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

The Canvases. But There Was A Special Kind Of Cheerfulness,  A Sparkle

Of Youth Which One Did Not Altogether Realise At First. The Crowd,

Already Compact,  Increased Every Minute,  For The Official Salon Was

Being Deserted. People Came Stung By Curiosity,  Impelled By A Desire

To Judge The Judges,  And,  Above All,  Full Of The Conviction That They

Were Going To See Some Very Diverting Things. It Was Very Hot; A Fine

Dust Arose From The Flooring; And Certainly,  Towards Four O'clock

People Would Stifle There.

'Hang It!' Said Sandoz,  Trying To Elbow His Way,  'It Will Be No Easy

Job To Move About And Find Your Picture.'

A Burst Of Fraternal Feverishness Made Him Eager To Get To It. That

Day He Only Lived For The Work And Glory Of His Old Chum.

'Don't Worry!' Exclaimed Claude; 'We Shall Get To It All Right. My

Picture Won't Fly Off.'

And He Affected To Be In No Hurry,  In Spite Of The Almost Irresistible

Desire That He Felt To Run. He Raised His Head And Looked Around Him;

And Soon,  Amidst The Loud Voices Of The Crowd That Had Bewildered Him,

He Distinguished Some Restrained Laughter,  Which Was Almost Drowned By

The Tramp Of Feet And The Hubbub Of Conversation. Before Certain

Pictures The Public Stood Joking. This Made Him Feel Uneasy,  For

Despite All His Revolutionary Brutality He Was As Sensitive And As

Credulous As A Woman,  And Always Looked Forward To Martyrdom,  Though

He Was Ever Grieved And Stupefied At Being Repulsed And Railed At.

'They Seem Gay Here,' He Muttered.

'Well,  There's Good Reason,' Remarked Sandoz. 'Just Look At Those

Extravagant Jades!'

At The Same Moment,  While Still Lingering In The First Gallery,

Fagerolles Ran Up Against Them Without Seeing Them. He Started,  Being

No Doubt Annoyed By The Meeting. However,  He Recovered His Composure

Immediately,  And Behaved Very Amiably.

'Hallo! I Was Just Thinking Of You. I Have Been Here For The Last

Hour.'

'Where Have They Put Claude's Picture?' Asked Sandoz. Fagerolles,  Who

Had Just Remained For Twenty Minutes In Front Of That Picture Studying

It And Studying The Impression Which It Produced On The Public,

Answered Without Wincing,  'I Don't Know; I Haven't Been Able To Find

It. We'll Look For It Together If You Like.'

And He Joined Them. Terrible Wag As He Was,  He No Longer Affected

Low-Bred Manners To The Same Degree As Formerly; He Already Began To

Dress Well,  And Although With His Mocking Nature He Was Still Disposed

To Snap At Everybody As Of Old,  He Pursed His Lips Into The Serious

Expression Of A Fellow Who Wants To Make His Way In The World. With An

Air Of Conviction He Added: 'I Must Say That I Now Regret Not Having

Sent Anything This Year! I Should Be Here With All The Rest Of You,

And Have My Share Of Success. And There Are Really Some Astonishing

Things,  My Boys! Those Horses,  For Instance.'

He Pointed To A Huge Canvas In Front Of Them,  Before Which The Crowd

Was Gathering And Laughing. It Was,  So People Said,  The Work Of An

Erstwhile Veterinary Surgeon,  And Showed A Number Of Life-Size Horses

In A Meadow,  Fantastic Horses,  Blue,  Violet,  And Pink,  Whose

Astonishing Anatomy Transpierced Their Sides.

'I Say,  Don't You Humbug Us,' Exclaimed Claude,  Suspiciously.

But Fagerolles Pretended To Be Enthusiastic. 'What Do You Mean? The

Picture's Full Of Talent. The Fellow Who Painted It Understands Horses

Devilish Well. No Doubt He Paints Like A Brute. But What's The Odds If

He's Original,  And Contributes A Document?'

As He Spoke Fagerolles' Delicate Girlish Face Remained Perfectly

Grave,  And It Was Impossible To Tell Whether He Was Joking. There Was

But The Slightest Yellow Twinkle Of Spitefulness In The Depths Of His

Grey Eyes. And He Finished With A Sarcastic Allusion,  The Drift Of

Which Was As Yet Patent To Him Alone. 'Ah,  Well! If You Let Yourself

Be Influenced By The Fools Who Laugh,  You'll Have Enough To Do By And

By.'

The Three Friends Had Gone On Again,  Only Advancing,  However,  With

Infinite Difficulty Amid That Sea Of Surging Shoulders. On Entering

The Second Gallery They Gave A Glance Round The Walls,  But The Picture

They Sought Was Not There. In Lieu Thereof They Perceived Irma Becot

On The Arm Of Gagniere,  Both Of Them Pressed Against A Hand-Rail,  He

Busy Examining A Small Canvas,  While She,  Delighted At Being Hustled

About,  Raised Her Pink Little Mug And Laughed At The Crowd.

'Hallo!' Said Sandoz,  Surprised,  'Here She Is With Gagniere Now!'

'Oh,  Just A Fancy Of Hers!' Exclaimed Fagerolles Quietly. 'She Has A

Very Swell Place Now. Yes,  It Was Given Her By That Young Idiot Of A

Marquis,  Whom The Papers Are Always Talking About. She's A Girl Who'll

Make Her Way; I've Always Said So! But She Seems To Retain A Weakness

For Painters,  And Every Now And Then Drops Into The Cafe Baudequin To

Look Up Old Friends!'

