Chapter 60

I wore a clean suit, white shirt, freshly laundered, and a black string tie, but I still retained my old battered peasant hat, my stained cloth coat I wore in the field, and my worn work boots. The guests, expecting fire crackers to explode because of my reputation for anti-social behavior, were disappointed: I was relaxed, nodding, smiling, making jokes with the others. When I encountered Geffroy, who had continued his support of my painting, I clasped his hands firmly, looked him in the eye, and said: "I thank you, Monsieur Geffroy, for what you have written about me. If good health blesses my endeavors, it is my fondest hope that I might possibly live up to your most generous expectations." Geffroy denied he had done anything unusual: "I back the truth," he asserted, "wherever I find it." Then, after pausing, he added: "I try to defend those who express themselves sincerely--regardless of consequences.

Mostly, the exchanges went like this, with everybody socializing in typical bourgeois fashion--each gesture very deferential. I follow- this courtesy, believing it demonstrated my respect for the important things they had accomplished in life. I roared at the repartee between Clemenceau and Monet, who referred to the politician as: "The Impressionist Premier!" When I was praised before the guests by Geffroy, I pro- tested at being singled out in such distinguished company, saying: "It is not deserved." Monet brushed aside my disclaimer, stood up, a glass of wine in his hand, repeated Geffroy's praise, and spoke briefly of trying times we had gone through together. When Monet mentioned my importance to the new generation of painters, I was overcome with emotion and looked down at the table afraid to believe what my ears were hearing. "A little sensation," I mumbled,"the sole product of a lifetime of work."

When Geffroy, picking up on what I had said, spoke good-naturedly of those who sought to find a similar "sensation" by imitating the Cezanne technique, I replied: "They are welcome to it if they can find it," laughing as I spoke, and indicating, as I went on, by scratching my head, that I was never certain of finding it myself. Clemenceau, amused by the remark, asked: "What about the Jury of the Salon d'Automne--do you bear a grudge against them?" "No," I answered, "why should I bear a grudge? If it were not for them, I would be just another Gerome or Bouguereau! The politician followed this line of talk: "Do you feel there is hope for Gerome and Bouguereau?" "Well," I replied, smiling as I did so,"They are learning!" Then in a sly offside, as though I was only talking to him, I said: "But very, very, slowly!" Clemenceau, enjoying himself, had turned to Monet, who had been listening to the exchange, and nodding his head in approval, he laughed between puffs on a curved pipe he carried with him everywhere he went.

When I prepared to leave, happy, in rare good humor, Monet and Rodin went with me to the door, where we halted briefly to chat a bit more. I thanked Monet for being generous in his praise of my work, and then turned to Rodin, grasping both his hands in mine, as I did so. Filled with emotion, tears rushing to my eyes, I said: "Monsieur Rodin," my hands still holding his, "I have desired for many years to make your acquaintance: now this dream has come true; meeting you has confirmed my old belief in the saying that:'The man is the art; the art is the man; and they are inseparable!" Rodin, as gracious as the rest of the others, shrugged off my praise, saying, as he glanced over at Monet: "In your humility you try to honor me; but, like the rest of the artists who seek to express themselves honestly, I believe our indebtedness to you is what should be expressed!" With that remark, we parted, shaking hands once more, before I put my hat and coat on, and went down the steps to the garden, and beyond that to several coaches Monet had hired to take his guests back to Paris.

Meeting these extraordinary people left me with a wonderful feeling of well-being; everything had come off splendidly; I had mingled with the distinguished artists, politicians, and writers, without making a fool of myself . Monet's role in smoothing the brittle edges of my character couldn't be underestimated. His strength and consistency as a comrade in arms in the radical movement, allowed me to trust him implicitly. At Giverny his sincerity was evident the moment I walked in the door; it enabled me to face the others; to enjoy a situation, which under different circumstances, might have been an ordeal.

