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She felt that she was a mine of wealth in the future. That night Madame Vollard had insisted on dressing Jane herself, and she had excellent taste. She spent a number of hours dwelling on the undoubted success of "the dear child," and it was two o'clock when she heard the carriage. She ran down the stairs, and when she saw Jane and her remarkable costume, she raised her hands in astonishment.
And I only wish M. Vollard had perceived it when he was writing about Zola. Zola failed to appreciate Cézanne, of course.
M. Vollard never tires of telling us about those who hid their Cézannes or threw them out of window, or sold them for next to nothing and would now give their eyes to get them back; of those who jeered at Cézanne and would not hang his pictures at exhibitions, refusing him that public recognition he was human enough to covet in a word, of the now discomfited and penitent majority.
The "soirée tant familiale qu'artistique" closed with a performance of the Marseillaise; and the intelligentsia retired to bed feeling that life was full of beauty and significance. Par Ambroise Vollard. It was the opinion of Degas that "le peintre en général est bête," and most people seem to think that Cézanne was no exception to the rule.
It was simply a manifestation of rage and a means of appeasement. Some people like cups and saucers: Cézanne preferred oil-paintings, and his own were always to hand. It is surprising that M. Vollard should not have made this more clear, for he certainly understood the genius and character of Cézanne.
Oh, he was always a wretch to-morrow at four o'clock we can take the train we will go to England and from there to America." He paused, and, going to the window, listened. Everything was quiet and Anselmo noticed that a rain shed connected the count's house with that of Madame Vollard. Benedetto's visit was probably undiscovered, and a great deal depended on that.
The interior was furnished in the ordinary style of a private house. In the basement was the reception-room, the sitting-room and dining-room. The owner of the house was Madame Vollard, the widow of an officer. One of her principles was, that it was better to have her rooms empty than to let them out to people whose reputation was not of the best.
She had never admitted any artists into her sanctuary until the intendant Maslenes one day offered her five hundred francs for an apartment which she usually rented for three, and no single women. Now Jane Zeld seemed to be a single woman, but Madame closed her eyes to this, and now that she divined a star in the future, Madame Vollard redoubled her courtesy to her lodger.
All of Cézanne went into his painting; only now and then a drop escaped that voracious funnel and splashed on to life. It is by collecting and arranging these odd drops and splashes that M. Vollard has managed to construct his lively picture of this extraordinary character.
"Lucky accident?" repeated Melosan, not understanding. "I do not mean the fire, but the fact that I just possess a walking suit, such as Mademoiselle Zild needs, and which I can let her have at a very moderate price. A silk dress with pomegranate leaves " "To-morrow, Madame Vollard, to-morrow," Melosan interrupted her. "I really feel fatigued, and should like to go to my room." "You are right.
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