Therese Raquin - Emile Zola [84]
Eventually, he grew tired of idleness. He bought a canvas and some paints and set to work. Not having enough money to pay for models, he decided to paint whatever his imagination suggested, without copying from nature. He started a man’s head.
In any case, he did not shut himself up for too long. He worked for two or three hours every morning and spent his afternoons wandering around Paris and its suburbs. It was when he was returning from one of these long walks that he met, opposite the Institut, a former schoolfriend who had had a fine success at the last Salon, thanks to knowing the right people.
‘Why, it’s you!’ the painter exclaimed. ‘Oh, dear, poor Laurent. I’d never have recognized you. You’ve lost weight.’
‘I got married,’ Laurent replied, slightly put out.
‘Married! You! In that case, I’m not surprised to see you looking a bit odd ... So what are you up to now?’
‘I’ve rented a small studio. I paint a little, in the morning.’
Laurent briefly described his marriage, then outlined his future plans, in an enthusiastic voice. His friend looked at him with an astonishment that Laurent found quite upsetting. The truth was that the painter could not recognize the rough, ordinary lad that he had previously known in Thérèse’s husband. He felt that Laurent was acquiring an air of distinction. His face had thinned down and had a tasteful pallor,1 while the stance of the whole body was more dignified and more relaxed.
‘Why, you’re becoming quite an elegant fellow,’ the artist couldn’t help remarking. ‘You look like an ambassador. It’s all the latest style. What school are you with?’
Laurent found this examination quite painful, but he dared not just walk off abruptly.
‘Would you like to come up to my studio for a moment?’ he eventually asked his friend, who would not go away ...
‘Indeed, I would,’ the other man replied.
The painter was unable to account for the changes he saw in his former friend, and was keen to see his studio. He definitely was not going up five floors in order to see Laurent’s new work, which would undoubtedly make him feel sick; all he wanted was to satisfy his curiosity.
When he had climbed the five flights and taken a look at the canvases hanging on the walls, his astonishment increased. There were five studies there, two women’s heads and three men’s, painted with real energy. The technique was sound and solid, each piece standing out against a grey background with magnificent brushstrokes. The artist went over to them eagerly and, in amazement, not even trying to conceal his surprise, asked Laurent:
‘Did you do this?’
‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘They’re oil sketches that I’m going to use in a large picture that I’m planning.’
‘Come on, no kidding. Are you really the person who painted these things?’
‘Yes, I am. Why shouldn’t I be?’
The painter did not dare to answer: because these pictures were done by an artist, and you have always been just a base artisan. He stood for a long time in silence in front of them. Admittedly, they were naive, but they had a strangeness about them and such power that they implied the most advanced aesthetic sense. You would have thought they were the product of experience. Never had Laurent’s friend seen sketches exhibiting such high promise. When he had examined the pictures carefully, he turned towards their creator:
‘Quite honestly,’ he said, ‘I should not have thought you capable of painting such work. Where did you pick up this talent? It’s not normally something that can be learned.’
He looked at Laurent, whose voice seemed softer to him, whose every gesture had a sort of grace. He could not guess the catastrophic event that had changed this man, developing a woman’s sensibility in him and giving him sharper,