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

Picture,  The Architect,  Ill At Ease,  Overtaken By Cowardly Shame,

Wished To Quicken His Pace And Lead His Party Further On,  Pretending

That He Saw Neither The Canvas Nor His Friends. But The Contractor Had

Already Drawn Himself Up On His Short,  Squat Legs,  And Was Staring At

The Picture,  And Asking Aloud In His Thick Hoarse Voice:

'I Say,  Who's The Blockhead That Painted This?'

That Good-Natured Bluster,  That Cry Of A Millionaire Parvenu Resuming

The Average Opinion Of The Assembly,  Increased The General Merriment;

And He,  Flattered By His Success,  And Tickled By The Strange Style Of

The Painting,  Started Laughing In His Turn,  So Sonorously That He

Could Be Heard Above All The Others. This Was The Hallelujah,  A Final

Outburst Of The Great Organ Of Opinion.

'Take My Daughter Away,' Whispered Pale-Faced Madame Margaillan In

Dubuche's Ear.

He Sprang Forward And Freed Regine,  Who Had Lowered Her Eyelids,  From

The Crowd; Displaying In Doing So As Much Muscular Energy As If It Had

Been A Question Of Saving The Poor Creature From Imminent Death. Then

Having Taken Leave Of The Margaillans At The Door,  With A Deal Of

Handshaking And Bows,  He Came Towards His Friends,  And Said

Straightway To Sandoz,  Fagerolles,  And Gagniere:

'What Would You Have? It Isn't My Fault--I Warned Him That The Public

Would Not Understand Him. It's Improper; Yes,  You May Say What You

Like,  It's Improper.'

'They Hissed Delacroix,' Broke In Sandoz,  White With Rage,  And

Clenching His Fists. 'They Hissed Courbet. Oh,  The Race Of Enemies!

Oh,  The Born Idiots!'

Gagniere,  Who Now Shared This Artistic Vindictiveness,  Grew Angry At

The Recollection Of His Sunday Battles At The Pasdeloup Concerts In

Favour Of Real Music.

'And They Hiss Wagner Too; They Are The Same Crew. I Recognise Them.

You See That Fat Fellow Over There--'

Jory Had To Hold Him Back. The Journalist For His Part Would Rather

Have Urged On The Crowd. He Kept On Repeating That It Was Famous,  That

There Was A Hundred Thousand Francs' Worth Of Advertisements In It.

And Irma,  Left To Her Own Devices Once More,  Went Up To Two Of Her

Friends,  Young Bourse Men Who Were Among The Most Persistent Scoffers,

But Whom She Began To Indoctrinate,  Forcing Them,  As It Were,  Into

Admiration,  By Rapping Them On The Knuckles.

Fagerolles,  However,  Had Not Opened His Lips. He Kept On Examining The

Picture,  And Glancing At The Crowd. With His Parisian Instinct And The

Elastic Conscience Of A Skilful Fellow,  He At Once Fathomed The

Misunderstanding. He Was Already Vaguely Conscious Of What Was Wanted

For That Style Of Painting To Make The Conquest Of Everybody--A Little

Trickery Perhaps,  Some Attenuations,  A Different Choice Of Subject,  A

Milder Method Of Execution. In The Main,  The Influence That Claude Had

Always Had Over Him Persisted In Making Itself Felt; He Remained

Imbued With It; It Had Set Its Stamp Upon Him For Ever. Only He

Considered Claude To Be An Arch-Idiot To Have Exhibited Such A Thing

As That. Wasn't It Stupid To Believe In The Intelligence Of The

Public? What Was The Meaning Of That Nude Woman Beside That Gentleman

Who Was Fully Dressed? And What Did Those Two Little Wrestlers In The

Background Mean? Yet The Picture Showed Many Of The Qualities Of A

Master. There Wasn't Another Bit Of Painting Like It In The Salon! And

He Felt A Great Contempt For That Artist,  So Admirably Endowed,  Who

Through Lack Of Tact Made All Paris Roar As If He Had Been The Worst

Of Daubers.

