The Guest of Quesnay eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 238 pages of information about The Guest of Quesnay.

The Guest of Quesnay eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 238 pages of information about The Guest of Quesnay.

“Yes, she was a headstrong girl of nineteen, then.  But let’s not think it could go as far as that!  There!” She threw a peach-stone over her shoulder and sprang up gaily.  “Let’s not talk of it; I think of it enough!  It’s time for you to give me a racking criticism on my morning’s work.”

Taking off her coat as she spoke, she unbuttoned the cuffs of her manly blouse and rolled up her sleeves as far as they would go, preparations which I observed with some perplexity.

“If you intend any violence,” said I, “in case my views of your work shouldn’t meet your own, I think I’ll be leaving.”

“Wait,” she responded, and kneeling upon one knee beside a bush near by, thrust her arms elbow-deep under the outer mantle of leaves, shaking the stems vigorously, and sending down a shower of sparkling drops.  Never lived sane man, or madman, since time began, who, seeing her then, could or would have denied that she made the very prettiest picture ever seen by any person or persons whatsoever—­but her purpose was difficult to fathom.  Pursuing it, I remarked that it was improbable that birds would be nesting so low.

“It’s for a finger bowl,” she said briskly.  And rising, this most practical of her sex dried her hands upon a fresh serviette from the hamper.  “Last night’s rain is worth two birds in the bush.”

With that, she readjusted her sleeves, lightly donned her coat, and preceded me to her easel.  “Now,” she commanded, “slaughter!  It’s what I let you come with me for.”

I looked at her sketch with much more attention than I had given the small board she had used as a bait in the courtyard of Les Trois Pigeons.  Today she showed a larger ambition, and a larger canvas as well—­or, perhaps I should say a larger burlap, for she had chosen to paint upon something strongly resembling a square of coffee-sacking.  But there was no doubt she had “found colour” in a swash-buckling, bullying style of forcing it to be there, whether it was or not, and to “vibrate,” whether it did or not.  There was not much to be said, for the violent kind of thing she had done always hushes me; and even when it is well done I am never sure whether its right place is the “Salon des Independants” or the Luxembourg.  It seems dreadful, and yet sometimes I fear in secret that it may be a real transition, or even an awakening, and that the men I began with, and I, are standing still.  The older men called us lunatics once, and the critics said we were “daring,” but that was long ago.

“Well?” she said.

I had to speak, so I paraphrased a mot of Degas (I think it was Degas) and said: 

“If Rousseau could come to life and see this sketch of yours, I imagine he would be very much interested, but if he saw mine he might say, ’That is my fault!’”

Oh!” she cried, her colour rising quickly; she looked troubled for a second, then her eyes twinkled.  “You’re not going to let my work make a difference between us, are you?”

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The Guest of Quesnay from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.