They entered a little café, and Toto called for two bocks.
“I am very unhappy,” said Toto as he sipped his beer.
“What! about that rascal Jolly?”
“Oh, no; it is not that. I am unhappy about a lot of things. I wish I had never come to the Rue de Perpignan.”
“Oh!”
“Yes, tell me something seriously. How long do you think it will be before I am able to exhibit?”
Garnier shifted about in his seat. He did not know exactly what to say; he had never considered Toto’s art seriously. His father had a shop, and the son, after dabbling a while with art, would doubtless end happily behind the counter. He was having his Wanderjahr now. Even at the worst he might become a great artist. Who could tell? And who was Garnier that he should throw water on another man’s aspirations?
“Five years,” said Garnier. “You see, you are only beginning. The great thing in art is time; nothing is done without time and patience. Another thing: one must not think. Work away and don’t think. Don’t ask ‘How am I getting on?’ or, at least, only on New Year’s Day. Then, enjoy yourself, and keep your eyes open. Paris is a big atelier. An artist wants to study movement as well as the nude. I never walk down the street but I pick up something; it all comes in handy. If you want to paint life, you must dip your brush in everything, even mud. Those old men who spent their lives painting pots and pans and saints leave me cold. I would like to clap the Rue St. Honoré into a canvas—will, too, some day. I don’t think there is anything more fine in nature than a fire-engine going full speed to a fire, except, maybe, a dragon-fly.”
Garnier buried his nose in his glass, and Toto put his chin on his palm, his elbow on the table, and stared before him, as if gazing at a cheerless view.