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

On The 15th May,  A Friday,  Claude,  Who Had Returned At Three O'clock

In The Morning From Sandoz's,  Was Still Asleep At Nine,  When Madame

Joseph Brought Him Up A Large Bouquet Of White Lilac Which A

Commissionaire Had Just Left Downstairs. He Understood At Once.

Christine Had Wished To Be Beforehand In Celebrating The Success Of

His Painting. For This Was A Great Day For Him,  The Opening Day Of The

'Salon Of The Rejected,' Which Was First Instituted That Year,* And At

Which His Picture--Refused By The Hanging Committee Of The Official

Salon--Was To Be Exhibited.

  * This Was In 1863.--Ed.

That Delicate Attention On Christine's Part,  That Fresh And Fragrant

Lilac,  Affected Him Greatly,  As If Presaging A Happy Day. Still In His

Nightshirt,  With His Feet Bare,  He Placed The Flowers In His Water-Jug

On The Table. Then,  With His Eyes Still Swollen With Sleep,  Almost

Bewildered,  He Dressed,  Scolding Himself The While For Having Slept So

Long. On The Previous Night He Had Promised Dubuche And Sandoz To Call

For Them At The Latter's Place At Eight O'clock,  In Order That They

Might All Three Go Together To The Palais De L'industrie,  Where They

Would Find The Rest Of The Band. And He Was Already An Hour Behind

Time.

Then,  As Luck Would Have It,  He Could Not Lay His Hands Upon Anything

In His Studio,  Which Had Been Turned Topsy-Turvy Since The Despatch Of

The Big Picture. For More Than Five Minutes He Hunted On His Knees For

His Shoes,  Among A Quantity Of Old Chases. Some Particles Of Gold Leaf

Flew About,  For,  Not Knowing Where To Get The Money For A Proper

Frame,  He Had Employed A Joiner Of The Neighbourhood To Fit Four

Strips Of Board Together,  And Had Gilded Them Himself,  With The

Assistance Of His Friend Christine,  Who,  By The Way,  Had Proved A Very

Unskilful Gilder. At Last,  Dressed And Shod,  And Having His Soft Felt

Hat Bespangled With Yellow Sparks Of The Gold,  He Was About To Go,

When A Superstitious Thought Brought Him Back To The Nosegay,  Which

Had Remained Alone On The Centre Of The Table. If He Did Not Kiss The

Lilac He Was Sure To Suffer An Affront. So He Kissed It And Felt

Perfumed By Its Strong Springtide Aroma.

Under The Archway,  He Gave His Key As Usual To The Doorkeeper. 'Madame

Joseph,' He Said,  'I Shall Not Be Home All Day.'

In Less Than Twenty Minutes He Was In The Rue D'enfer,  At Sandoz's.

But The Latter,  Whom He Feared Would Have Already Gone,  Was Equally

Late In Consequence Of A Sudden Indisposition Which Had Come Upon His

Mother. It Was Nothing Serious. She Had Merely Passed A Bad Night,  But

It Had For A While Quite Upset Him With Anxiety. Now,  Easy In Mind

Again,  Sandoz Told Claude That Dubuche Had Written Saying That They

Were Not To Wait For Him,  And Giving An Appointment At The Palais.

They Therefore Started Off,  And As It Was Nearly Eleven,  They Decided

To Lunch In A Deserted Little _Cremerie_ In The Rue St. Honore,  Which

They Did Very Leisurely,  Seized With Laziness Amidst All Their Ardent

Desire To See And Know; And Enjoying,  As It Were,  A Kind Of Sweet,

Tender Sadness From Lingering Awhile And Recalling Memories Of Their

Youth.

