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

Without Seeing Each Other They Ended By Conversing Far Into The Night,

Amidst The Deep Mournful Silence Of That Deserted District.

On That Particular Evening,  At About Nine O'clock,  The Charwoman Came

In.

'Monsieur,  I Have Done. Can I Go?'

'Yes,  Go To Bed. You Have Left The Kettle On The Fire,  Haven't You?

I'll Make The Tea Myself.'

Sandoz Had Risen. He Went Off At The Heels Of The Charwoman,  And Only

Returned A Quarter Of An Hour Afterwards. He Had No Doubt Been To Kiss

His Mother,  Whom He Tucked Up Every Night Before She Dozed Off.

Meanwhile The Voices Had Risen To A High Pitch Again. Fagerolles Was

Telling A Story.

'Yes,  Old Fellow; At The School They Even Correct Nature Herself. The

Other Day Mazel Comes Up To Me And Says: "Those Two Arms Don't

Correspond"; Whereupon I Reply: "Look For Yourself,  Monsieur--The

Model's Are Like That." It Was Little Flore Beauchamp,  You Know.

"Well," Mazel Furiously Replies,  "If She Has Them Like That,  It's Very

Wrong Of Her."'

They Almost All Shrieked,  Especially Claude,  To Whom Fagerolles Told

The Story By Way Of Paying Court. For Some Time Previously The Younger

Artist Had Yielded To The Elder's Influence; And Although He Continued

To Paint With Purely Tricky Skill,  He No Longer Talked Of Anything But

Substantial,  Thickly-Painted Work,  Of Bits Of Nature Thrown On To

Canvas,  Palpitating With Life,  Such As They Really Were. This Did Not

Prevent Him,  Though,  From Elsewhere Chaffing The Adepts Of The

Open-Air School,  Whom He Accused Of Impasting With A Kitchen Ladle.

Dubuche,  Who Had Not Laughed,  His Sense Of Rectitude Being Offended,

Made So Bold As To Reply:

'Why Do You Stop At The School If You Think You Are Being Brutified

There? It's Simple Enough,  One Goes Away--Oh,  I Know You Are All

Against Me,  Because I Defend The School. But,  You See,  My Idea Is

That,  When A Fellow Wants To Carry On A Trade,  It Is Not A Bad Thing

For Him To Begin By Learning It.'

Ferocious Shouts Arose At This,  And Claude Had Need Of All His

Authority To Secure A Hearing.

'He Is Right. One Must Learn One's Trade. But It Won't Do To Learn It

Under The Ferule Of Professors Who Want To Cram Their Own Views

Forcibly Into Your Nut. That Mazel Is A Perfect Idiot!'

He Flung Himself Backward On The Bed,  On Which He Had Been Sitting,

And With His Eyes Raised To The Ceiling,  He Went On,  In An Excited

Tone:

'Ah! Life! Life! To Feel It And Portray It In Its Reality,  To Love It

For Itself,  To Behold In It The Only Real,  Lasting,  And Changing

Beauty,  Without Any Idiotic Idea Of Ennobling It By Mutilation. To

Understand That All So-Called Ugliness Is Nothing But The Mark Of

Individual Character,  To Create Real Men And Endow Them With Life

--Yes,  That's The Only Way To Become A God!'

His Faith Was Coming Back To Him,  The March Across Paris Had Spurred

Him On Once More; He Was Again Seized By His Passion For Living Flesh.

They Listened To Him In Silence. He Made A Wild Gesture,  Then Calmed

Down.

'No Doubt Every One Has His Own Ideas; But The Annoyance Is That At

The Institute They Are Even More Intolerant Than We Are. The Hanging

Committee Of The Salon Is In Their Hands. I Am Sure That That Idiot

Mazel Will Refuse My Picture.'

