510. Grassou de Fougeres (Pierre), rue de Navarin, 2.
Death-toilet of a Chouan, condemned to execution in 1809.
Though wholly second-rate, the picture had immense success, for it recalled the affair of the “chauffeurs,” of Mortagne. A crowd collected every day before the now fashionable canvas; even Charles X. paused to look at it. “Madame,” being told of the patient life of the poor Breton, became enthusiastic over him. The Duc d’Orleans asked the price of the picture. The clergy told Madame la Dauphine that the subject was suggestive of good thoughts; and there was, in truth, a most satisfying religious tone about it. Monseigneur the Dauphin admired the dust on the stone-floor, — a huge blunder, by the way, for Fougeres had painted greenish tones suggestive of mildew along the base of the walls. “Madame” finally bought the picture for a thousand francs, and the Dauphin ordered another like it. Charles X. gave the cross of the Legion of honor to this son of a peasant who had fought for the royal cause in 1799. (Joseph Bridau, the great painter, was not yet decorated.) The minister of the Interior ordered two church pictures of Fougeres.
This Salon of 1829 was to Pierre Grassou his whole fortune, fame, future, and life. Be original, invent, and you die by inches; copy, imitate, and you’ll live. After this discovery of a gold mine, Grassou de Fougeres obtained his benefit of the fatal principle to which society owes the wretched mediocrities to whom are intrusted in these days the election of leaders in all social classes; who proceed, naturally, to elect themselves and who wage a bitter war against all true talent. The principle of election applied indiscriminately is false, and France will some day abandon it.
Nevertheless the modesty, simplicity, and genuine surprise of the good and gentle Fougeres silenced all envy and all recriminations. Besides, he had on his side all of his clan who had succeeded, and all who expected to succeed. Some persons, touched by the persistent energy of a man whom nothing had discouraged, talked of Domenichino and said: —
“Perseverance in the arts should be rewarded. Grassou hasn’t stolen his successes; he has delved for ten years, the poor dear man!”
That exclamation of “poor dear man!” counted for half in the support and the congratulations which the painter received. Pity sets up mediocrities as envy pulls down great talents, and in equal numbers. The newspapers, it is true, did not spare criticism, but the chevalier Fougeres digested them as he had digested the counsel of his friends, with angelic patience.
Possessing, by this time, fifteen thousand francs, laboriously earned, he furnished an apartment and studio in the rue de Navarin, and painted the picture ordered by Monseigneur the Dauphin, also the two church pictures, and delivered them at the time agreed on, with a punctuality that was very discomforting to the exchequer of the ministry, accustomed to a different course of action. But — admire the good fortune of men who are methodical — if Grassou, belated with his work, had been caught by the revolution of July he would not have got his money.
By the time he was thirty-seven Fougeres had manufactured for Elie Magus some two hundred pictures, all of them utterly unknown, by the help of which he had attained to that satisfying manner, that point of execution before which the true artist shrugs his shoulders and the bourgeoisie worships. Fougeres was dear to friends for rectitude of ideas, for steadiness of sentiment, absolute kindliness, and great loyalty; though they had no esteem for his palette, they loved the man who held it.
“What a misfortune it is that Fougeres has the vice of painting!” said his comrades.
But for all this, Grassou gave excellent counsel, like those feuilletonists incapable of writing a book who know very well where a book is wanting. There was this difference, however, between literary critics and Fougeres; he was eminently sensitive to beauties; he felt them, he acknowledged them, and his advice was instinct with a spirit of justice that made the justness of his remarks acceptable. After the revolution of July, Fougeres sent about ten pictures a year to the Salon, of which the jury admitted four or five. He lived with the most rigid economy, his household being managed solely by an old charwoman. For all amusement he visited his friends, he went to see works of art, he allowed himself a few little trips about France, and he planned to go to Switzerland in search of inspiration. This detestable artist was an excellent citizen; he mounted guard duly, went to reviews, and paid his rent and provision-bills with bourgeois punctuality.
