by Émile Zola
Bongrand, who usually had nothing but fatherly praise for the young, bent busily over his picture, shaking with rage, though making a visible effort to contain it, but it burst out in spite of him.
‘That’s all we want to hear about Fagerolles, thank you! … What sort of fools do you take us for, eh? … Look, if you want to see a great painter, he’s here at this moment. Yes, I mean the young man now standing in front of you. What Fagerolles does is simply a stunt; it consists of stealing this young man’s originality and serving it up in the insipid guise required by the École des Beaux-Arts. Exactly! You take a modern subject, use light colours, but stick to the correct and commonplace drawing, the pleasant, standardized composition, the formula, in short, guaranteed by the Beaux-Arts to give satisfaction to people with plenty of money and no taste. And you cover up the whole thing with facility, the sort of nimble facility, what’s more, that would be just as well employed carving coconuts, the same nice, flowing facility which leads to success and which ought to be punished with hard labour, do you hear!’ he shouted, brandishing his brushes and palette in his clenched fists.
‘You’re very hard,’ said Claude, embarrassed. ‘Fagerolles has some quite subtle qualities really.’
‘I have heard,’ Jory ventured, ‘that he’s just made a very remunerative contract with Naudet.’
The unexpected introduction of Naudet into the conversation made Bongrand relax again and, wagging his head and smiling, he said:
‘Oh! Naudet! … Naudet!’
He knew Naudet well and kept his young friends very amused by telling them about him. He was a dealer who in the last few years had revolutionized the picture business. Old Malgras, with his subtle taste and shabby morning coat, was out-dated, so were his methods—pouncing on novices’ pictures, buying them for ten francs and selling them for fifteen, the connoisseur’s little routine, pretending to turn up his nose at the picture he wanted in the hope of getting it cheap, though deep down he was genuinely keen on painting, making a wretched living by the rapid turnover of his limited capital in his cautious deals. Naudet, the famous Naudet, was quite different; he was turned out like a gentleman, perfectly groomed and polished, complete with fancy jacket and jewelled tie-pin and all that goes with them, hired carriage, stall at the Opera, table at Brignon’s, and he made a point of being seen in all the right sort of places. In business he was a speculator, a gambler, and heartily indifferent to good painting. He had a flair for spotting success, that was all; he could tell which artist it would pay him to boost, not the one who showed promise of becoming a great and much-discussed painter, but the one whose specious talent, plus a certain amount of superficial daring, was soon going to be at a premium in the collectors’ market. And he changed completely the tenor of that market by ceasing to cater for the old type of collector who knew a good picture when he saw one, and dealing only with the wealthier amateur who knew nothing about art, who bought a picture as he might have bought stocks and shares, out of sheer vanity or in the hope that it would increase in value.
Here Bongrand, who had a keen sense of humour and was no mean actor, began to act a conversation between Naudet and Fagerolles—‘“You’ve got genius, my dear fellow, no doubt about it! Ah! You’ve sold the little thing I saw the other day, I see. What did you get for it?”—“Oh, five hundred francs.”—“You’re mad, my dear fellow! It was worth twelve hundred. Now what about this one here. How much, eh?”—“Oh, I don’t know, really. Shall we say twelve hundred?”—“Twelve hundred! Come, come, my dear fellow, you’re not taking me seriously. It’s worth two thousand. I’ll take it at two thousand, and from now on you work exclusively for me, Naudet! Au revoir, au revoir. And don’t waste your energies; your fortune’s made, I’ll see to that.” And out he goes, takes the picture with him and drives round calling on his customers, having previously spread the word that he had discovered an artist who’s really out of the ordinary. Eventually one of them bites and asks him the price. “Five thousand.”—“What! Five thousand for a painting by an artist no one’s ever heard of! What do you take me for?”—“Listen, I’ll make you a proposition. I’ll let you have it for five thousand and I’ll sign an agreement to buy it back from you for six in twelve months’ time if you find you don’t like it.” The customer’s tempted; who wouldn’t be? He’s running no risk. It’s a good investment, so he buys. Naudet lets no grass grow under his feet and places nine or ten others in the same way before the year’s out. Then vanity and desire for profit combine to send prices up and a fashion is established, so that when he calls on his customer again, instead of coming away with the old picture he sells him a new one, for eight thousand! And in that way prices go up and up, and painting becomes a shady affair, a sort of goldfield on the top of Montmartre launched by bankers and fought over with banknotes!’
