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

Unable To Disguise Some Hesitation When They Found Themselves Under

The Gaze Of The Ardent,  Dilated Eyes With Which He Implored Them--Eyes

In Which One Could Read The Hidden Fear Of Decline. They Knew Current

Rumours Well Enough; They Agreed With The Opinion That Since His

'Village Wedding' The Painter Had Produced Nothing Equal To That

Famous Picture. Indeed,  After Maintaining Something Of That Standard

Of Excellence In A Few Works,  He Was Now Gliding Into A More

Scientific,  Drier Manner. Brightness Of Colour Was Vanishing; Each

Work Seemed To Show A Decline. However,  These Were Things Not To Be

Said; So Claude,  When He Had Recovered His Composure,  Exclaimed:

'You Never Painted Anything So Powerful!'

Bongrand Looked At Him Again,  Straight In The Eyes. Then He Turned To

His Work,  In Which He Became Absorbed,  Making A Movement With His

Herculean Arms,  As If He Were Breaking Every Bone Of Them To Lift That

Little Canvas Which Was So Very Light. And He Muttered To Himself:

'Confound It! How Heavy It Is! Never Mind,  I'll Die At It Rather Than

Show A Falling-Off.'

He Took Up His Palette And Grew Calm At The First Stroke Of The Brush,

While Bending His Manly Shoulders And Broad Neck,  About Which One

Noticed Traces Of Peasant Build Remaining Amid The Bourgeois

Refinement Contributed By The Crossing Of Classes Of Which He Was The

Outcome.

Silence Had Ensued,  But Jory,  His Eyes Still Fixed On The Picture,

Asked:

'Is It Sold?'

Bongrand Replied Leisurely,  Like The Artist Who Works When He Likes

Without Care Of Profit:

'No; I Feel Paralysed When I've A Dealer At My Back.' And,  Without

Pausing In His Work,  He Went On Talking,  Growing Waggish.

'Ah! People Are Beginning To Make A Trade Of Painting Now. Really And

Truly I Have Never Seen Such A Thing Before,  Old As I Am Getting. For

Instance,  You,  Mr. Amiable Journalist,  What A Quantity Of Flowers You

Fling To The Young Ones In That Article In Which You Mentioned Me!

There Were Two Or Three Youngsters Spoken Of Who Were Simply Geniuses,

Nothing Less.'

Jory Burst Out Laughing.

'Well,  When A Fellow Has A Paper,  He Must Make Use Of It. Besides,  The

Public Likes To Have Great Men Discovered For It.'

'No Doubt,  Public Stupidity Is Boundless,  And I Am Quite Willing That

You Should Trade On It. Only I Remember The First Starts That We Old

Fellows Had. Dash It! We Were Not Spoiled Like That,  I Can Tell You.

We Had Ten Years' Labour And Struggle Before Us Ere We Could Impose On

People A Picture The Size Of Your Hand; Whereas Nowadays The First

Hobbledehoy Who Can Stick A Figure On Its Legs Makes All The Trumpets

Of Publicity Blare. And What Kind Of Publicity Is It? A Hullabaloo

From One End Of France To The Other,  Sudden Reputations That Shoot Up

Of A Night,  And Burst Upon One Like Thunderbolts,  Amid The Gaping Of

The Throng. And I Say Nothing Of The Works Themselves,  Those Works

Announced With Salvoes Of Artillery,  Awaited Amid A Delirium Of

Impatience,  Maddening Paris For A Week,  And Then Falling Into

Everlasting Oblivion!'

'This Is An Indictment Against Journalism,' Said Jory,  Who Had

Stretched Himself On The Couch And Lighted Another Cigar. 'There Is A

Great Deal To Be Said For And Against It,  But Devil A Bit,  A Man Must

Keep Pace With The Times.'

Bongrand Shook His Head,  And Then Started Off Again,  Amid A Tremendous

Burst Of Mirth:

'No! No! One Can No Longer Throw Off The Merest Daub Without Being

Hailed As A Young "Master." Well,  If You Only Knew How Your Young

Masters Amuse Me!'

