Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - V. Purgatory
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man, remained exposed to the gaze of a circle
of artists who all knew him more or less. When
the commotion was over, I asked him with a
bewildered mind, as if I had witnessed a witches’
sabbath: “What cross worth thirty francs? I
don’t understand a word of the business?”
“It was a model of Joan of Arc’s cross which
I was going to use for my picture of the crucified
woman.”
“He certainly was a devil, that workman.”
After a pause, I continue: “It is odd, but
one does not play unpunished either with the
Cross or with Joan of Arc.”
“You believe in them?”
“I don’t know!—But the thirty pieces of
silver!”
“Enough! Enough!” he exclaims in a tone
of vexation.
From this evening a certain coldness ensues
between us. Our acquaintance had now lasted
four terrible months. My companion had studied
in quite a new school, and had time to strike
out new paths in his art, so that he could finally
throw aside “the crucified woman” as an old
toy. He had learned to regard suffering as the
only real joy in life, and so had attained to
resignation. He was a hero in his poverty. I
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