Claude was saying it was disgraceful, and Jory that it was rather clever, when there was a knock at the door. Bongrand answered it.
‘Why, it’s Naudet,’ he exclaimed. ‘We were just talking about you!’
‘I’m very happy to hear it, and very flattered,’ said Naudet. He was impeccably dressed and had escaped even the tiniest splash of mud, in spite of the filthy weather. Bowing, he made his entry with the solemn politeness of a man of the world on the point of entering a church.
‘You were saying nothing but good of me, I’m sure,’ he added.
‘On the contrary, Naudet! On the contrary!’ Bongrand replied in an even tone. ‘We were just saying that your method of exploiting painting is producing a fine generation of young men who are a cross between pictorial clowns and dishonest business men.’
Undaunted, Naudet smiled.
‘The verdict is severe, but very charming! Besides, I could never take exception to any judgement passed upon me by your respected self.’
Then, in ecstasy before the picture of the two women sewing:
‘Why, bless my soul, what have we here? I hadn’t seen this. It’s simply wonderful! … The light! … and the treatment! … So firm … and so broad! Oh, there’s been nothing like this since Rembrandt! … Yes, Rembrandt! … I was simply calling to pay my respects, but I must have had a guiding star today. … Perhaps at last we’re going to be able to do business. Let me have this marvel of yours, and I’ll give you whatever you ask. There’s no limit!’
It was clear from Bongrand’s back that every word irritated him more than the last.
‘Too late,’ he snapped out. ‘It’s sold.’
‘Sold? Dear me, what a pity! Can’t you get out of it somehow? Tell me who’s bought it and I’ll move heaven and earth. I’ll give anything. … Oh, this is really unbearable! Sold! Are you absolutely sure? … Supposing I offered you double?’
‘It’s sold, Naudet, and there’s an end of it!’
But Naudet’s lamentations continued. He stayed a few moments longer, rhapsodized over another canvas or two as he went round the studio, his keen eye on the alert, like a gambler stalking his luck. When at last he realized that he had struck a bad moment and that he would get nothing out of Bongrand, he left, bowing his gratitude and still voicing his admiration as he stood on the landing.
No sooner had he gone than Jory, surprised at what he had heard, put a tentative question:
‘But I thought you said … It isn’t really sold, is it?’ he asked.
Bongrand did not reply at once, but went back to his painting. Then, in a voice like thunder, full of all his hidden suffering, all the latent strife he was so reluctant to admit, he cried:
‘The man’s a nuisance! He’ll get nothing of mine! … If he has money to spend, let him go to Fagerolles!’
When Claude and Jory took their leave a quarter of an hour later, he was hard at work again, making the most of the fading daylight. At the door they separated, but Claude did not make straight for the Rue de Douai, though he had been away from home so long. His head buzzing with the day’s encounters, he wanted to go on walking, to give himself up entirely to Paris, so on he we
nt until nightfall, through the cold, muddy streets, under the glimmer of the street-lamps lighting up one by one, like dim stars shining through the fog.
He could hardly wait for Thursday to arrive. That was the day he was to dine with Sandoz who, as ever, still entertained his friends once a week. All were welcome; there was a place set for everyone. He had married, changed his mode of life completely, flung himself wholeheartedly into the battle of literature, but he still kept Thursday free; he had done so ever since he left school and took to smoking a pipe. Nowadays, when he referred to his wife, he said she was ‘just another member of the gang’.