One O'clock Was Striking When They Crossed The Champs Elysees. It Was

A Lovely Day,  With A Limpid Sky,  To Which The Breeze,  Still Somewhat

Chilly,  Seemed To Impart A Brighter Azure. Beneath The Sun,  Of The Hue

Of Ripe Corn,  The Rows Of Chestnut Trees Showed New Foliage Of A

Delicate And Seemingly Freshly Varnished Green; And The Fountains With

Their Leaping Sheafs Of Water,  The Well-Kept Lawns,  The Deep Vistas Of

The Pathways,  And The Broad Open Spaces,  All Lent An Air Of Luxurious

Grandeur To The Panorama. A Few Carriages,  Very Few At That Early

Hour,  Were Ascending The Avenue,  While A Stream Of Bewildered,

Bustling People,  Suggesting A Swarm Of Ants,  Plunged Into The Huge

Archway Of The Palais De L'industrie.

When They Were Inside,  Claude Shivered Slightly While Crossing The

Gigantic Vestibule,  Which Was As Cold As A Cellar,  With A Damp

Pavement Which Resounded Beneath One's Feet,  Like The Flagstones Of A

Church. He Glanced Right And Left At The Two Monumental Stairways,  And

Asked Contemptuously: 'I Say,  Are We Going Through Their Dirty Salon?'

'Oh! No,  Dash It!' Answered Sandoz. 'Let's Cut Through The Garden. The

Western Staircase Over There Leads To "The Rejected."'

Then They Passed Disdainfully Between The Two Little Tables Of The

Catalogue Vendors. Between The Huge Red Velvet Curtains And Beyond A

Shady Porch Appeared The Garden,  Roofed In With Glass. At That Time Of

Day It Was Almost Deserted; There Were Only Some People At The Buffet

Under The Clock,  A Throng Of People Lunching. The Crowd Was In The

Galleries On The First Floor,  And The White Statues Alone Edged The

Yellow-Sanded Pathways Which With Stretches Of Crude Colour

Intersected The Green Lawns. There Was A Whole Nation Of Motionless

Marble There Steeped In The Diffuse Light Falling From The Glazed Roof

On High. Looking Southwards,  Some Holland Screens Barred Half Of The

Nave,  Which Showed Ambery In The Sunlight And Was Speckled At Both

Ends By The Dazzling Blue And Crimson Of Stained-Glass Windows. Just A

Few Visitors,  Tired Already,  Occupied The Brand-New Chairs And Seats,

Shiny With Fresh Paint; While The Flights Of Sparrows,  Who Dwelt

Above,  Among The Iron Girders,  Swooped Down,  Quite At Home,  Raking Up

The Sand And Twittering As They Pursued Each Other.

Claude And Sandoz Made A Show Of Walking Very Quickly Without Giving A

Glance Around Them. A Stiff Classical Bronze Statue,  A Minerva By A

Member Of The Institute,  Had Exasperated Them At The Very Door. But As

They Hastened Past A Seemingly Endless Line Of Busts,  They Recognised

Bongrand,  Who,  All Alone,  Was Going Slowly Round A Colossal,

Overflowing,  Recumbent Figure,  Which Had Been Placed In The Middle Of

The Path. With His Hands Behind His Back,  Quite Absorbed,  He Bent His

Wrinkled Face Every Now And Then Over The Plaster.

'Hallo,  It's You?' He Said,  As They Held Out Their Hands To Him. 'I

Was Just Looking At Our Friend Mahoudeau's Figure,  Which They Have At

Least Had The Intelligence To Admit,  And To Put In A Good Position.'

Then,  Breaking Off: 'Have You Been Upstairs?' He Asked.

'No,  We Have Just Come In,' Said Claude.

Thereupon Bongrand Began To Talk Warmly About The Salon Of The

Rejected. He,  Who Belonged To The Institute,  But Who Lived Apart From

His Colleagues,  Made Very Merry Over The Affair; The Everlasting

Discontent Of Painters; The Campaign Conducted By Petty Newspapers

Like 'The Drummer'; The Protestations,  The Constant Complaints That

Had At Last Disturbed The Emperor,  And The Artistic _Coup D'etat_

Carried Out By That Silent Dreamer,  For This Salon Of The Rejected Was

Entirely His Work. Then The Great Painter Alluded To All The Hubbub

Caused By The Flinging Of Such A Paving-Stone Into That Frog's Pond,

The Official Art World.