But As If These Words Had Led To Some Other Ideas,  He Cooled Down,  And

Turned Towards Claude To Ask This Question: 'By The Way,  Have You Seen

Fagerolles' Picture?'

'Yes,' Said The Young Fellow,  Quietly.

They Both Remained Looking At Each Other: A Restless Smile Had Risen

To Their Lips,  And Bongrand Eventually Added:

'There's A Fellow Who Pillages You Right And Left.'

Jory,  Becoming Embarrassed,  Had Lowered His Eyes,  Asking Himself

Whether He Should Defend Fagerolles. He,  No Doubt,  Concluded That It

Would Be Profitable To Do So,  For He Began To Praise The Picture Of

The Actress In Her Dressing-Room,  An Engraving Of Which Was Then

Attracting A Great Deal Of Notice In The Print-Shops. Was Not The

Subject A Really Modern One? Was It Not Well Painted,  In The Bright

Clear Tone Of The New School? A Little More Vigour Might,  Perhaps,

Have Been Desirable; But Every One Ought To Be Left To His Own

Temperament. And Besides,  Refinement And Charm Were Not So Common By

Any Means,  Nowadays.

Bending Over His Canvas,  Bongrand,  Who,  As A Rule,  Had Nothing But

Paternal Praise For The Young Ones,  Shook And Made A Visible Effort To

Avoid An Outburst. The Explosion Took Place,  However,  In Spite Of

Himself.

'Just Shut Up,  Eh? About Your Fagerolles! Do You Think Us Greater

Fools Than We Really Are? There! You See The Great Painter Here

Present. Yes; I Mean The Young Gentleman In Front Of You. Well,  The

Whole Trick Consists In Pilfering His Originality,  And Dishing It Up

With The Wishy-Washy Sauce Of The School Of Arts! Quite So! You Select

A Modern Subject,  And You Paint In The Clear Bright Style,  Only You

Adhere To Correctly Commonplace Drawing,  To All The Habitual Pleasing

Style Of Composition--In Short,  To The Formula Which Is Taught Over

Yonder For The Pleasure Of The Middle-Classes. And You Souse All That

With Deftness,  That Execrable Deftness Of The Fingers Which Would Just

As Well Carve Cocoanuts,  The Flowing,  Pleasant Deftness That Begets

Success,  And Which Ought To Be Punished With Penal Servitude,  Do You

Hear?'

He Brandished His Palette And Brushes Aloft,  In His Clenched Fists.

'You Are Severe,' Said Claude,  Feeling Embarrassed. 'Fagerolles Shows

Delicacy In His Work.'

'I Have Been Told,' Muttered Jory,  Mildly,  'That He Has Just Signed A

Very Profitable Agreement With Naudet.'

That Name,  Thrown Haphazard Into The Conversation,  Had The Effect Of

Once More Soothing Bongrand,  Who Repeated,  Shrugging His Shoulders:

'Ah! Naudet--Ah! Naudet.'

And He Greatly Amused The Young Fellows By Telling Them About Naudet,

With Whom He Was Well Acquainted. He Was A Dealer,  Who,  For Some Few

Years,  Had Been Revolutionising The Picture Trade. There Was Nothing

Of The Old Fashion About His Style--The Greasy Coat And Keen Taste Of

Papa Malgras,  The Watching For The Pictures Of Beginners,  Bought At

Ten Francs,  To Be Resold At Fifteen,  All The Little Humdrum Comedy Of

The Connoisseur,  Turning Up His Nose At A Coveted Canvas In Order To

Depreciate It,  Worshipping Painting In His Inmost Heart,  And Earning A

Meagre Living By Quickly And Prudently Turning Over His Petty Capital.