Having lived all his life in toil and poverty, he had never had the time to love. Poor and a bachelor, until now he did not desire to complicate his simple life. Incapable of devising any means of increasing his little fortune, he carried, every three months, to his notary, Cardot, his quarterly earnings and economies. When the notary had received about three thousand francs he invested them in some first mortgage, the interest of which he drew himself and added to the quarterly payments made to him by Fougeres. The painter was awaiting the fortunate moment when his property thus laid by would give him the imposing income of two thousand francs, to allow himself the otium cum dignitate of the artist and paint pictures; but oh! what pictures! true pictures! each a finished picture! chouette, Koxnoff, chocnosoff! His future, his dreams of happiness, the superlative of his hopes — do you know what it was? To enter the Institute and obtain the grade of officer of the Legion of honor; to side down beside Schinner and Leon de Lora, to reach the Academy before Bridau, to wear a rosette in his buttonhole! What a dream! It is only commonplace men who think of everything.
Hearing the sound of several steps on the staircase, Fougeres rubbed up his hair, buttoned his jacket of bottle-green velveteen, and was not a little amazed to see, entering his doorway, a simpleton face vulgarly called in studio slang a “melon.” This fruit surmounted a pumpkin, clothed in blue cloth adorned with a bunch of tintinnabulating baubles. The melon puffed like a walrus; the pumpkin advanced on turnips, improperly called legs. A true painter would have turned the little bottle-vendor off at once, assuring him that he didn’t paint vegetables. This painter looked at his client without a smile, for Monsieur Vervelle wore a three-thousand-franc diamond in the bosom of his shirt.
Fougeres glanced at Magus and said: “There’s fat in it!” using a slang term then much in vogue in the studios.
Hearing those words Monsieur Vervelle frowned. The worthy bourgeois drew after him another complication of vegetables in the persons of his wife and daughter. The wife had a fine veneer of mahogany on her face, and in figure she resembled a cocoa-nut, surmounted by a head and tied in around the waist. She pivoted on her legs, which were tap-rooted, and her gown was yellow with black stripes. She proudly exhibited unutterable mittens on a puffy pair of hands; the plumes of a first-class funeral floated on an over-flowing bonnet; laces adorned her shoulders, as round behind as they were before; consequently, the spherical form of the cocoa-nut was perfect. Her feet, of a kind that painters call abatis, rose above the varnished leather of the shoes in a swelling that was some inches high. How the feet were ever got into the shoes, no one knows.
Following these vegetable parents was a young asparagus, who presented a tiny head with smoothly banded hair of the yellow-carroty tone that a Roman adores, long, stringy arms, a fairly white skin with reddish spots upon it, large innocent eyes, and white lashes, scarcely any brows, a leghorn bonnet bound with white satin and adorned with two honest bows of the same satin, hands virtuously red, and the feet of her mother. The faces of these three beings wore, as they looked round the studio, an air of happiness which bespoke in them a respectable enthusiasm for Art.
“So it is you, monsieur, who are going to take our likenesses?” said the father, assuming a jaunty air.
“Yes, monsieur,” replied Grassou.
“Vervelle, he has the cross!” whispered the wife to the husband while the painter’s back was turned.
“Should I be likely to have our portraits painted by an artist who wasn’t decorated?” returned the former bottle-dealer.
Elie Magus here bowed to the Vervelle family and went away. Grassou ac
companied him to the landing.
“There’s no one but you who would fish up such whales.”
“One hundred thousand francs of ‘dot’!”
“Yes, but what a family!”
“Three hundred thousand francs of expectations, a house in the rue Boucherat, and a country-house at Ville d’Avray!”
“Bottles and corks! bottles and corks!” said the painter; “they set my teeth on edge.”
“Safe from want for the rest of your days,” said Elie Magus as he departed.
That idea entered the head of Pierre Grassou as the daylight had burst into his garret that morning.
While he posed the father of the young person, he thought the bottle-dealer had a good countenance, and he admired the face full of violent tones. The mother and daughter hovered about the easel, marvelling at all his preparations; they evidently thought him a demigod. This visible admiration pleased Fougeres. The golden calf threw upon the family its fantastic reflections.
