“He looked crazy?” asked Reine-Marie, and, unexpectedly, Professor Massey laughed.
“We all looked like lunatics. He looked like a banker. A prosperous banker. Everyone else was sorta seedy, or at least tried to be. It was the uniform of the time. Now we all try to look successful, respectable.”
He gazed down at his clothing, then over at seedy Ruth.
And Reine-Marie wondered if that canvas on the easel would have been so blank had Professor Massey not been so respectable.
“Why was he fired if not for this tenth muse theory?”
“I was on the Board of Governors and we agonized over it. Norman wasn’t violent, at least not yet. That’s the problem, isn’t it, with these things? Hard to fire someone on suspicion they might do something.”
“But what made you think he’d become violent?” asked Reine-Marie.
“We just didn’t know. He had outbursts, verbal. He shook with rage. I tried talking to him, but he denied there was anything wrong. He said that real artists are passionate, and that was all it was. Passion.”
“You didn’t believe it?”
“He might’ve been right. Maybe real artists are passionate. Lots are nuts. But the issue wasn’t whether he was a real artist, but if he was a good teacher.”
“What made him angry? What would set him off?”
“Anyone who disagreed with his tenth muse theory. And anything he judged to be mediocre. The two went together in his mind. Unfortunately, as the year went on he became more and more unbalanced. We didn’t know when he’d go over the edge, and who he might take with him. We had to protect the students. But we didn’t act in time.”
“There was an incident?” asked Reine-Marie.
Beside her, Ruth was no help at all. Reine-Marie wasn’t even sure she was listening. There was a goofy smile on her face as she watched Professor Massey.
“Not violence,” said the professor. “Not physical anyway. Without telling anyone, or getting the college’s permission, Sébastien Norman created the Salon des Refusés.”
“Clara Morrow told us about that. But what was it?”
“It was a show that ran parallel to the real exhibition. It featured the rejected works.”
“And why was that so bad?”
Reine-Marie could immediately feel his censure. It radiated from him, waves of disapproval, of disappointment. In her. And she found herself regretting asking the question. Intellectually she knew that was silly. It was a legitimate question. But in her gut she felt she’d let this man down in not knowing the answer.
Even Ruth deserted her now. She drifted off and started examining the paintings on the walls. Pausing before each one. Paying more attention to them than she ever had, as far as Reine-Marie knew, to Clara’s or Peter’s.
“Are you a teacher?” Professor Massey asked.
Reine-Marie shook her head. “A librarian.”
“But you have children?”
“Two. Both grown up now. And two grandchildren.”
“And when they go to school and get an assignment wrong, would you like the teacher to hold it up in front of the class? In front of the school? For ridicule?”
“No, of course not.”
“Well, that’s what Professor Norman did. Ask your friend Clara how it felt. How it still feels. These are young people, Madame Gamache. They’re gifted, and many are fragile, having been marginalized most of their lives for being creative. We live in a society that doesn’t value being different. When they come here, to art college, it’s probably the first time in their lives they feel they belong. Safe. Not just valued, but precious.”
He held her eyes, his voice deep and calm, almost mesmerizing. And Reine-Marie felt again the pull of this man, even in his old age. How powerful he must have been in his prime.
And how comforting his message to the young, lost, wounded men and women who straggled into the college with their screw-you attitudes and piercings and broken hearts.
Here they were safe. To experiment, to explore. To fail and try again. Without fear of ridicule.
She looked at the worn sofa and could almost see the generations of young, excited artists lounging about in animated debate. Finally free.
Until Professor Norman got ahold of them. And then it was no longer safe.
The Salon des Refusés.
Reine-Marie was beginning to see just how vile that was.
“Would the college have Professor Norman’s address in their files?”
“They might. He was from Québec. I know that. He had a funny sort of accent.”