His Masterpiece by Emile Zola (most inspirational books of all time txt) 📕

We'll Have A Talk Together.'

With The End Of His Brush He Pointed To A Study Of The Nude,  Suspended

From The Wall Near The Door. It Was Really Magnificent,  Full Of

Masterly Breadth Of Colouring. By Its Side Were Some Other Admirable

Bits,  A Girl's Feet Exquisite In Their Delicate Truthfulness,  And A

Woman's Trunk With Quivering Satin-Like Skin. In His Rare Moments Of

Content He Felt Proud Of Those Few Studies,  The Only Ones Which

Satisfied Him,  Which,  As It Were,  Foretold A Great Painter,  Admirably

Gifted,  But Hampered By Sudden And Inexplicable Fits Of Impotency.

Dealing Sabre-Like Strokes At The Velveteen Jacket,  He Continued

Lashing Himself Into Excitement With His Uncompromising Theories Which

Respected Nobody:

'They Are All So Many Daubers Of Penny Prints,  Who Have Stolen Their

Reputations; A Set Of Idiots Or Knaves On Their Knees Before Public

Imbecility! Not One Among Them Dares To Give The Philistines A Slap In

The Face. And,  While We Are About It,  You Know That Old Ingres Turns

Me Sick With His Glairy Painting. Nevertheless,  He's A Brick,  And A

Plucky Fellow,  And I Take Off My Hat To Him,  For He Did Not Care A

Curse For Anybody,  And He Used To Draw Like The Very Devil. He Ended

By Making The Idiots,  Who Nowadays Believe They Understand Him,

Swallow That Drawing Of His. After Him There Are Only Two Worth

Speaking Of,  Delacroix And Courbet. The Others Are Only Numskulls. Oh,

That Old Romantic Lion,  The Carriage Of Him! He Was A Decorator Who

Knew How To Make The Colours Blaze. And What A Grasp He Had! He Would

Have Covered Every Wall In Paris If They Had Let Him; His Palette

Boiled,  And Boiled Over. I Know Very Well That It Was Only So Much

Phantasmagoria. Never Mind,  I Like It For All That,  As It Was Needed

To Set The School On Fire. Then Came The Other,  A Stout Workman--That

One,  The Truest Painter Of The Century,  And Altogether Classical

Besides,  A Fact Which Not One Of The Dullards Understood. They Yelled,

Of Course; They Shouted About Profanation And Realism,  When,  After

All,  The Realism Was Only In The Subject. The Perception Remained That

Of The Old Masters,  And The Execution Resumed And Continued The Best

Bits Of Work One Can Find In Our Public Galleries. Both Delacroix And

Courbet Came At The Proper Time. Each Made A Stride Forward. And Now

--Ah,  Now!'

He Ceased Speaking And Drew Back A Few Steps To Judge Of The Effect Of

His Picture,  Becoming Absorbed In Contemplation For A Moment,  And Then

Resuming:

'Yes,  Nowadays We Want Something Different--What,  I Don't Exactly

Know. If I Did,  And Could Do It,  I Should Be Clever Indeed. No One

Else Would Be In The Race With Me. All I Do Know And Feel Is That

Delacroix's Grand Romantic Scenes Are Foundering And Splitting,  That

Courbet's Black Painting Already Reeks Of The Mustiness Of A Studio

Which The Sun Never Penetrates. You Understand Me,  Don't You? We,

Perhaps,  Want The Sun,  The Open Air,  A Clear,  Youthful Style Of

Painting,  Men And Things Such As They Appear In The Real Light. In

Short,  I Myself Am Unable To Say What Our Painting Should Be; The

Painting That Our Eyes Of To-Day Should Execute And Behold.'

His Voice Again Fell; He Stammered And Found Himself Unable To Explain

The Formulas Of The Future That Were Rising Within Him. Deep Silence

Came While He Continued Working At The Velveteen Jacket,  Quivering All

The Time.

Sandoz Had Been Listening To Him Without Stirring From His Position.

His Back Was Still Turned,  And He Said Slowly,  As If Speaking To The

Wall In A Kind Of Dream:

'No; One Does Not Know,  And Still We Ought To Know. But Each Time A

Professor Has Wanted To Impress A Truth Upon Me,  I Have Mistrustfully

Revolted,  Thinking: "He Is Either Deceiving Himself Or Deceiving Me."

Their Ideas Exasperate Me. It Seems To Me That Truth Is Larger,  More

General. How Beautiful Would It Be If One Could Devote The Whole Of

One's Existence To One Single Work,  Into Which One Would Endeavour To

Put Everything,  The Beasts Of The Field As Well As Mankind; In Short,

A Kind Of Immense Ark. And Not In The Order Indicated By Manuals Of

Philosophy,  Or According To The Idiotic Hierarchy On Which We Pride

Ourselves,  But According To The Full Current Of Life; A World In Which

We Should Be Nothing More Than An Accident,  In Which The Passing Cur,

Even The Stones Of The Roads,  Would Complete And Explain Us. In Sum,

The Grand Whole,  Without Low Or High,  Or Clean Or Unclean,  Such As It

Indeed Is In Reality. It Is Certainly To Science That Poets And

Novelists Ought To Address Themselves,  For It Is The Only Possible

Source Of Inspiration To-Day. But What Are We To Borrow From It? How

Are We To March In Its Company? The Moment I Begin To Think About That

Sort Of Thing I Feel That I Am Floundering. Ah,  If I Only Knew,  What A

Series Of Books I Would Hurl At The Heads Of The Crowd!'