“You must earn lots of money; but of course you don’t spend it as you get it,” said the mother.
“No, madame,” replied the painter; “I don’t spend it; I have not the means to amuse myself. My notary invests my money; he knows what I have; as soon as I have taken him the money I never think of it again.”
“I’ve always been told,” cried old Vervelle, “that artists were baskets with holes in them.”
“Who is your notary — if it is not indiscreet to ask?” said Madame Vervelle.
“A good fellow, all round,” replied Grassou. “His name is Cardot.”
“Well, well! if that isn’t a joke!” exclaimed Vervelle. “Cardot is our notary too.”
“Take care! don’t move,” said the painter.
“Do pray hold still, Antenor,” said the wife. “If you move about you’ll make monsieur miss; you should just see him working, and then you’d understand.”
“Oh! why didn’t you have me taught the arts?” said Mademoiselle Vervelle to her parents.
“Virginie,” said her mother, “a young person ought not to learn certain things. When you are married — well, till then, keep quiet.”
During this first sitting the Vervelle family became almost intimate with the worthy artist. They were to come again two days later. As they went away the father told Virginie to walk in front; but in spite of this separation, she overheard the following words, which naturally awakened her curiosity.
“Decorated — thirty-seven years old — an artist who gets orders — puts his money with our notary. We’ll consult Cardot. Hein! Madame de Fougeres! not a bad name — doesn’t look like a bad man either! One might prefer a merchant; but before a merchant retires from business one can never know what one’s daughter may come to; whereas an economical artist — and then you know we love Art — Well, we’ll see!”
While the Vervelle family discussed Pierre Grassou, Pierre Grassou discussed in his own mind the Vervelle family. He found it impossible to stay peacefully in his studio, so he took a walk on the boulevard, and looked at all the red-haired women who passed him. He made a series of the oddest reasonings to himself: gold was the handsomest of metals; a tawny yellow represented gold; the Romans were fond of red-haired women, and he turned Roman, etc. After two years of marriage what man would ever care about the color of his wife’s hair? Beauty fades, — but ugliness remains! Money is one-half of all happiness. That night when he went to bed the painter had come to think Virginie Vervelle charming.
When the three Vervelles arrived on the day of the second sitting the artist received them with smiles. The rascal had shaved and put on clean linen; he had also arranged his hair in a pleasing manner, and chosen a very becoming pair of trousers and red leather slippers with pointed toes. The family replied with smiles as flattering as those of the artist. Virginie became the color of her hair, lowered her eyes, and turned aside her head to look at the sketches. Pierre Grassou thought these little affectations charming, Virginie had such grace; happily she didn’t look like her father or her mother; but whom did she look like?
During this sitting there were little skirmishes between the family and the painter, who had the audacity to call pere Vervelle witty. This flattery brought the family on the double-quick to the heart of the artist; he gave a drawing to the daughter, and a sketch to the mother.
“What! for nothing?” they said.
Pierre Grassou could not help smiling.
“You shouldn’t give away your pictures in that way; they are money,” said old Vervelle.
At the third sitting pere Vervelle mentioned a fine gallery of pictures which he had in his country-house at Ville d’Avray — Rubens, Gerard Douw, Mieris, Terburg, Rembrandt, Titian, Paul Potter, etc.
“Monsieur Vervelle has been very extravagant,” said Madame Vervelle, ostentatiously. “He has over one hundred thousand francs’ worth of pictures.”
“I love Art,” said the former bottle-dealer.
When Madame Vervelle’s portrait was begun that of her husband was nearly finished, and the enthusiasm of the family knew no bounds. The notary had spoken in the highest praise of the painter. Pierre Grassou was, he said, one of the most honest fellows on earth; he had laid by thirty-six thousand francs; his days of poverty were over; he now saved about ten thousand francs a year and capitalized the interest; in short, he was incapable of making a woman unhappy. This last remark had enormous weight in the scales. Vervelle’s friends now heard of nothing but the celebrated painter Fougeres.
