; and when +Sandoz saw the grave ready at the corner of the next division, in front of the +cemetery of the little ones, he murmured tenderly: +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! my poor old Claude, with your big child’s heart, you will be +in your place beside them.’ +</p> + +<p> +The under-bearers removed the coffin from the hearse. The priest, who looked +surly, stood waiting in the wind; some sextons were there with their shovels. +Three neighbours had fallen off on the road, the ten had dwindled into seven. +The second cousin, who had been holding his hat in his hand since leaving the +church, despite the frightful weather, now drew nearer. All the others +uncovered, and the prayers were about to begin, when a loud piercing whistle +made everybody look up. +</p> + +<p> +Beyond this corner of the cemetery as yet untenanted, at the end of lateral +Avenue No. 3, a train was passing along the high embankment of the circular +railway which overlooked the graveyard. The grassy slope rose up, and a number +of geometrical lines, as it were, stood out blackly against the grey sky; there +were telegraph-posts, connected by thin wires, a superintendent’s box, +and a red signal plate, the only bright throbbing speck visible. When the train +rolled past, with its thunder-crash, one plainly distinguished, as on the +transparency of a shadow play, the silhouettes of the carriages, even the heads +of the passengers showing in the light gaps left by the windows. And the line +became clear again, showing like a simple ink stroke across the horizon; while +far away other whistles called and wailed unceasingly, shrill with anger, +hoarse with suffering, or husky with distress. Then a guard’s horn +resounded lugubriously. +</p> + +<p> +‘<i>Revertitur in terram suam unde erat</i>,’ recited the priest, +who had opened a book and was making haste. +</p> + +<p> +But he was not heard, for a large engine had come up puffing, and was +manoeuvring backwards and forwards near the funeral party. It had a loud thick +voice, a guttural whistle, which was intensely mournful. It came and went, +panting; and seen in profile it looked like a heavy monster. Suddenly, +moreover, it let off steam, with all the furious blowing of a tempest. +</p> + +<p> +‘<i>Requiescat in pace</i>,’ said the priest. +</p> + +<p> +‘Amen,’ replied the choirboy. +</p> + +<p> +But the words were again lost amid the lashing, deafening detonation, which was +prolonged with the continuous violence of a fusillade. +</p> + +<p> +Bongrand, quite exasperated, turned towards the engine. It became silent, +fortunately, and every one felt relieved. Tears had risen to the eyes of +Sandoz, who had already been stirred by the words which had involuntarily +passed his lips, while he walked behind his old comrade, talking as if they had +been having one of their familiar chats of yore; and now it seemed to him as if +his youth were about to be consigned to the earth. It was part of himself, the +best part, his illusions and his enthusiasm, which the sextons were taking away +to lower into the depths. At that terrible moment an accident occurred which +increased his grief. It had rained so hard during the preceding days, and the +ground was so soft, that a sudden subsidence of soil took place. One of the +sextons had to jump into the grave and empty it with his shovel with a slow +rhythmical movement. There was no end to the matter, the funeral seemed likely +to last for ever amid the impatience of the priest and the interest of the four +neighbours who had followed on to the end, though nobody could say why. And up +above, on the embankment, the engine had begun manoeuvring again, retreating +and howling at each turn of its wheels, its fire-box open the while, and +lighting up the gloomy scene with a rain of sparks. +</p> + +<p> +At last the pit was emptied, the coffin lowered, and the aspergillus passed +round. It was all over. The second cousin, standing erect, did the honours with +his correct, pleasant air, shaking hands with all these people whom he had +never previously seen, in memory of the relative whose name he had not +remembered the day before. +</p> + +<p> +‘That linen-draper is a very decent fellow,’ said Bongrand, who was +swallowing his tears. +</p> + +<p> +‘Quite so,’ replied Sandoz, sobbing. +</p> + +<p> +All the others were going off, the surplices of the priest and the choirboy +disappeared between the green trees, while the straggling neighbours loitered +reading the inscriptions on the surrounding tombs. +</p> + +<p> +Then Sandoz, making up his mind to leave the grave, which was now half filled, +resumed: +</p> + +<p> +‘We alone shall have known him. There is nothing left of him, not even a +name!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He is very happy,’ said Bongrand; ‘he has no picture on +hand, in the earth where he sleeps. It is as well to go off as to toil as we do +merely to turn out infirm children, who always lack something, their legs or +their head, and who don’t live.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, one must really be wanting in pride to resign oneself to turning +out merely approximate work and resorting to trickery with life. I, who bestow +every care on my books—I despise myself, for I feel that, despite all my +efforts, they are incomplete and untruthful.’ +</p> + +<p> +With pale faces, they slowly went away, side by side, past the children’s +white tombs, the novelist then in all the strength of his toil and fame, the +painter declining but covered with glory. +</p> + +<p> +‘There, at least, lies one who was logical and brave,’ continued +Sandoz; ‘he confessed his powerlessness and killed himself.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That’s true,’ said Bongrand; ‘if we didn’t care +so much for our skins we should all do as he has done, eh?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, yes; since we cannot create anything, since we are but feeble +copyists, we might as well put an end to ourselves at once.’ +</p> + +<p> +Again they found themselves before the burning pile of old rotten coffins, now +fully alight, sweating and crackling; but there were still no flames to be +seen, the smoke alone had increased—a thick acrid smoke, which the wind +carried along in whirling coils, so that it now covered the whole cemetery as +with a cloud of mourning. +</p> + +<p> +‘Dash it! Eleven o’clock!’ said Bongrand, after pulling out +his watch. ‘I must get home again.’ +</p> + +<p> +Sandoz gave an exclamation of surprise: +</p> + +<p> +‘What, already eleven?’ +</p> + +<p> +Over the low-lying graves, over the vast bead-flowered field of death, so +formal of aspect and so cold, he cast a long look of despair, his eyes still +bedimmed by his tears. And then he added: +</p> + +<p> +‘Let’s go to work.’ +</p> + +<p class="center"> +THE END +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HIS MASTERPIECE ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ +concept and trademark. 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