Irma Had Now Seen Them,  And Was Making Gestures From Afar. They Could

But Go To Her. When Gagniere,  With His Light Hair And Little Beardless

Face,  Turned Round,  Looking More Grotesque Than Over,  He Did Not Show

The Least Surprise At Finding Them There.

'It's Wonderful,' He Muttered.

'What's Wonderful?' Asked Fagerolles.

'This Little Masterpiece--And Withal Honest And Naif,  And Full Of

Conviction.'

He Pointed To A Tiny Canvas Before Which He Had Stood Absorbed,  An

Absolutely Childish Picture,  Such As An Urchin Of Four Might Have

Painted; A Little Cottage At The Edge Of A Little Road,  With A Little

Tree Beside It,  The Whole Out Of Drawing,  And Girt Round With Black

Lines. Not Even A Corkscrew Imitation Of Smoke Issuing From The Roof

Was Forgotten.

Claude Made A Nervous Gesture,  While Fagerolles Repeated

Phlegmatically:

'Very Delicate,  Very Delicate. But Your Picture,  Gagniere,  Where Is

It?'

'My Picture,  It Is There.'

In Fact,  The Picture He Had Sent Happened To Be Very Near The Little

Masterpiece. It Was A Landscape Of A Pearly Grey,  A Bit Of The Seine

Banks,  Painted Carefully,  Pretty In Tone,  Though Somewhat Heavy,  And

Perfectly Ponderated Without A Sign Of Any Revolutionary Splash.

'To Think That They Were Idiotic Enough To Refuse That!' Said Claude,

Who Had Approached With An Air Of Interest. But Why,  I Ask You,  Why?'

'Because It's Realistic,' Said Fagerolles,  In So Sharp A Voice That

One Could Not Tell Whether He Was Gibing At The Jury Or At The

Picture.

Meanwhile,  Irma,  Of Whom No One Took Any Notice,  Was Looking Fixedly

At Claude With The Unconscious Smile Which The Savage Loutishness Of

That Big Fellow Always Brought To Her Lips. To Think That He Had Not

Even Cared To See Her Again. She Found Him So Much Altered Since The

Last Time She Had Seen Him,  So Funny,  And Not At All Prepossessing,

With His Hair Standing On End,  And His Face Wan And Sallow,  As If He

Had Had A Severe Fever. Pained That He Did Not Seem To Notice Her,  She

Wanted To Attract His Attention,  And Touched His Arm With A Familiar

Gesture.

'I Say,  Isn't That One Of Your Friends Over There,  Looking For You?'

It Was Dubuche,  Whom She Knew From Having Seen Him On One Occasion At

The Cafe Baudequin. He Was,  With Difficulty,  Elbowing His Way Through

The Crowd,  And Staring Vaguely At The Sea Of Heads Around Him. But All

At Once,  When Claude Was Trying To Attract His Notice By Dint Of

Gesticulations,  The Other Turned His Back To Bow Very Low To A Party

Of Three--The Father Short And Fat,  With A Sanguine Face; The Mother

Very Thin,  Of The Colour Of Wax,  And Devoured By Anemia; And The

Daughter So Physically Backward At Eighteen,  That She Retained All The

Lank Scragginess Of Childhood.

'All Right!' Muttered The Painter. 'There He's Caught Now. What Ugly

Acquaintances The Brute Has! Where Can He Have Fished Up Such

Horrors?'

Gagniere Quietly Replied That He Knew The Strangers By Sight. M.

Margaillan Was A Great Masonry Contractor,  Already A Millionaire Five

Or Six Times Over,  And Was Making His Fortune Out Of The Great Public

Works Of Paris,  Running Up Whole Boulevards On His Own Account. No

Doubt Dubuche Had Become Acquainted With Him Through One Of The

Architects He Worked For.

However,  Sandoz,  Compassionating The Scragginess Of The Girl,  Whom He

Kept Watching,  Judged Her In One Sentence.

'Ah! The Poor Little Flayed Kitten. One Feels Sorry For Her.'

'Let Them Alone!' Exclaimed Claude,  Ferociously. 'They Have All The

Crimes Of The Middle Classes Stamped On Their Faces; They Reek Of

Scrofula And Idiocy. It Serves Them Right. But Hallo! Our Runaway

Friend Is Making Off With Them. What Grovellers Architects Are! Good

Riddance. He'll Have To Look For Us When He Wants Us!'

Dubuche,  Who Had Not Seen His Friends,  Had Just Offered His Arm To The

Mother,  And Was Going Off,  Explaining The Pictures With Gestures

Typical Of Exaggerated Politeness.

'Well,  Let's Proceed Then,' Said Fagerolles; And,  Addressing Gagniere,

He Asked,  'Do You Know Where They Have Put Claude's Picture?'

'I? No,  I Was Looking For It--I Am Going With You.'

He Accompanied Them,  Forgetting Irma Becot Against The 'Line.' It Was

She Who Had Wanted To Visit The Salon On His Arm,  And He Was So Little

Used To Promenading A Woman About,  That He Had Constantly Lost Her On

The Way,  And Was Each Time Stupefied To Find Her Again Beside Him,  No

Longer Knowing How Or Why They Were Thus Together. She Ran After Them,

And Took His Arm Once More In Order To Follow Claude,  Who Was Already

Passing Into Another Gallery With Fagerolles And Sandoz.

Then The Five Roamed About In Indian File,  With Their Noses In The

Air,