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

With A Start From The Heavy Sleep Which Had Benumbed Her While She Sat

Watching The Sick Child.

'Claude! Claude! Oh,  Look! He Is Dead.'

The Painter Rushed Forward,  With Heavy Eyes,  Stumbling,  And Apparently

Failing To Understand,  For He Repeated With An Air Of Profound

Amazement,  'What Do You Mean By Saying He Is Dead?'

For A Moment They Remained Staring Wildly At The Bed. The Poor Little

Fellow,  With His Disproportionate Head--The Head Of The Progeny Of

Genius,  Exaggerated As To Verge Upon Cretinism--Did Not Appear To Have

Stirred Since The Previous Night; But No Breath Came From His Mouth,

Which Had Widened And Become Discoloured,  And His Glassy Eyes Were

Open. His Father Laid His Hands Upon Him And Found Him Icy Cold.

'It Is True,  He Is Dead.'

And Their Stupor Was Such That For Yet Another Moment They Remained

With Their Eyes Dry,  Simply Thunderstruck,  As It Were,  By The

Abruptness Of That Death Which They Considered Incredible.

Then,  Her Knees Bending Under Her,  Christine Dropped Down In Front Of

The Bed,  Bursting Into Violent Sobs Which Shook Her From Head To Foot,

And Wringing Her Hands,  Whilst Her Forehead Remained Pressed Against

The Mattress. In That First Moment Of Horror Her Despair Was

Aggravated Above All By Poignant Remorse--The Remorse Of Not Having

Sufficiently Cared For The Poor Child. Former Days Started Up Before

Her In A Rapid Vision,  Each Bringing With It Regretfulness For Unkind

Words,  Deferred Caresses,  Rough Treatment Even. And Now It Was All

Over; She Would Never Be Able To Compensate The Lad For The Affection

She Had Withheld From Him. He Whom She Thought So Disobedient Had

Obeyed But Too Well At Last. She Had So Often Told Him When At Play To

Be Still,  And Not To Disturb His Father At His Work,  That He Was Quiet

At Last,  And For Ever. The Idea Suffocated Her; Each Sob Drew From Her

A Dull Moan.

Claude Had Begun Walking Up And Down The Studio,  Unable To Remain

Still. With His Features Convulsed,  He Shed A Few Big Tears,  Which He

Brushed Away With The Back Of His Hand. And Whenever He Passed In

Front Of The Little Corpse He Could Not Help Glancing At It. The

Glassy Eyes,  Wide Open,  Seemed To Exercise A Spell Over Him. At First

He Resisted,  But A Confused Idea Assumed Shape Within Him,  And Would

Not Be Shaken Off. He Yielded To It At Last,  Took A Small Canvas,  And

Began To Paint A Study Of The Dead Child. For The First Few Minutes

His Tears Dimmed His Sight,  Wrapping Everything In A Mist; But He Kept

Wiping Them Away,  And Persevered With His Work,  Even Though His Brush

Shook. Then The Passion For Art Dried His Tears And Steadied His Hand,

And In A Little While It Was No Longer His Icy Son That Lay There,  But

Merely A Model,  A Subject,  The Strange Interest Of Which Stirred Him.

That Huge Head,  That Waxy Flesh,  Those Eyes Which Looked Like Holes

Staring Into Space--All Excited And Thrilled Him. He Stepped Back,

Seemed To Take Pleasure In His Work,  And Vaguely Smiled At It.

When Christine Rose From Her Knees,  She Found Him Thus Occupied. Then,

Bursting Into Tears Again,  She Merely Said:

'Ah! You Can Paint Him Now,  He'll Never Stir Again.'

For Five Hours Claude Kept At It,  And On The Second Day,  When Sandoz

Came Back With Him From The Cemetery,  After The Funeral,  He Shuddered

With Pity And Admiration At The Sight Of The Small Canvas. It Was One

Of The Fine Bits Of Former Days,  A Masterpiece Of Limpidity And Power,

To Which Was Added A Note Of Boundless Melancholy,  The End Of

Everything--All Life Ebbing Away With The Death Of That Child.

But Sandoz,  Who Had Burst Out Into Exclamations Fall Of Praise,  Was

Quite Taken Aback On Hearing Claude Say To Him:

'You Are Sure You Like It? In That Case,  As The Other Machine Isn't

Ready,  I'll Send This To The Salon.'

One Morning,  As Claude,  Who Had Taken 'The Dead Child' To The Palais

De L'industrie The Previous Day,  Was Roaming Round About The Parc

Monceau,  He Suddenly Came Upon Fagerolles.

'What!' Said The Latter,  Cordially,  'Is It You,  Old Fellow? What's

Becoming Of You? What Are You Doing? We See So Little Of Each Other

Now.'

Then,  Claude Having Mentioned What He Had Sent To The Salon--That

Little Canvas Which His Mind Was Full Of--Fagerolles Added:

'Ah! You've Sent Something; Then I'll Get It "Hung" For You. You Know

That I'm A Candidate For The Hanging Committee This Year.'

Indeed,  Amid The Tumult And Everlasting Discontent Of The Artists,

After Attempts At Reform,  Repeated A Score Of Times And Then

Abandoned,  The Authorities Had Just Invested The Exhibitors With The

Privilege Of Electing The Members Of The Hanging Committee; And This

Had Quite Upset The World Of Painters And Sculptors,  A Perfect

Electoral Fever Had Set In,  With All Sorts Of Ambitious Cabals And

Intrigues--All The Low Jobbery,  Indeed,  By Which Politics Are

Dishonoured.