This Contempt Became So Strong That He Was Unable To Hide It. In A

Moment Of Irresistible Frankness He Exclaimed:

'Look Here,  My Dear Fellow,  It's Your Own Fault,  You Are Too Stupid.'

Claude,  Turning His Eyes From The Crowd,  Looked At Him In Silence. He

Had Not Winced,  He Had Only Turned Pale Amidst The Laughter,  And If

His Lips Quivered It Was Merely With A Slight Nervous Twitching;

Nobody Knew Him,  It Was His Work Alone That Was Being Buffeted. Then

For A Moment He Glanced Again At His Picture,  And Slowly Inspected The

Other Canvases In The Gallery. And Amidst The Collapse Of His

Illusions,  The Bitter Agony Of His Pride,  A Breath Of Courage,  A Whiff

Of Health And Youth Came To Him From All That Gaily-Brave Painting

Which Rushed With Such Headlong Passion To Beat Down Classical

Conventionality. He Was Consoled And Inspirited By It All; He Felt No

Remorse Nor Contrition,  But,  On The Contrary,  Was Impelled To Fight

The Popular Taste Still More. No Doubt There Was Some Clumsiness And

Some Puerility Of Effort In His Work,  But On The Other Hand What A

Pretty General Tone,  What A Play Of Light He Had Thrown Into It,  A

Silvery Grey Light,  Fine And Diffuse,  Brightened By All The Dancing

Sunbeams Of The Open Air. It Was As If A Window Had Been Suddenly

Opened Amidst All The Old Bituminous Cookery Of Art,  Amidst All The

Stewing Sauces Of Tradition,  And The Sun Came In And The Walls Smiled

Under That Invasion Of Springtide. The Light Note Of His Picture,  The

Bluish Tinge That People Had Been Railing At,  Flashed Out Among The

Other Paintings Also. Was This Not The Expected Dawn,  A New Aurora

Rising On Art? He Perceived A Critic Who Stopped Without Laughing,

Some Celebrated Painters Who Looked Surprised And Grave,  While Papa

Malgras,  Very Dirty,  Went From Picture To Picture With The Pout Of A

Wary Connoisseur,  And Finally Stopped Short In Front Of His Canvas,

Motionless,  Absorbed. Then Claude Turned Round To Fagerolles,  And

Surprised Him By This Tardy Reply:

'A Fellow Can Only Be An Idiot According To His Own Lights,  My Dear

Chap,  And It Looks As If I Am Going To Remain One. So Much The Better

For You If You Are Clever!'

Fagerolles At Once Patted Him On The Shoulder,  Like A Chum Who Had

Only Been In Fun,  And Claude Allowed Sandoz To Take His Arm. They Led

Him Off At Last. The Whole Band Left The Salon Of The Rejected,

Deciding That They Would Pass On Their Way Through The Gallery Of

Architecture; For A Design For A Museum By Dubuche Had Been Accepted,

And For Some Few Minutes He Had Been Fidgeting And Begging Them With

So Humble A Look,  That It Seemed Difficult Indeed To Deny Him This

Satisfaction.

'Ah!' Said Jory,  Jocularly,  On Entering The Gallery,  'What An

Ice-Well! One Can Breathe Here.'

They All Took Off Their Hats And Wiped Their Foreheads,  With A Feeling

Of Relief,  As If They Had Reached Some Big Shady Trees After A Long

March In Full Sunlight. The Gallery Was Empty. From The Roof,  Shaded

By A White Linen Screen,  There Fell A Soft,  Even,  Rather Sad Light,

Which Was Reflected Like Quiescent Water By The Well-Waxed,

Mirror-Like Floor. On The Four Walls,  Of A Faded Red,  Hung The Plans

And Designs In Large And Small Chases,  Edged With Pale Blue Borders.

Alone--Absolutely Alone--Amidst This Desert Stood A Very Hirsute

Gentleman,  Who Was Lost In The Contemplation Of The Plan Of A Charity

Home. Three Ladies Who Appeared Became Frightened And Fled Across The

Gallery With Hasty Steps.

