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But by this time October was upon them, ushered in by extraordinary rainfall. The coming rain gave him pause. He used to look searchingly at Monet's delicate face, and finally one day, in answer to the oft-repeated question, Fred replied: "I think we'll have to stand it until spring... If we want to go east, over the mountains this is no time." They had often speculated as to a route.
His naturalism has expanded and strengthened: mine has decayed and almost fallen from me. Monet's handicraft has grown like a weed; it now overtops and chokes the idea; it seems in these facades to exist by itself, like a monstrous and unnatural ivy, independent of support; and when expression outruns the thought, it ceases to charm.
It has taken long years before such works were entrusted to Besnard, who, with Puvis de Chavannes, has given Paris her most beautiful modern decorations, but Besnard's work is the direct outcome of Claude Monet's harmonies. The principle of the division of tones and of the study of complementary colours has been full of revelations, and one of the most fruitful theories.
Fred looked up at the sky. It had grown ominously black. "We'd better speed up," he said, significantly. Monet squared himself doggedly. "You run if you want to... It doesn't matter to me one way or another ... I feel tired." The rain began to fall in great garrulous drops. Fred took Monet's sleeve between his fingers; slowly they retraced their steps.
An unceasing production, and an almost unvarying degree of excellence, has placed Monet at the head of the school; his pictures command high prices, and nothing goes now with the erudite American but Monet's landscapes. But does Monet merit this excessive patronage, and if so, what are the qualities in his work that make it superior to Sisley's and Pissaro's?
I mention these facts, not, as the ill-natured might suppose, because it pleases me to write about my own sayings and doings, but because I believe my conduct to be typical of the conduct of hundreds of others in regard to the present exhibition in the Rue Laffitte; for, let this be said in Monet's honour: every day artists from every country in Europe go there by themselves, with their women friends, and with other artists, and every day since the exhibition opened, the galleries have been the scene of passionate discussion.
The effect was a peculiarly deep, rich tone and Judy declared that she liked it. "It looks like the shadows in some of Monet's landscapes, dark, but clear, with light all through them. Some day I am going to make a press just like this one if I have to clean my palette a hundred times a day to get scrapings."
He did not have the decorative feeling which makes Monet's landscapes so imposing; one does not see in his work that surprising lyrical interpretation which knows how to express the drama of the raging waves, the heavy slumber of enormous masses of rock, the intense torpor of the sun on the sea.
No one hereafter who attempts the representation of nature and for as far ahead as we can see with any confidence, the representation of nature, the pantheistic ideal if one chooses, will increasingly intrench itself as the painter's true aim no one who seriously attempts to realize this aim of now universal appeal will be able to dispense with Monet's aid.
He tried to call, to run, but a great weakness transfixed him. The startled air made a foolish whistling sound. Monet's figure flew on in silence, gave a quick leaping movement, and was lost! Fred Starratt crawled back toward the precipice. The rain descended in torrents and a wind rose to meet its violence. He looked down.
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