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

These Beginners,  Whose Enthusiasm Warmed His Heart.

'I Am Going To Make The Tea,' Exclaimed Sandoz.

When He Came Back From The Kitchen,  Carrying The Teapot And Cups,  He

Found Bongrand Installed Astride A Chair,  Smoking His Short Cutty,

Amidst The Din Which Had Again Arisen. Bongrand Himself Was Holding

Forth In A Stentorian Voice. The Grandson Of A Farmer Of The Beauce

Region,  The Son Of A Man Risen To The Middle Classes,  With Peasant

Blood In His Veins,  Indebted For His Culture To A Mother Of Very

Artistic Tastes,  He Was Rich,  Had No Need To Sell His Pictures,  And

Retained Many Tastes And Opinions Of Bohemian Life.

'The Hanging Committee? Well,  I'd Sooner Hang Myself Than Belong To

It!' Said He,  With Sweeping Gestures. 'Am I An Executioner To Kick

Poor Devils,  Who Often Have To Earn Their Bread,  Out Of Doors?'

'Still,  You Might Render Us Great Service By Defending Our Pictures

Before The Committee,' Observed Claude.

'Oh,  Dear,  No! I Should Only Make Matters Worse For You--I Don't

Count; I'm Nobody.'

There Was A Chorus Of Protestations; Fagerolles Objected,  In A Shrill

Voice:

'Well,  If The Painter Of "The Village Wedding" Does Not Count--'

But Bongrand Was Getting Angry; He Had Risen,  His Cheeks Afire.

'Eh? Don't Pester Me With "The Wedding"; I Warn You I Am Getting Sick

Of That Picture. It Is Becoming A Perfect Nightmare To Me Ever Since

It Has Been Hung In The Luxembourg Museum.'

This 'Village Wedding'--A Party Of Wedding Guests Roaming Through A

Corn-Field,  Peasants Studied From Life,  With An Epic Look Of The

Heroes Of Homer About Them--Had So Far Remained His Masterpiece. The

Picture Had Brought About An Evolution In Art,  For It Had Inaugurated

A New Formula. Coming After Delacroix,  And Parallel With Courbet,  It

Was A Piece Of Romanticism Tempered By Logic,  With More Correctness Of

Observation,  More Perfection In The Handling. And Though It Did Not

Squarely Tackle Nature Amidst The Crudity Of The Open Air,  The New

School Claimed Connection With It.

'There Can Be Nothing More Beautiful,' Said Claude,  'Than The Two

First Groups,  The Fiddler,  And Then The Bride With The Old Peasant.'

'And The Strapping Peasant Girl,  Too,' Added Mahoudeau; The One Who Is

Turning Round And Beckoning! I Had A Great Mind To Take Her For The

Model Of A Statue.'

'And That Gust Of Wind Among The Corn,' Added Gagniere,  'And The

Pretty Bit Of The Boy And Girl Skylarking In The Distance.'

Bongrand Sat Listening With An Embarrassed Air,  And A Smile Of Inward

Suffering; And When Fagerolles Asked Him What He Was Doing Just Then,

He Answered,  With A Shrug Of His Shoulders:

'Well,  Nothing; Some Little Things. But I Sha'n't Exhibit This Time. I

Should Like To Find A Telling Subject. Ah,  You Fellows Are Happy At

Still Being At The Bottom Of The Hill. A Man Has Good Legs Then,  He

Feels So Plucky When It's A Question Of Getting Up. But When Once He

Is A-Top,  The Deuce Take It! The Worries Begin. A Real Torture,

Fisticuffs,  Efforts Which Must Be Constantly Renewed,  Lest One Should

Slip Down Too Quickly. Really Now,  One Would Prefer Being Below,  For

The Pleasure Of Still Having Everything To Do-- Ah,  You May Laugh,  But

You'll See It All For Yourselves Some Day!'

