V
Two Famous Men
Monsieur Patissot had promised his friend, the boating man, that he would spend the following Sunday with him. An unforeseen circumstance interfered with his plans. He met one of his cousins whom he very seldom saw. He was an amiable journalist, standing very well in all the various social sets, and he offered his assistance to Patissot to show him all sorts of interesting things.
“What are you going to do next Sunday, for instance?” he inquired.
“I am going to Argenteuil to have some boating.”
“Oh, come, now! That’s a bore, your boating; there is no variety in it. I’ll take you with me. I will introduce you to two celebrated men, and we’ll visit the homes of two artists.”
“But I am ordered to go to the country.”
“I’ll make a call on Meissonier, on the way, at his place at Poissy. Then we’ll walk to Medan, where Zola lives. I have a commission to secure his next novel for our journal.”
Patissot, wild with joy, accepted the invitation.
He even bought a new frock-coat, that he might make a good appearance, his old one being a little worn, and he was horribly afraid lest he should say foolish things, either to the painter or the man of letters, as most persons do when they speak about an art which they have never practised.
He told his fears to his cousin, who began to laugh, saying to him: “Bah! Only pay compliments, nothing but compliments, always compliments, that carries off the foolish things, if you happen to say any. You know Meissonier’s pictures?”
“I should think so!”
“You have read the Rougon-Macquart series?”
“From beginning to end.”
“That suffices. Mention a picture from time to time, speak of a novel occasionally, and add ‘Superb! Extraordinary!! Delicious execution!! Wonderfully powerful!’ That is the way to get along. I know that those two men are fearfully surfeited with everything: but you see praises always please an artist.”
Sunday morning they set out for Poissy.
They found Meissonier’s place a few steps from the station at the end of the church square. Passing through a low gate painted red, which led into a magnificent arbor of vines, the journalist stopped, and turning toward his companion, asked:
“What do you think Meissonier is like?”
Patissot hesitated. Finally he replied:
“A small man, very well groomed, shaven, and with a military air.” The other man smiled and said:
“That is good. Come.”
An odd structure built like a chalet appeared at the left, and at the right, almost opposite a little tower, was the main house. It was a singular looking building, with a little of all styles of architecture about it—the Gothic fortress, the manor, the villa, the cottage, the residence, the cathedral, the mosque, the pyramid, with a strange mingling of Oriental and Occidental methods of building. It was certainly of a most wonderfully complicated style, enough to drive a classical architect crazy; nevertheless, there was something fantastic and beautiful about it, and it had been planned by the painter and executed under his orders.
They entered: a collection of trunks filled a little parlor. A small man appeared clad in a jacket. The most striking thing about him was his beard; it was a prophet’s beard, of incredible size, a river, a flood, a Niagara of a beard. He greeted the journalist:
“Pardon me, my dear Monsieur, but I arrived only yesterday, and everything is still at sixes and sevens in the house. Sit down.”
The other refused, excusing himself:
“My dear master, I, came only to present my homage, as I was passing by.” Patissot, very much embarrassed, kept bowing at each of his friend’s words, as if by an automatic movement, and he murmured, stammering a little: “What a su‑su‑superb place!” The painter, flattered, smiled pleasantly, and offered to show it to them.
He led them first to a little pavilion of feudal aspect, in which was his former studio, looking out on a terrace. Then they passed through a drawing room, a dining room, a vestibule full of marvelous works of art, of adorable Beauvais, and hung with Gobelin and Flanders tapestries. But the strange luxury of ornamentation of the exterior became, on the inside, a luxury of prodigious stairways. It was a magnificent stairway of honor, a hidden stairway in one tower, and one for the servants in another; stairways everywhere! There Patissot by chance opened a door and retreated stupefied. It was a veritable temple, this place, the name of which respectable people pronounce only in English; an original and charming sanctuary, fitted up in exquisite taste, adorned like a pagoda, the decoration of which had surely cost great efforts of thought!
They next visited the park, which was complex, varied, tortuous with many fine old trees. But the journalist insisted on going away, and with many thanks he left the master.
They met a gardener as they were departing. Patissot asked him: “Has Monsieur Meissonier owned this place long?”
The old man replied: “Oh! Monsieur, I must explain. He bought the land in 1846, but the house—he has torn it down and rebuilt it five or six times. I am sure he has spent two millions on it, Monsieur!”
And Patissot, as he went away, was filled with an immense consideration for the artist, not so much on account of his great success, his fame, and his genius, but because he spent so much money for a fancy, while ordinary bourgeois deprived themselves of the gratifying of all fancies in order to hoard money.
After passing through Poissy, they set out on foot along the road to Medan. The highway at first follows the Seine, which is dotted with charming islands at this place. They climbed a hill to pass through the pretty village of Villaines, descended a bit, and finally reached the section of the country where dwelt the author of the Rougon-Macquart novels.