Dubuche Was Already Showing And Explaining His Work To His Comrades.

It Was Only A Drawing Of A Modest Little Museum Gallery,  Which He Had

Sent In With Ambitious Haste,  Contrary To Custom And Against The

Wishes Of His Master,  Who,  Nevertheless,  Had Used His Influence To

Have It Accepted,  Thinking Himself Pledged To Do So.

'Is Your Museum Intended For The Accommodation Of The Paintings Of The

"Open Air" School?' Asked Fagerolles,  Very Gravely.

Gagniere Pretended To Admire The Plan,  Nodding His Head,  But Thinking

Of Something Else; While Claude And Sandoz Examined It With Sincere

Interest.

'Not Bad,  Old Boy,' Said The Former. 'The Ornamentation Is Still

Bastardly Traditional; But Never Mind; It Will Do.'

Jory,  Becoming Impatient At Last,  Cut Him Short.

'Come Along,  Let's Go,  Eh? I'm Catching My Death Of Cold Here.'

The Band Resumed Its March. The Worst Was That To Make A Short Cut

They Had To Go Right Through The Official Salon,  And They Resigned

Themselves To Doing So,  Notwithstanding The Oath They Had Taken Not To

Set Foot In It,  As A Matter Of Protest. Cutting Their Way Through The

Crowd,  Keeping Rigidly Erect,  They Followed The Suite Of Galleries,

Casting Indignant Glances To Right And Left. There Was None Of The Gay

Scandal Of Their Salon,  Full Of Fresh Tones And An Exaggeration Of

Sunlight,  Here. One After The Other Came Gilt Frames Full Of Shadows;

Black Pretentious Things,  Nude Figures Showing Yellowish In A

Cellar-Like Light,  The Frippery Of So-Called Classical Art,

Historical,  Genre And Landscape Painting,  All Showing The Same

Conventional Black Grease. The Works Reeked Of Uniform Mediocrity,

They Were Characterised By A Muddy Dinginess Of Tone,  Despite Their

Primness--The Primness Of Impoverished,  Degenerate Blood. And The

Friends Quickened Their Steps: They Ran To Escape From That Reign Of

Bitumen,  Condemning Everything In One Lump With Their Superb Sectarian

Injustice,  Repeating That There Was Nothing In The Place Worth Looking

At--Nothing,  Nothing At All!

At Last They Emerged From The Galleries,  And Were Going Down Into The

Garden When They Met Mahoudeau And Chaine. The Former Threw Himself

Into Claude's Arms.

'Ah,  My Dear Fellow,  Your Picture; What Artistic Temperament It

Shows!'

The Painter At Once Began To Praise The 'Vintaging Girl.'

'And You,  I Say,  You Have Thrown A Nice Big Lump At Their Heads!'

But The Sight Of Chaine,  To Whom No One Spoke About The 'Woman Taken

In Adultery,' And Who Went Silently Wandering Around,  Awakened

Claude's Compassion. He Thought There Was Something Very Sad About

That Execrable Painting,  And The Wasted Life Of That Peasant Who Was A

Victim Of Middle-Class Admiration. He Always Gave Him The Delight Of A

Little Praise; So Now He Shook His Hand Cordially,  Exclaiming:

'Your Machine's Very Good Too. Ah,  My Fine Fellow,  Draughtsmanship Has

No Terrors For You!'

'No,  Indeed,' Declared Chaine,  Who Had Grown Purple With Vanity Under

His Black Bushy Beard.

He And Mahoudeau Joined The Band,  And The Latter Asked The Others

Whether They Had Seen Chambouvard's 'Sower.' It Was Marvellous; The

Only Piece Of Statuary Worth Looking At In The Salon. Thereupon They

All Followed Him Into The Garden,  Which The Crowd Was Now Invading.

'There,' Said Mahoudeau,  Stopping In The Middle Of The Central Path:

'Chambouvard Is Standing Just In Front Of His "Sower."'

In Fact,  A Portly Man Stood There,  Solidly Planted On