'No,' He Continued,  'You Can Have No Idea Of The Rage And Indignation

Among The Members Of The Hanging Committee. And Remember I'm

Distrusted,  They Generally Keep Quiet When I'm There. But They Are All

Furious With The Realists. It Was To Them That They Systematically

Closed The Doors Of The Temple; It Is On Account Of Them That The

Emperor Has Allowed The Public To Revise Their Verdict; And Finally It

Is They,  The Realists,  Who Triumph. Ah! I Hear Some Nice Things Said;

I Wouldn't Give A High Price For Your Skins,  Youngsters.'

He Laughed His Big,  Joyous Laugh,  Stretching Out His Arms The While As

If To Embrace All The Youthfulness That He Divined Rising Around Him.

'Your Disciples Are Growing,' Said Claude,  Simply.

But Bongrand,  Becoming Embarrassed,  Silenced Him With A Wave Of His

Hand. He Himself Had Not Sent Anything For Exhibition,  And The

Prodigious Mass Of Work Amidst Which He Found Himself--Those Pictures,

Those Statues,  All Those Proofs Of Creative Effort--Filled Him With

Regret. It Was Not Jealousy,  For There Lived Not A More Upright And

Better Soul; But As A Result Of Self-Examination,  A Gnawing Fear Of

Impotence,  An Unavowed Dread Haunted Him.

'And At "The Rejected,"' Asked Sandoz; 'How Goes It There?'

'Superb; You'll See.'

Then Turning Towards Claude,  And Keeping Both The Young Man's Hands In

His Own,  'You,  My Good Fellow,  You Are A Trump. Listen! They Say I Am

Clever: Well,  I'd Give Ten Years Of My Life To Have Painted That Big

Hussy Of Yours.'

Praise Like That,  Coming From Such Lips,  Moved The Young Painter To

Tears. Victory Had Come At Last,  Then? He Failed To Find A Word Of

Thanks,  And Abruptly Changed The Conversation,  Wishing To Hide His

Emotion.

'That Good Fellow Mahoudeau!' He Said,  'Why His Figure's Capital! He

Has A Deuced Fine Temperament,  Hasn't He?'

Sandoz And Claude Had Begun To Walk Round The Plaster Figure. Bongrand

Replied With A Smile.

'Yes,  Yes; There's Too Much Fulness And Massiveness In Parts. But Just

Look At The Articulations,  They Are Delicate And Really Pretty. Come,

Good-Bye,  I Must Leave You. I'm Going To Sit Down A While. My Legs Are

Bending Under Me.'

Claude Had Raised His Head To Listen. A Tremendous Uproar,  An

Incessant Crashing That Had Not Struck Him At First,  Careered Through

The Air; It Was Like The Din Of A Tempest Beating Against A Cliff,  The

Rumbling Of An Untiring Assault,  Dashing Forward From Endless Space.

'Hallow,  What's That?' He Muttered.

'That,' Said Bongrand,  As He Walked Away,  'That's The Crowd Upstairs

In The Galleries.'

And The Two Young Fellows,  Having Crossed The Garden,  Then Went Up To

The Salon Of The Rejected.

It Had Been Installed In First-Rate Style. The Officially Received

Pictures Were Not Lodged More Sumptuously: Lofty Hangings Of Old

Tapestry At The Doors; 'The Line' Set Off With Green Baize; Seats Of

Crimson Velvet; White Linen Screens Under The Large Skylights Of The

Roof. And All Along The Suite Of Galleries The First Impression Was

The Same--There Were The Same Gilt Frames,  The Same Bright