They Were Indeed Laughing,  Thinking It A Paradox,  Or A Little Piece Of

Affectation,  Which They Excused. To Be Hailed,  Like Bongrand,  With The

Name Of Master--Was That Not The Height Of Bliss? He,  With His Arms

Resting On The Back Of His Chair,  Listened To Them In Silence,

Leisurely Puffing His Pipe,  And Renouncing The Idea Of Trying To Make

Them Understand Him.

Meanwhile,  Dubuche,  Who Had Rather Domesticated Tastes,  Helped Sandoz

To Hand The Tea Round,  And The Din Continued. Fagerolles Related A

Story About Daddy Malgras And A Female Cousin By Marriage,  Whom The

Dealer Offered As A Model On Conditions That He Was Given A

Presentment Of Her In Oils. Then They Began To Talk Of Models.

Mahoudeau Waxed Furious,  Because The Really Well-Built Female Models

Were Disappearing. It Was Impossible To Find One With A Decent Figure

Now. Then Suddenly The Tumult Increased Again; Gagniere Was Being

Congratulated About A Connoisseur Whose Acquaintance He Had Made In

The Palais Royal One Afternoon,  While The Band Played,  An Eccentric

Gentleman Living On A Small Income,  Who Never Indulged In Any Other

Extravagance Than That Of Buying Pictures. The Other Artists Laughed

And Asked For The Gentleman's Address. Then They Fell Foul Of The

Picture Dealers,  Dirty Black-Guards,  Who Preyed On Artists And Starved

Them. It Was Really A Pity That Connoisseurs Mistrusted Painters To

Such A Degree As To Insist Upon A Middleman Under The Impression That

They Would Thus Make A Better Bargain. This Question Of Bread And

Butter Excited Them Yet More,  Though Claude Showed Magnificent

Contempt For It All. The Artist Was Robbed,  No Doubt,  But What Did

That Matter,  If He Had Painted A Masterpiece,  And Had Some Water To

Drink? Jory,  Having Again Expressed Some Low Ideas About Lucre,

Aroused General Indignation. Out With The Journalist! He Was Asked

Stringent Questions. Would He Sell His Pen? Would He Not Sooner Chop

Off His Wrist Than Write Anything Against His Convictions? But They

Scarcely Waited For His Answer,  For The Excitement Was On The

Increase; It Became The Superb Madness Of Early Manhood,  Contempt For

The Whole World,  An Absorbing Passion For Good Work,  Freed From All

Human Weaknesses,  Soaring In The Sky Like A Very Sun. Ah! How

Strenuous Was Their Desire To Lose Themselves,  Consume Themselves,  In

That Brazier Of Their Own Kindling!

Bongrand,  Who Had Not Stirred The While,  Made A Vague Gesture Of

Suffering At The Sight Of That Boundless Confidence,  That Boisterous

Joy At The Prospect Of Attack. He Forgot The Hundred Paintings Which

Had Brought Him His Glory,  He Was Thinking Of The Work Which He Had

Left Roughed Out On His Easel Now. Taking His Cutty From Between His

Lips,  He Murmured,  His Eyes Glistening With Kindliness,  'Oh,  Youth,

Youth!'

Until Two In The Morning,  Sandoz,  Who Seemed Ubiquitous,  Kept On

Pouring Fresh Supplies Of Hot Water Into The Teapot. From The

Neighbourhood,  Now Asleep,  One Now Only Heard The Miawing Of An

Amorous Tabby. They All Talked At Random,  Intoxicated By Their Own

Words,  Hoarse With Shouting,  Their Eyes Scorched,  And When At Last

They Made Up Their Minds To Go,  Sandoz Took The Lamp To Show Them A

Light Over The Banisters,  Saying Very Softly:

'Don't Make A Noise,  My Mother Is Asleep.'

The Hushed Tread Of Their Boots On The Stairs Died Away At Last,  And

Deep Silence Fell Upon The House.

