The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [146]
Florent was never able to enlist Claude. There was a moment when he fantasized about indoctrinating Claude with his political ideas, making him a disciple who could help him in the work of his revolution. With this in mind, one evening he took him to Monsieur Lebigre's. But Claude spent the evening doing a sketch of Robine, with his hat and his brown coat, his beard resting on the knob of his cane.
Leaving with Florent, he said, “No, you see, all those things you were talking about in there are of no interest to me. Maybe it's brilliant, but it goes right by me. You have that outstanding fellow there, Robine. He's deep as a well, that one. I'm coming back, but not for the politics. I want to sketch Logre and do another of Gavard, to put them with Robine into a fantastic painting that came to me while you were discussing the question of—how was it you put it—the question of the two chambers, wasn't that it? Can't you picture it, Gavard, Logre, and Robine talking politics from behind their beer mugs? It would be the hit of the Salon, my good friend, a tremendous success, true modern painting.”
Florent was saddened by Claude's skepticism about politics. He made him come up to his room, and they talked until two in the morning on the narrow balcony facing the blue vastness of Les Halles. He questioned and instructed, gave him a catechism, telling him he was less than a man if he was indifferent to the well-being of his country.
The painter shook his head and answered, “You may be right, I am selfish. I can't even say that I paint for my country, in the first place because everyone who looks at my paintings is horrified, and in the second place because when I am working on a painting, I think only of pleasing myself. It is as though I tickle myself when I paint. It makes my whole body laugh. What do you want? It's just the way I'm built. I'm not going to throw myself in the river over it. Also, France does not need me, as my aunt Lisa is always pointing out. And if you will excuse me for being frank … the reason I like you is that you approach politics exactly the way I approach painting. You like to tickle yourself with it, my friend.”
When Florent tried to deny it, Claude continued, “Wait a minute. You're an artist in your own field. You dream politics. I imagine you spend entire evenings here, gazing at the stars, interpreting them as infinity's ballots. Then you tickle yourself with your ideas of justice and truth. It's also true that your ideas, like my paintings, strike terrible fear into the hearts of the bourgeoisie. And furthermore, just between you and me, do you think I would have any fun being your friend if you were Robine? Ah, no, great poet that you are.”
Then Claude started joking around, saying that politics didn't bother him anymore, that he had gotten used to them in the brasseries and the studios. While on the subject, he told Florent of a café on rue Vauvilliers, the café on the ground floor of the building where La Sarriette lived. That smoky room had booths upholstered in worn velour and marble tables yellowed by coffee spills mixed with rum. It was the usual place for the modern young people of the neighborhood to meet. There Monsieur Jules reigned over a crowd of porters, shop boys, and the white shirt and velvet cap crowd.11 At either temple a curl was glued to his cheek. Every Saturday he had his neck shaved to keep it white at a barber's on rue des Deux-Ecus, where he paid by the month. He set the tone, playing billiards with a studied grace, employing his hips, bending his arms and legs, nearly lying over the edge in a position to best use his loins. When the game ended,