He Also Became Silent. The Previous Winter He Had Published His First

Book: A Series Of Little Sketches,  Brought From Plassans,  Among Which

Only A Few Rougher Notes Indicated That The Author Was A Mutineer,  A

Passionate Lover Of Truth And Power. And Lately He Had Been Feeling

His Way,  Questioning Himself While All Sorts Of Confused Ideas

Throbbed In His Brain. At First,  Smitten With The Thought Of

Undertaking Something Herculean,  He Had Planned A Genesis Of The

Universe,  In Three Phases Or Parts; The Creation Narrated According To

Science; Mankind Supervening At The Appointed Hour And Playing Its

Part In The Chain Of Beings And Events; Then The Future--Beings

Constantly Following One Another,  And Finishing The Creation Of The

World By The Endless Labour Of Life. But He Had Calmed Down In

Presence Of The Venturesome Hypotheses Of This Third Phase; And He Was

Now Looking Out For A More Restricted,  More Human Framework,  In Which,

However,  His Vast Ambition Might Find Room.

'Ah,  To Be Able To See And Paint Everything,' Exclaimed Claude,  After

A Long Interval. 'To Have Miles Upon Miles Of Walls To Cover,  To

Decorate The Railway Stations,  The Markets,  The Municipal Offices,

Everything That Will Be Built,  When Architects Are No Longer Idiots.

Only Strong Heads And Strong Muscles Will Be Wanted,  For There Will Be

No Lack Of Subjects. Life Such As It Runs About The Streets,  The Life

Of The Rich And The Poor,  In The Market Places,  On The Race-Courses,

On The Boulevards,  In The Populous Alleys; And Every Trade Being

Plied,  And Every Passion Portrayed In Full Daylight,  And The Peasants,

Too,  And The Beasts Of The Fields And The Landscapes--Ah! You'll See

It All,  Unless I Am A Downright Brute. My Very Hands Are Itching To Do

It. Yes! The Whole Of Modern Life! Frescoes As High As The Pantheon! A

Series Of Canvases Big Enough To Burst The Louvre!'

Whenever They Were Thrown Together The Painter And The Author

Generally Reached This State Of Excitement. They Spurred Each Other

Mutually,  They Went Mad With Dreams Of Glory; And There Was Such A

Burst Of Youth,  Such A Passion For Work About Their Plans,  That They

Themselves Often Smiled Afterwards At Those Great,  Proud Dreams Which

Seemed To Endow Them With Suppleness,  Strength,  And Spirit.

Claude,  Who Had Stepped Back As Far As The Wall,  Remained Leaning

Against It,  And Gazing At His Work. Seeing Which,  Sandoz,  Overcome By

Fatigue,  Left The Couch And Joined Him. Then Both Looked At The

Picture Without Saying A Word. The Gentleman In The Velveteen Jacket

Was Entirely Roughed In. His Hand,  More Advanced Than The Rest,

Furnished A Pretty Fresh Patch Of Flesh Colour Amid The Grass,  And The

Dark Coat Stood Out So Vigorously That The Little Silhouettes In The

Background,  The Two Little Women Wrestling In The Sunlight,  Seemed To

Have Retreated Further Into The Luminous Quivering Of The Glade. The

Principal Figure,  The Recumbent Woman,  As Yet Scarcely More Than

Outlined,  Floated About Like Some Aerial Creature Seen In Dreams,  Some

Eagerly Desired Eve Springing From The Earth,  With Her Features

Vaguely Smiling And Her Eyelids Closed.

'Well,  Now,  What Are You Going To Call It?' Asked Sandoz.

'_The Open Air_,' Replied Claude,  Somewhat Curtly.

The Title Sounded Rather Technical To The Writer,  Who,  In Spite Of

Himself,  Was Sometimes Tempted To Introduce Literature Into Pictorial

Art.

'_The Open Air_! That Doesn't Suggest Anything.'

'There Is No Occasion For It To Suggest Anything. Some Women And A Man

Are Reposing In A Forest In The Sunlight. Does Not That Suffice? Don't

Fret,  There's Enough In It To Make A Masterpiece.'

He Threw Back His Head And Muttered Between His Teeth: 'Dash It All!

It's Very Black Still. I Can't Get Delacroix Out Of My Eye,  Do What I

Will. And Then The Hand,  That's Courbet's Manner. Everyone Of Us Dabs

His Brush Into The Romantic Sauce Now And Then. We Had Too Much Of It

In Our Youth,  We Floundered In It Up To Our Very Chins. We Need A

Jolly Good Wash To Get Clear Of It.'

Sandoz Shrugged His Shoulders With A Gesture Of Despair. He Also

Bewailed The Fact That He Had Been Born At What He Called The

Confluence Of Hugo And Balzac. Nevertheless,  Claude Remained

Satisfied,  Full Of The Happy Excitement Of A Successful Sitting. If

His Friend Could Give Him Two Or Three More Sundays The Man In The

Jacket Would Be All There. He Had Enough Of Him For The Present. Both

Began To Joke,  For,  As A Rule,  Claude Almost Killed His Models,  Only

Letting Them Go When They Were Fainting,  Half Dead With Fatigue. He

Himself Now Very Nigh Dropped,  His Legs Bending Under Him,  And His

Stomach Empty. And As The Cuckoo Clock Struck Five,  He Snatched At His

Crust Of Bread And Devoured It. Thoroughly Worn Out,  He Broke It With

Trembling Fingers,  And Scarcely Chewed It,  Again Standing Before His

Picture,  Pursued By His Passion To Such A Degree As To Be Unconscious

Even That He Was Eating.

'Five O'clock,' Said Sandoz,  As He Stretched Himself,  With His Arms

Upraised. 'Let's Go And Have Dinner. Ah! Here Comes Dubuche,  Just In

Time.'

There Was A Knock At The Door,  And Dubuche Came In. He Was A Stout

Young Fellow,  Dark,  With Regular But Heavy Features,  Close-Cropped

Hair,