In last-minute rebellion Clem had taken off the New York custom-tailored suit and put on a Congress readymade, the casual note to flaunt at the Francophile bastards of the metropolitan art world. He took, too, the old cane in his clammy hands in case his leg bothered him, as it often did when he was nervous. His heart sank when he saw the gallery empty, though it was still early for those invited. If only a crowd would show up to impress Vedder who as yet had made no comment on his work, too obviously awaiting the judgment of critics and collectors. Glimpsing the room again since last night's hanging, he was troubled by the hard monotonous aspect of the canvases which in Congress had appeared extreme and wished Vedder had taken down the lush 19th century French paintings in the entrance gallery and the Renoir. Perhaps old masters when new had appeared hard-bright before mellowing. Sure, his would mellow well, as he had been careful to use only the most lasting pigments. His paintings would never crack from impasto or cheap colors or darken as did canvases of those who gave little thought to the chemistry of painting, Whistler, for example. He looked with satisfaction to the coming ages when his workmanship would stand fast above the decomposing rags of many famous works of the last fifty years.
He was irritated to discover that Vedder had rehung the "Hepaticas," giving it the place of honor, so that this inconsequential painting detracted from the two important works it separated. Vedder wasn't around, though it was almost three, and he decided to let it go. Ma would be tickled if she could see her painting so importantly presented.
He stood alone awkwardly as people dribbled in. Painters, examining his method closely; supercilious art students from the League down the street with portfolios under arms, who judged according to class formulas; fashionable women glancing hastily and retreating to linger before familiar names in the entrance gallery. "Monet has such enchanting color."—"Yes, isn't this Renoir sweet."—"Yes, but I don't care for his red nudes, they're so—fat. I do think though that Gauguin is intriguing. Did you know …" Whispers. "Yes, how do you stand on Rouault?"—"I haven't made up my mind, but I do think Picasso is divine. I don't know what it is, but I feel he is saying something profound. By the way, I'm thinking of doing over the dining room in that new chrome furniture and getting a Kandinsky—don't you think that would be divine?"—"Simply divine!"