The importance of his friendship was illustrated later at the Nouvelle-Athens, when Theodore Duret arranged a meeting of colleagues in the art and literary community who wanted to express their appreciation of my painting. Without the stabilizing presence of Monet, I reverted to the side of my character which had caused so much trouble in the past. Duret, at the outset, as we sat at the table, had made an impromptu talk telling of his respect for me as an artist. As I listened, I tried to control the adverse feelings that came over me. I realized, more than the people who were present, that what I was about to do was insane; an aberration making no sense; that the sincerity of those present could not be questioned. Unfortunately, I could not help myself: the tide of disbelief overcame my good sense; I felt the anger rising; the sense of being out of control became dominant, irresistible. For me, as I sat there, the words coming from Duret's mouth were sinister, mocking, and he was showing me up as a clown. In my distorted imagination, I saw a cynical smile on the critic's face, a cold heart beating under his immaculate gray vest, and his gestures were intended to exaggerate the meaning of his words. It was impossible, with my mind at the boiling point, to distinguish between sarcasm and praise; I listened, head bent over, giving in gradually to my terrible suspicions; at the same time I suffered an overwhelming sadness .... As the words concluded to polite applause I stood up from my seat, my voice trembling, my nerves on razor edge, and spoke: "My struggles," I said, "have been described as hopelessly misdirected by those who oppose my art. I do not question the right of free opinion but I do object to the denunciation of every artist who dares to venture into the unknown. Never, in my wildest dreams, have I imagined my friends would shame me .... I arose from the table, face flushed, eyes moist, and whispered softly: "Now you make fun at my expense."

At the time, nothing Duret and his colleagues could say, would alter my thinking; for me, the offense was real; it had happened; I believed the conclusions were true. It was only later, when the realization of what I had done, became clear to me, that I was deeply shamed; I wanted to disappear from the face of the earth; I wanted to escape the dreadful humiliation of what I done. I had insulted individuals who had gone out of their way to pay tribute to me; they were persons, for the most part, in public positions; and they risked themselves professionally as well as personally in supporting my painting. They had made every effort to impress me with their sincerity, and they had tried to avoid, in the course of the luncheon at the Nouvelle-Athens, any word or deed which they believed would be offensive, being perfectly aware of my extremely sensitive approach to social contacts.

The disgust I experienced for my unwarranted conduct, lived with me for months afterward, reviving my fears of losing control completely at some time in the future. At moments of irrational behavior, I was a stranger looking at myself in horror as forces within my nature dictated each move I made. I wondered how I could ever face Duret or his colleagues after such a performance; I had rejected the friendly hand they had extended to me; I had insulted people who were important to me professionally; and it was my forlorn hope that they would be compassionate; that they would understand that I was pushed by emotions which were not calculated; emotions showed a side of me which was destructive of everything I really valued in life.

The unrelenting intensity of my self-imposed isolation was more oppressive than it had been before the happy interlude at Giverny. A small canvas of the "Baigneuses" mocked me from the portable easel I had installed in the window overlooking the Rue des Lions Saint-Paul. I lay stretched out on my bed brooding over my misfortunes; time had not changed what I was at all; I was still the misfit who had made a mess of his life; I the same man who had accepted life's challenges reluctantly; the man who was unable to cope with the simplest problems, the perennial lost child wandering aimless through a social system in which I was unable to function. The loneliness was devastating; I groaned with frustration as stared out at the bleak Parisian skyline; the grayness; the pervasive drizzle day after day, seemed appropriate to my mood. Zola's words came back from long ago, haunting me, echoing in my head: "The dark side of your character," he had said, It will deprive you of all that is valuable to a human being. our friendship is like this; a delicate and finely balanced relationship, subject to the events in our lives and the developing differences of our personalities. I warn you not to take this association for granted because the time might come when each of us will decide that it is no longer possible to endure the sacrifices this demands." I turned this over in my mind many times; and I never could conclude anything in my favor; in my present mood, I viewed myself darkly; a misanthrop who hated himself; and one who, despite growing signs of achieving the objectives of a lifetime, could discover nothing which could make him believe that living was worthwhile; that there was still the shining miracle of art and life: that the pain and trouble went with it...