The day on which Fougeres began the portrait of Mademoiselle Virginie, he was virtually son-in-law to the Vervelle family. The three Vervelles bloomed out in this studio, which they were now accustomed to consider as one of their residences; there was to them an inexplicable attraction in this clean, neat, pretty, and artistic abode. Abyssus abyssum, the commonplace attracts the commonplace. Toward the end of the sitting the stairway shook, the door was violently thrust open by Joseph Bridau; he came like a whirlwind, his hair flying. He showed his grand haggard face as he looked about him, casting everywhere the lightning of his glance; then he walked round the whole studio, and returned abruptly to Grassou, pulling his coat together over the gastric region, and endeavouring, but in vain, to button it, the button mould having escaped from its capsule of cloth.
“Wood is dear,” he said to Grassou.
“Ah!”
“The British are after me” (slang term for creditors) “Gracious! do you paint such things as that?”
“Hold your tongue!”
“Ah! to be sure, yes.”
The Vervelle family, extremely shocked by this extraordinary apparition, passed from its ordinary red to a cherry-red, two shades deeper.
“Brings in, hey?” continued Joseph. “Any shot in your locker?”
“How much do you want?”
“Five hundred. I’ve got one of those bull-dog dealers after me, and if the fellow once gets his teeth in he won’t let go while there’s a bit of me left. What a crew!”
“I’ll write you a line for my notary.”
“Have you got a notary?”
“Yes.”
“That explains to me why you still make cheeks with pink tones like a perfumer’s sign.”
Grassou could not help coloring, for Virginie was sitting.
“Take Nature as you find her,” said the great painter, going on with his lecture. “Mademoiselle is red-haired. Well, is that a sin? All things are magnificent in painting. Put some vermillion on your palette, and warm up those cheeks; touch in those little brown spots; come, butter it well in. Do you pretend to have more sense than Nature?”
“Look here,” said Fougeres, “take my place while I go and write that note.”
Vervelle rolled to the table and whispered in Grassou’s ear: —
“Won’t that country lout spoilt it?”
“If he would only paint the portrait of your Virginie it would be worth a thousand times more than mine,” replied Fougeres, vehemently.
Hearin
g that reply the bourgeois beat a quiet retreat to his wife, who was stupefied by the invasion of this ferocious animal, and very uneasy at his co-operation in her daughter’s portrait.
“Here, follow these indications,” said Bridau, returning the palette, and taking the note. “I won’t thank you. I can go back now to d’Arthez’ chateau, where I am doing a dining-room, and Leon de Lora the tops of the doors — masterpieces! Come and see us.”
And off he went without taking leave, having had enough of looking at Virginie.
“Who is that man?” asked Madame Vervelle.
“A great artist,” answered Grassou.
There was silence for a moment.
“Are you quite sure,” said Virginie, “that he has done no harm to my portrait? He frightened me.”
“He has only done it good,” replied Grassou.
“Well, if he is a great artist, I prefer a great artist like you,” said Madame Vervelle.
The ways of genius had ruffled up these orderly bourgeois.
The phase of autumn so pleasantly named “Saint Martin’s summer” was just beginning. With the timidity of a neophyte in presence of a man of genius, Vervelle risked giving Fougeres an invitation to come out to his country-house on the following Sunday. He knew, he said, how little attraction a plain bourgeois family could offer to an artist.
“You artists,” he continued, “want emotions, great scenes, and witty talk; but you’ll find good wines, and I rely on my collection of pictures to compensate an artist like you for the bore of dining with mere merchants.”
This form of idolatry, which stroked his innocent self-love, was charming to our poor Pierre Grassou, so little accustomed to such compliments. The honest artist, that atrocious mediocrity, that heart of gold, that loyal soul, that stupid draughtsman, that worthy fellow, decorated by royalty itself with the Legion of honor, put himself under arms to go out to Ville d’Avray and enjoy the last fine days of the year. The painter went modestly by public conveyance, and he could not but admire the beautiful villa of the bottle-dealer, standing in a park of five acres at the summit of Ville d’Avray, commanding a noble view of the landscape. Marry Virginie, and have that beautiful villa some day for his own!
Works of Honore De Balzac Page 677