'I'm Going To Take You With Me,' Continued Fagerolles; You Must Come

And See How I'm Settled In My Little House,  In Which You Haven't Yet

Set Foot,  In Spite Of All Your Promises. It's There,  Hard By,  At The

Corner Of The Avenue De Villiers.'

Claude,  Whose Arm He Had Gaily Taken,  Was Obliged To Follow Him. He

Was Seized With A Fit Of Cowardice; The Idea That His Old Chum Might

Get His Picture 'Hung' For Him Filled Him With Mingled Shame And

Desire. On Reaching The Avenue,  He Stopped In Front Of The House To

Look At Its Frontage,  A Bit Of Coquettish,  _Precioso_ Architectural

Tracery--The Exact Copy Of A Renaissance House At Bourges,  With

Lattice Windows,  A Staircase Tower,  And A Roof Decked With Leaden

Ornaments. It Looked Like The Abode Of A Harlot; And Claude Was Struck

With Surprise When,  On Turning Round,  He Recognised Irma Becot's Regal

Mansion Just Over The Way. Huge,  Substantial,  Almost Severe Of Aspect,

It Had All The Importance Of A Palace Compared To Its Neighbour,  The

Dwelling Of The Artist,  Who Was Obliged To Limit Himself To A Fanciful

Nick-Nack.

'Ah! That Irma,  Eh?' Said Fagerolles With Just A Shade Of Respect In

His Tone. 'She Has Got A Cathedral And No Mistake! But Come In.'

The Interior Of Fagerolles' House Was Strangely And Magnificently

Luxurious. Old Tapestry,  Old Weapons,  A Heap Of Old Furniture,  Chinese

And Japanese Curios Were Displayed Even In The Very Hall. On The Left

There Was A Dining-Room,  Panelled With Lacquer Work And Having Its

Ceiling Draped With A Design Of A Red Dragon. Then There Was A

Staircase Of Carved Wood Above Which Banners Drooped,  Whilst Tropical

Plants Rose Up Like Plumes. Overhead,  The Studio Was A Marvel,  Though

Rather Small And Without A Picture Visible. The Walls,  Indeed,  Were

Entirely Covered With Oriental Hangings,  While At One End Rose Up A

Huge Chimney-Piece With Chimerical Monsters Supporting The Tablet,  And

At The Other Extremity Appeared A Vast Couch Under A Tent--The Latter

Quite A Monument,  With Lances Upholding The Sumptuous Drapery,  Above A

Collection Of Carpets,  Furs And Cushions Heaped Together Almost On A

Level With The Flooring.

Claude Looked At It All,  And There Came To His Lips A Question Which

He Held Back--Was All This Paid For? Fagerolles,  Who Had Been

Decorated With The Legion Of Honour The Previous Year,  Now Asked,  It

Was Said,  Ten Thousand Francs For Painting A Mere Portrait. Naudet,

Who,  After Launching Him,  Duly Turned His Success To Profit In A

Methodical Fashion,  Never Let One Of His Pictures Go For Less Than

Twenty,  Thirty,  Forty Thousand Francs. Orders Would Have Fallen On The

Painter's Shoulders As Thick As Hail,  If He Had Not Affected The

Disdain,  The Weariness Of The Man Whose Slightest Sketches Are Fought

For. And Yet All This Display Of Luxury Smacked Of Indebtedness,  There

Was Only So Much Paid On Account To The Upholsterers; All The Money

--The Money Won By Lucky Strokes As On 'Change--Slipped Through The

Artist's Fingers,  And Was Spent Without Trace Of It Remaining.

Moreover,  Fagerolles,  Still In The Full Flush Of His Sudden Good

Fortune,  Did Not Calculate Or Worry,  Being Confident That He Would

Always Sell His Works At Higher And Higher Prices,  And Feeling

Glorious At The High Position He Was Acquiring In Contemporary Art.

Eventually,  Claude Espied A Little Canvas On An Ebony Easel,  Draped

With Red Plush. Excepting A Rosewood Tube Case And Box Of Crayons,

Forgotten On An Article Of Furniture,  Nothing Reminding One Of The

Artistic Profession Could Be Seen Lying About.

'Very Finely Treated,' Said Claude,  Wishing To Be Amiable,  As He Stood

In Front Of The Little Canvas. 'And Is Your Picture For The Salon

Sent?'

'Ah! Yes,  Thank Heavens! What A Number Of People I Had Here! A Perfect

Procession Which Kept Me On My Legs From Morning Till Evening During A

Week. I Didn't Want To Exhibit It,  As It Lowers One To Do So,  And

Naudet Also Opposed It. But What Would You Have Done? I Was So Begged

And Prayed; All The Young Fellows Want To Set Me On The Committee,  So

That I May Defend Them. Oh! My Picture Is Simple Enough--I Call It "A

Picnic." There Are A Couple Of Gentlemen And Three Ladies Under Some

Trees--Guests At Some Chateau,  Who Have Brought A Collation With Them

And Are Eating It In A Glade. You'll See,  It's Rather Original.'

He Spoke In A Hesitating Manner,  And When His Eyes Met Those Of

Claude,  Who Was Looking At Him Fixedly,  He Lost Countenance

Altogether,  And