‘Look here, old fellow, I’m really terribly sorry about this,’ he said one day to Claude.
‘About what?’
‘About your not being married,’ was the frank reply. ‘If it depended on me, of course, I should be only too pleased to have Christine come too. … But I have to be rather careful. You know what fools some people are, always on the look-out for scandal. They might go round spreading all sorts of yarns. …’
‘Why, of course,’ said Claude, ‘but Christine herself wouldn’t want to come with me. So don’t worry. We both understand. I’ll come alone, trust me!’
By six o’clock on Thursday Claude was on his way to where Sandoz lived in the Rue Nollet, away up in the Batignolles. But he had the greatest difficulty in hunting out the little cottage his friend had taken. He began by enquiring at the street door of a large house and was directed by the concierge across three courtyards, then along a passage between two other outbuildings and down a few steps where he bumped into a gate opening on a small garden. That was where the cottage was, at the end of one of the paths. But it was so dark, and he had so nearly come to grief on the steps that he did not dare to go any further, especially as his arrival was being announced by the furious barking of an enormous dog. Then, at last, he heard Sandoz coming towards him and calling the dog to heel.
‘Ah! It’s you!’ cried Sandoz. ‘What do you think of this? Like being in the country, isn’t it? We’re going to put up a lantern, to save the guests from breaking their necks. … Come in! … Quiet, Bertrand! Can’t you see it’s a friend, silly dog?’
The dog raced along beside them towards the house, wagging his tail and barking a lively fanfare of welcome. A young maid appeared carrying a lantern which she hung on the gate to light up the fear-some steps. In the garden there was a small, central grass plot with a huge plum-tree which withered the turf that grew beneath its shadow. In front of the house, which was very low, with only three windows, a large bower of Virginia creeper was very much in evidence; a bright new garden seat was housed there for the winter, to be brought out when the sunny weather came.
‘Come in,’ repeated Sandoz, showing Claude into the room on the right of the hall, the drawing-room which he had turned into his study. The dining-room and kitchen were on the other side. Upstairs, his mother, who was now completely bed-ridden, occupied the big bedroom; he and his wife had the smaller one and the dressing-room adjoining. That was all it was, a cardboard box divided into compartments by partitions as thin as paper. A little house, certainly, but a hive of industry, full of hope for the future, vast in comparison with the attics of his boyhood and already bright with the first indications of luxury and comfort.
‘There!’ cried Sandoz. ‘At least we’ve plenty of room, eh? A damned sight more convenient than the Rue d’Enfer. You see, I have a room all for myself. I’ve bought myself an oak table to work at, and my wife’s given me the palm in that antique Rouen pot. Nice, isn’t it?’
At that moment his wife came in. She was tall, with a gentle, cheerful face and fine dark hair. Over her plain black poplin dress she wore a large white apron, for although they had a resident maid she did her own cooking, was very proud of some of her own special dishes and ran her household according to good middle-class standards.
She and Claude were old acquaintances at once.
‘Call him Claude, dear,’ Sandoz told her, ‘and don’t forget, her name’s Henriette,’ he said to Claude. ‘No “monsieur” and “madame”, if you please, or you’ll be fined five sous a time.’
They all laughed and Henriette made her escape to the kitchen where she had been making bouillabaisse, a Provençal delicacy, as a surprise for the friends from Plassans. She had got the recipe from her husband and she had learnt to make it to perfection, he said.
‘She’s very charming, your wife,’ said Claude, ‘and I can see she spoils you.’
