“You once said that if a man of talent were to start in Paris with three thousand francs and his ten fingers,—those were your words,—that if he did not get on he deserved to fail.”
“So he does; what more?”
“I have been thinking of having a try, working like a devil, and kicking over all this absurdity.”
“Do; it won’t do you any harm. What at—politics?”
“Oh, you owl!” cried Toto. “Politics—what do I care for politics! Art, that’s the only thing I care a button for. I’m going to dress in a blouse, and work like a common man—make my name off my own bat, as they say in England. I’m utterly sick of doing nothing; I must move—I must.” And Toto moved his arms. “And I am tied; no one takes me seriously. Look at old De Nani, praising me one moment, and then the next——Faugh! I’m a Prince; I am worth ten million francs when my mother dies. I play with art, that’s enough for people; they don’t see my work, they see me.”
“You are always so much in evidence,” said Struve. “That’s where the mischief is; you cut such antics that people have no time to observe your serious attempts. You have got a frightful lot of energy, and you are a Prince—that’s what is wrong with you; you must be doing, you are tired of the club, the Bois, cock-fighting at Chantilly. By the way, I see your name in the Figaro this morning under a thin disguise—Longchamps and all the rest of it. Your volcano is bunged up by ennui; you want a new opening for the lava to escape. Well, take my advice: move in the plane of least resistance; buy a coffee mill and grind it.”
“Do be serious,” said Toto; “I come to you as a friend.”
“Toto,” said the critic, “I am very serious, else I would not advise you to leave art alone. What’s the use? This, great, beautiful Moloch wants a whole life to eat, or nothing. There are a thousand men in Paris who have flung their all into this furnace. What will come out of all this forlorn thousand? Half a dozen, and they will be filled with despair. The walls of the Musée de Louvre are painted with the blood of men, and that’s success. What of the failures? Their story would shock creation. Art lives on failures; they keep the paint shops going, and serve as a background to three or four stars. Now go away. God in heaven! it’s four, and the post for Germany goes out at six.”
“You are never so stupid as when you are serious,” blurted out Toto, as he rose and flung his cigarette-end into the grate.
But Struve did not even answer; he was writing away.