His Masterpiece Part 43

Jory was about to defend the talent of f.a.gerolles, whom he considered to be his own creation, when Henriette solicited a little attention for the _raviolis_. There was a short slackening of the quarrel amid the crystalline clinking of the gla.s.ses 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 f.a.gerolles 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:

'Husband your strength, Claude, here are the hazel-hens. Eh! Claude, where are you?'

Since silence had prevailed, Claude had relapsed into his dream, gazing about him vacantly, and taking a second help of _raviolis_ 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.

'Do you smell that?' exclaimed Sandoz, amused; 'one would think one were swallowing all the forests of Russia.'

But Claude returned to the matter which worried him.

'Then you say that f.a.gerolles will be entrusted with the paintings for the Munic.i.p.al Council's a.s.sembly room?'

And this remark sufficed; Mahoudeau and Gagniere, set on the track, at once started off again. Ah! a nice wishy-washy smearing it would be if that a.s.sembly 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 sc.r.a.ping, 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! f.a.gerolles, 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.

'Well,' said Jory, 'he effects his purpose, and he's quite right. _You_ won't pay his debts.'

'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 Becot, who's ruining f.a.gerolles?'

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 _us_ about that creature. No, not that creature, I implore you!

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 demolis.h.i.+ng onslaught of chatter which had filled them with fever for a couple of hours past.

And amid the racket, when Henriette made up her mind to rise so as to silence them, Claude at length remarked:

'Ah! if I only had the Hotel de Ville work, and if I could! It used to be my dream to cover all the walls of Paris!'

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. n.o.body beyond f.a.gerolles 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 friends.h.i.+ps and a nook full of family affection. No music was ever played there, and n.o.body had ever read a page of his composition aloud.

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.

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 Pla.s.sans 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.

Jory, Mahoudeau, and Gagniere, unsatiated and eager for another bite, had started on the ma.s.sacre again. Their voices, at first mere whispers, gradually grew louder, till at last they began to shout.

'Oh! the man, I abandon the man to you,' said Jory, who was speaking of f.a.gerolles. '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.'

Mahoudeau, waxing furious, replied:

'Of course! It sufficed for us to be with Claude, to be turned away everywhere.'

'It was Claude who did for us!' so Gagniere squarely a.s.serted.

And thus they went on, relinquis.h.i.+ng f.a.gerolles, whom they reproached for toadying the newspapers, for allying himself with their enemies and wheedling s.e.xagenarian 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.

'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!'

'And as for myself,' said Gagniere, '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 a.s.sociated with him.'

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.

'The fact is,' sneered Jory, 'that f.a.gerolles did not let himself be pillaged like a simpleton.'

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.'

'Ah! allow me, allow me--'

Gagniere, 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.'

Then Jory, embarra.s.sed and stammering, in his turn flew into a rage.

'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, Gagniere, 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!'

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.

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.

'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.'

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 friends.h.i.+p away.

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 f.a.gerolles that evening, they, began to sneer again, exchanging glances. Ah! he had a fine scent, and no mistake; he wouldn't be caught a.s.sociating with old friends, who had become troublesome, and whom he hated.

In fact, f.a.gerolles 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 k.u.mmel. 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 plat.i.tude came from the docility and cowardice which were shown, as in the presence of ushers, so as to obtain good marks.

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 Gagniere seated side by side on a sofa and talking languis.h.i.+ngly of music, while the others remained exhausted, lacking saliva and power of speech. Gagniere philosophised and poetised in a state of ecstasy, while Mathilde rolled up her eyes and went into raptures as if t.i.tillated 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.

'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!'

'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--'

'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--'

'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 s.p.a.ce. 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--'

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.

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 languis.h.i.+ng att.i.tude. No, no, that was quite enough; the men tore each other to bits; still that might pa.s.s, after all; but what an end to the evening it was, that feminine fraud, cooing and t.i.tillating herself with thoughts of Beethoven's and Schumann's music! Fortunately, Gagniere 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.

'What a failure he is!' muttered Mahoudeau. 'Music has killed painting; he'll never do anything!'