Thereupon They All Broke Out Into Imprecations,  For This Question Of

The Hanging Committee Was The Everlasting Subject Of Their Wrath. They

Demanded Reforms; Every One Had A Solution Of The Problem Ready--From

Universal Suffrage,  Applied To The Election Of A Hanging Committee,

Liberal In The Widest Sense Of The Word,  Down To Unrestricted Liberty,

A Salon Open To All Exhibitors.*

  * The Reader Will Bear In Mind That All These Complaints Made By

    Claude And His Friends Apply To The Old Salons,  As Organized

    Under Government Control,  At The Time Of The Second Empire.--Ed.

While The Others Went On Discussing The Subject,  Gagniere Drew

Mahoudeau To The Open Window,  Where,  In A Low Voice,  His Eyes The

While Staring Into Space,  He Murmured:

'Oh,  It's Nothing At All,  Only Four Bars; A Simple Impression Jotted

Down There And Then. But What A Deal There Is In It! To Me It's First

Of All A Landscape,  Dwindling Away In The Distance; A Bit Of

Melancholy Road,  With The Shadow Of A Tree That One Cannot See; And

Then A Woman Passes Along,  Scarcely A Silhouette; On She Goes And You

Never Meet Her Again,  No,  Never More Again.'

Just At That Moment,  However,  Fagerolles Exclaimed,  'I Say,  Gagniere,

What Are You Going To Send To The Salon This Year?'

Gagniere Did Not Hear,  But Continued Talking,  Enraptured,  As It Were.

'In Schumann One Finds Everything--The Infinite. And Wagner,  Too,  Whom

They Hissed Again Last Sunday!'

But A Fresh Call From Fagerolles Made Him Start.

'Eh! What? What Am I Going To Send To The Salon? A Small Landscape,

Perhaps; A Little Bit Of The Seine. It Is So Difficult To Decide;

First Of All I Must Feel Pleased With It Myself.'

He Had Suddenly Become Timid And Anxious Again. His Artistic Scruples,

His Conscientiousness,  Kept Him Working For Months On A Canvas The

Size Of One's Hand. Following The Track Of The French Landscape

Painters,  Those Masters Who Were The First To Conquer Nature,  He

Worried About Correctness Of Tone,  Pondering And Pondering Over The

Precise Value Of Tints,  Till Theoretical Scruples Ended By Making His

Touch Heavy. And He Often Did Not Dare To Chance A Bright Dash Of

Colour,  But Painted In A Greyish Gloomy Key Which Was Astonishing,

When One Remembered His Revolutionary Passions.

'For My Part,' Said Mahoudeau,  'I Feel Delighted At The Prospect Of

Making Them Squint With My Woman.'

Claude Shrugged His Shoulders. 'Oh! You'll Get In,  The Sculptors Have

Broader Minds Than The Painters. And,  Besides,  You Know Very Well What

You Are About; You Have Something At Your Fingers' Ends That Pleases.

There Will Be Plenty Of Pretty Bits About Your Vintaging Girl.'

The Compliment Made Mahoudeau Feel Serious. He Posed Above All For

Vigour Of Execution; He Was Unconscious Of His Real Vein Of Talent,

And Despised Gracefulness,  Though It Ever Invincibly Sprung From His

Big,  Coarse Fingers--The Fingers Of An Untaught Working-Man--Like A

Flower That Obstinately Sprouts From The Hard Soil Where The Wind Has

Flung Its Seed.

Fagerolles,  Who Was Very Cunning,  Had Decided To Send Nothing,  For

Fear Of Displeasing His Masters; And He Chaffed The Salon,  Calling It

'A Foul Bazaar,  Where All The Bad Painting Made Even The Good Turn

Musty.' In His Inmost Heart He Was Dreaming Of One Day Securing The

Rome Prize,  Though He Ridiculed It,  As He Did Everything Else.

However,  Jory Stationed Himself In The Middle Of The Room,  Holding Up

His Glass Of Beer. Sipping Every Now And Then,  He Declared: 'Well,

Your Hanging Committee Quite Disgusts Me! I Say,  Shall I Demolish It?