No,  No; The Famous Naudet Had The Appearance Of A Nobleman,  With A

Fancy-Pattern Jacket,  A Diamond Pin In His Scarf,  And Patent-Leather

Boots; He Was Well Pomaded And Brushed,  And Lived In Fine Style,  With

A Livery-Stable Carriage By The Month,  A Stall At The Opera,  And His

Particular Table At Bignon's. And He Showed Himself Wherever It Was

The Correct Thing To Be Seen. For The Rest,  He Was A Speculator,  A

Stock Exchange Gambler,  Not Caring One Single Rap About Art. But He

Unfailingly Scented Success,  He Guessed What Artist Ought To Be

Properly Started,  Not The One Who Seemed Likely To Develop The Genius

Of A Great Painter,  Furnishing Food For Discussion,  But The One Whose

Deceptive Talent,  Set Off By A Pretended Display Of Audacity,  Would

Command A Premium In The Market. And That Was The Way In Which He

Revolutionised That Market,  Giving The Amateur Of Taste The Cold

Shoulder,  And Only Treating With The Moneyed Amateur,  Who Knew Nothing

About Art,  But Who Bought A Picture As He Might Buy A Share At The

Stock Exchange,  Either From Vanity Or With The Hope That It Would Rise

In Value.

At This Stage Of The Conversation Bongrand,  Very Jocular By Nature,

And With A Good Deal Of The Mummer About Him,  Began To Enact The

Scene. Enter Naudet In Fagerolles' Studio.

'"You've Real Genius,  My Dear Fellow. Your Last Picture Is Sold,  Then?

For How Much?"

'"For Five Hundred Francs."

'"But You Must Be Mad; It Was Worth Twelve Hundred. And This One Which

You Have By You--How Much?"

'"Well,  My Faith,  I Don't Know. Suppose We Say Twelve Hundred?"

'"What Are You Talking About? Twelve Hundred Francs! You Don't

Understand Me,  Then,  My Boy; It's Worth Two Thousand. I Take It At Two

Thousand. And From This Day Forward You Must Work For No One But

Myself--For Me,  Naudet. Good-Bye,  Good-Bye,  My Dear Fellow; Don't

Overwork Yourself--Your Fortune Is Made. I Have Taken It In Hand."

Wherewith He Goes Off,  Taking The Picture With Him In His Carriage. He

Trots It Round Among His Amateurs,  Among Whom He Has Spread The Rumour

That He Has Just Discovered An Extraordinary Painter. One Of The

Amateurs Bites At Last,  And Asks The Price.

"'Five Thousand."

'"What,  Five Thousand Francs For The Picture Of A Man Whose Name

Hasn't The Least Notoriety? Are You Playing The Fool With Me?"

'"Look Here,  I'll Make You A Proposal; I'll Sell It You For Five

Thousand Francs,  And I'll Sign An Agreement To Take It Back In A

Twelvemonth At Six Thousand,  If You No Longer Care For It."

Of Course The Amateur Is Tempted. What Does He Risk After All? In

Reality It's A Good Speculation,  And So He Buys. After That Naudet

Loses No Time,  But Disposes In A Similar Manner Of Nine Or Ten

Paintings By The Same Man During The Course Of The Year. Vanity Gets

Mingled With The Hope Of Gain,  The Prices Go Up,  The Pictures Get

Regularly Quoted,  So That When Naudet Returns To See His Amateur,  The

Latter,  Instead Of Returning The Picture,  Buys Another One For Eight

Thousand Francs. And The Prices Continue To Go Up,  And Painting

Degenerates Into Something Shady,  A Kind Of Gold Mine Situated On The

Heights Of Montmartre,  Promoted By A Number Of Bankers,  And Around

Which There Is A Constant Battle Of Bank-Notes.'

Claude Was Growing Indignant,  But Jory Thought It All Very Clever,

When There Came A Knock At The Door. Bongrand,  Who Went To Open It,

Uttered A Cry Of Surprise.

'Naudet,  As I Live! We Were Just Talking About You.'

Naudet,  Very Correctly Dressed,  Without A Speck Of Mud On Him,  Despite

The Horrible Weather,  Bowed And Came In With The Reverential

Politeness Of