It Struck Four. Claude,  Who Had Accompanied Bongrand,  Still Went On

Talking To Him In The Deserted Streets. He Did Not Want To Go To Bed;

He Was Waiting For Daylight,  With Impatient Fury,  So That He Might Set

To Work At His Picture Again. This Time He Felt Certain Of Painting A

Masterpiece,  Exalted As He Was By That Happy Day Of Good-Fellowship,

His Mind Pregnant With A World Of Things. He Had Discovered At Last

What Painting Meant,  And He Pictured Himself Re-Entering His Studio As

One Returns Into The Presence Of A Woman One Adores,  His Heart

Throbbing Violently,  Regretting Even This One Day's Absence,  Which

Seemed To Him Endless Desertion. And He Would Go Straight To His

Canvas,  And Realise His Dream In One Sitting. However,  At Every Dozen

Steps Or So,  Amidst The Flickering Light Of The Gaslamps,  Bongrand

Caught Him By A Button Of His Coat,  To Repeat To Him That,  After All,

Painting Was An Accursed Trade. Sharp As He,  Bongrand,  Was Supposed To

Be,  He Did Not Understand It Yet. At Each New Work He Undertook,  He

Felt As If He Were Making A Debut; It Was Enough To Make One Smash

One's Head Against The Wall. The Sky Was Now Brightening,  Some Market

Gardeners' Carts Began Rolling Down Towards The Central Markets; And

The Pair Continued Chattering,  Each Talking For Himself,  In A Loud

Voice,  Beneath The Paling Stars.

Six Weeks Later,  Claude Was Painting One Morning Amidst A Flood Of

Sunshine That Streamed Through The Large Window Of His Studio.

Constant Rain Had Made The Middle Of August Very Dull,  But His Courage

For Work Returned With The Blue Sky. His Great Picture Did Not Make

Much Progress,  Albeit He Worked At It Throughout Long,  Silent

Mornings,  Like The Obstinate,  Pugnacious Fellow He Was.

All At Once There Came A Knock At His Door. He Thought That Madame

Joseph,  The Doorkeeper,  Was Bringing Up His Lunch,  And As The Key Was

Always In The Door,  He Simply Called: 'Come In!'

The Door Had Opened; There Was A Slight Rustle,  And Then All Became

Still. He Went On Painting Without Even Turning His Head. But The

Quivering Silence,  And The Consciousness Of Some Vague Gentle

Breathing Near Him,  At Last Made Him Fidgety. He Looked Up,  And Felt

Amazed; A Woman Stood There Clad In A Light Gown,  Her Features

Half-Hidden By A White Veil,  And He Did Not Know Her,  And She Was

Carrying A Bunch Of Roses,  Which Completed His Bewilderment.

All At Once He Recognised Her.

'You,  Mademoiselle? Well,  I Certainly Didn't Expect You!'

It Was Christine. He Had Been Unable To Restrain That Somewhat

Unamiable Exclamation,  Which Was A Cry From The Heart Itself. At First

He Had Certainly Thought Of Her; Then,  As The Days Went By For Nearly

A Couple Of Months Without Sign Of Life From Her,  She Had Become For

Him Merely A Fleeting,  Regretted Vision,  A Charming Silhouette Which

Had Melted Away In Space,  And Would Never Be Seen Again.

'Yes,  Monsieur,  It's I. I Wished To Come. I Thought It Was Wrong Not

To Come And Thank You--'

She Blushed And Stammered,  At A Loss For Words. She Was Out Of Breath,

No Doubt Through Climbing The Stairs,  For Her Heart Was Beating Fast.

What! Was This Long-Debated Visit Out Of Place After All? It Had Ended

By Seeming Quite Natural To Her. The Worst Was That,  In Passing Along

The Quay,  She Had Bought That Bunch Of Roses With The Delicate

Intention Of Thereby Showing Her Gratitude To The Young Fellow,  And

The Flowers Now Dreadfully Embarrassed Her. How Was She To Give Them

To Him? What Would He Think Of Her? The Impropriety Of The Whole

Proceeding Had Only Struck Her As She Opened The Door.

But Claude,  More Embarrassed Still,  Resorted To Exaggerated

Politeness. He Had Thrown