Sandoz did not reply to his remark, but, seated at the table with his elbows on the pages of his latest book he had written during the morning, he began to talk about the first novel of the series he had planned which had been published in October. His poor book! It was getting a fine old trouncing! Talk about butchery and massacre, he’d got the whole pack of critics at his heels, yelping and cursing him as if he’d committed murder most foul! It made him laugh, it even stimulated him, for he had the quiet determination to pursue the course he had set himself. There was one thing, however, that surprised him more than anything else: the boundless ignorance of these fellows who dashed off their mud-slinging articles, apparently without the faintest notion of what he was trying to do. They consigned everything indiscriminately to the rubbish heap: his novel attitude to physiological man, the importance attributed to environment, nature’s process of perpetual creation—in short, life itself, all life from end to end of the animal kingdom, universal life without heights or depths, beauty or ugliness, his bold experiments with language, his conviction that everything may be expressed, that dirty words are occasionally as necessary as red-hot irons, that a language is often the richer for their being brought to the surface and, finally, his attitude towards the sexual act, the origin and everlasting achievement of the world itself, which he had brought out of the shameful darkness in which it is usually hidden and reinstated in its true glory, in the full blaze of the sun. He could understand people taking exception to what he said, but at least he would have preferred them to do him the honour of taking exception to his boldness and not to the ridiculous indecency they themselves read into his work.
‘I still think,’ he said, ‘there are more fools than knaves in the world. … It’s the writing itself that infuriates them, the type of sentence, the images, the very essence of the style. The root of the trouble,’ he concluded sorrowfully, ‘is this: the general public loathes literature!’
‘Why should you worry?’ said Claude, after sharing Sandoz’s silence for a moment. ‘You’re happy, you’re working, you’re producing something!’
‘Oh, yes, I certainly work,’ replied Sandoz, rising from his table as if in sudden pain, ‘to the very last page of every book I write. But if you only knew, if I could only tell you the torment, the despair … and now those idiots of critics have got the notion I’m self-satisfied! I, who am haunted even in my sleep by the imperfections of my work! I, who never read over what I wrote yesterday for fear of finding it so deplorably bad that I shan’t have the courage to carry on! I work as I live, because that’s what I was born to do, but that doesn’t mean I’m any the happier for it, oh no! I’m never satisfied with what I do, and I’m always aware that I might come a cropper in the end!’
He was interrupted by voices at the door. Then Jory appeared, delighted with life, saying he had unearthed an old article for tomorrow’s paper and so had managed to have the evening free. Almost immediately Gagnière and Mahoudeau arrived; they had met at the gate and were already deep in conversation. Gagnière, who for the past few months had been taken up with a theory of colour, was explaining his process to Mahoudeau.
‘I put it on raw,’ he was saying. ‘The red in the flag looks paler and yellower because it’s next to the blue of the sky, and the complementary colour to blue, orange, combines with the red in the flag.’
Claude was interested at once and was just starting to question him when the maid brought in a telegram.
‘It’s Dubuche,’ Sandoz announc
ed. ‘Sorry he’ll be late; he’s going to look in about eleven.’
At that moment Henriette flung the door wide open and announced that dinner was served. She had taken off her working apron, and, now the lady of the house, was shaking hands with her guests as she ushered them gaily into the dining-room, telling them to lose no time, it was half-past seven and the bouillabaisse would not wait. Jory pointed out that Fagerolles had given his word he would come, but nobody took him seriously. Fagerolles was making himself ridiculous with his posing and pretending to be snowed under with work!
The dining-room they filed into was so small that, in order to fit in a piano, a sort of recess had had to be made out of what had once been a china-cupboard. Still, on special occasions they could seat ten or a dozen guests at the round dining-table, beneath the white porcelain ceiling-lamp, which meant, of course, sitting so close to the sideboard that it was impossible for the maid to get at it when she wanted a plate. It was the mistress who did the serving, however, the master sitting opposite her near the besieged sideboard, ready to reach and hand round anything they might need from it.
Henriette had put Claude on her right and Mahoudeau on her left; Jory and Gagnière sat on either side of Sandoz.
‘Françoise!’ she called out to the maid. ‘Bring in the toast, please. It’s on top of the stove.’
When the toast was brought she served it out, two pieces to each plate, and was just pouring the liquid from the bouillabaisse over them when the door opened.
‘Fagerolles, at last!’ she exclaimed. ‘Sit there, will you, next to Claude.’