I'll Begin Bombarding It In Our Very Next Number. You'll Give Me Some

Notes,  Eh? And We'll Knock It To Pieces. That Will Be Fine Fun.'

Claude Was At Last Fully Wound Up,  And General Enthusiasm Prevailed.

Yes,  Yes,  They Must Start A Campaign. They Would All Be In It,  And,

Pressing Shoulder To Shoulder,  March To The Battle Together. At That

Moment There Was Not One Of Them Who Reserved His Share Of Fame,  For

Nothing Divided Them As Yet; Neither The Profound Dissemblance Of

Their Various Natures,  Of Which They Themselves Were Ignorant,  Nor

Their Rivalries,  Which Would Some Day Bring Them Into Collision. Was

Not The Success Of One The Success Of All The Others? Their Youth Was

Fermenting,  They Were Brimming Over With Mutual Devotion; They

Indulged Anew In Their Everlasting Dream Of Gathering Into A Phalanx

To Conquer The World,  Each Contributing His Individual Effort; This

One Helping That One Forward,  And The Whole Band Reaching Fame At Once

In One Row. Claude,  As The Acknowledged Chief,  Was Already Sounding

The Victory,  Distributing Laurels With Such Lyrical Abundance That He

Overlooked Himself. Fagerolles Himself,  Gibing Parisian Though He

Might Be,  Believed In The Necessity Of Forming An Army; While Even

Jory,  Although He Had A Coarser Appetite,  With A Deal Of The

Provincial Still About Him,  Displayed Much Useful Comradeship,

Catching Various Artistic Phrases As They Fell From His Companions'

Lips,  And Already Preparing In His Mind The Articles Which Would

Herald The Advent Of The Band And Make Them Known. And Mahoudeau

Purposely Exaggerated His Intentional Roughness,  And Clasped His Hands

Like An Ogre Kneading Human Flesh; While Gagniere,  In Ecstasy,  As If

Freed From The Everlasting Greyishness Of His Art,  Sought To Refine

Sensation To The Utmost Limits Of Intelligence; And Dubuche,  With His

Matter-Of-Fact Convictions,  Threw In But A Word Here And There; Words,

However,  Which Were Like Club-Blows In The Very Midst Of The Fray.

Then Sandoz,  Happy And Smiling At Seeing Them So United,  'All In One

Shirt,' As He Put It,  Opened Another Bottle Of Beer. He Would Have

Emptied Every One In The House.

'Eh?' He Cried,  'We're Agreed,  Let's Stick To It. It's Really Pleasant

To Come To An Understanding Among Fellows Who Have Something In Their

Nuts,  So May The Thunderbolts Of Heaven Sweep All Idiots Away!'

At That Same Moment A Ring At The Bell Stupefied Him. Amidst The

Sudden Silence Of The Others,  He Inquired--'Who,  To The Deuce,  Can

That Be--At Eleven O'clock?'

He Ran To Open The Door,  And They Heard Him Utter A Cry Of Delight. He

Was Already Coming Back Again,  Throwing The Door Wide Open As He Said

--'Ah! It's Very Kind Indeed To Think Of Us And Surprise Us Like This!

Bongrand,  Gentlemen.'

The Great Painter,  Whom The Master Of The House Announced In This

Respectfully Familiar Way,  Entered,  Holding Out Both Hands. They All

Eagerly Rose,  Full Of Emotion,  Delighted With That Manly,  Cordial

Handshake So Willingly Bestowed. Bongrand Was Then Forty-Five Years

Old,  Stout,  And With A Very Expressive Face And Long Grey Hair. He Had

Recently Become A Member Of The Institute,  And Wore The Rosette Of An

Officer Of The Legion Of Honour In The Top Button-Hole Of His

Unpretentious Alpaca Jacket. He Was Fond Of Young People; He Liked

Nothing So Much As To Drop In From Time To Time And Smoke A