An old and pretty church, flanked by two little towers, stood on the left. They took a few steps further, and a passing peasant showed them the door of the great writer of romance.
Before entering, they examined the house. It was a great structure, square and new and very tall, and appeared to have given birth, like the mountain and the mouse in the fable, to a tiny white house, nestling at its base. The small house was the original residence, and had been built by the former proprietor. The tower had been erected by M. Zola.
They rang. A huge dog, a cross between a St. Bernard and a Newfoundland, began to growl so fiercely that Patissot felt a vague desire to retrace his steps. But a servant, running forward, quieted the animal, calling it Bertrand, opened the door, and took the journalist’s card to carry it to his master.
“If he will only receive us!” murmured Patissot: “I should be very sorry to come so far without seeing him.”
His companion smiled:
“Never fear,” said he, “I have my own idea about getting in.”
But the domestic, returning, simply asked them to follow him.
They entered the new building, and Patissot, greatly moved, puffed as he climbed a stairway of ancient form, leading to the second floor.
He tried at the same time to picture to himself this man, whose glorious name resounded at that moment in all the corners of the world, amid the exasperated hatred of some, the real or feigned indignation of the “upper circles” of society, the envious dislike of certain compeers, the respect of a multitude of readers, and the frantic admiration of a great many: and he expected to see a sort of bearded giant, of terrible aspect, appear, with a resounding voice, and at first not very prepossessing.
The door opened into an extremely large and high room, fully lighted by a window looking out on the plain. Ancient tapestries covered the walls; on the left of the entrance, a monumental fireplace flanked by two stone men, could have burned a hundred-year-old oak-tree in a day; and an immense table, upon which were books, papers, and journals, occupied the middle of this apartment, which was so vast and grand that it at once engrossed the eye, and the attention was only afterward directed to its occupant, who was stretched out, as they entered, upon an Oriental divan on which twenty persons could have slept.
He took a few steps toward them, bowed, pointed to two seats, and sat down again upon his divan, with one leg bent under him. A book lay at his side, and with his right hand he played with an ivory paper-cutter, the tip of which he looked at from time to time, with one eye only, shutting the other with the habit of the nearsighted.
While the journalist was explaining the object of his visit, and the writer was listening without yet replying, looking fixedly at him, at certain moments, Patissot, more and more ill at ease, gazed at this celebrity.
Hardly forty years of age, he was of medium stature, rather stout, and of pleasing appearance. His head, like those found in many Italian paintings of the sixteenth century, without being handsome in the sculptor’s sense of the word, conveyed an impression that he possessed great power and intelligence. The short hair stood up on the well-developed head, above a thick black mustache; and the whole chin was covered with a beard trimmed close to the skin. The dark glance, often ironical, was penetrating; giving the impression that behind it an active brain was always working, piercing through persons, interpreting words, analyzing gestures, laying bare the heart. That strong, round head was very like his name, quick and short, with two syllables, bounding in the resonance of the two vowels.
When the journalist had made his proposition, the writer answered that he could not make any definite engagement, that he would see about it later; that as yet his plans were not sufficiently decided. Then he was silent. It was a dismissal, and the two men, a little confused, rose. But a desire seized Patissot; he desired that this personage, so well known, should say a word to him, any word whatsoever, which he could repeat to his friends; and summoning up courage, he stammered: “Oh! Monsieur, if you knew how much I appreciate your works!” The other bowed, but did not reply. Patissot became bold. He continued:
“It is a very great honor for me to speak to you today.”
The writer bowed again, but with a stiff and impatient air. Patissot perceived this, and losing his head, he added:
“What a su‑su‑su‑superb place!”
Then the spirit of the proprietor awaked in the indifferent heart of the man of letters, and smiling, he opened the window to show them the extent of the view.
There was an extensive view in all directions, including Triel, Pisse-Fontaine, Chanteloup, all the heights of Hautrie, and the Seine, as far as the eye could reach.
The two visitors, delighted, congratulated the great writer; and immediately the house was open to them. They saw everything, even to the fine kitchen, the walls of which, inlaid with tiles in blue designs, excited the wonder of the peasants.
“How did you happen to buy this place?” asked the journalist. And the romancer said that, in looking for a house to hire for a summer, he had found the little house, recently built, which was for sale at a few thousand francs, a trifle, almost nothing. He had bought it on the spot.
“But everything you have added must have cost you dear?”
The writer smiled, saying:
“Yes, considerable.”
And the two men went away.
The journalist, taking Patissot’s arm, philosophized in a slow voice: “Every general has his Waterloo,” said he. “Every Balzac has his foible, and every artist residing in the country has a desire to be a landed proprietor.”
They took the train at the station of Villaines, and in the car, Patissot mentioned in a loud voice the names of the illustrious painter and famous romancer, as if they were his friends. He even forced himself to believe that he had breakfasted with one and dined with the other.