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

Feeling Of Shame Restrained Him. Besides,  As The Committee Proceeded

In Alphabetical Order,  Nothing Perhaps Was Yet Decided. However,  One

Evening,  On The Boulevard De Clichy,  He Felt His Heart Thump As He Saw

Two Broad Shoulders,  With Whose Lolloping Motion He Was Well

Acquainted,  Coming Towards Him.

They Were The Shoulders Of Bongrand,  Who Seemed Embarrassed. He Was

The First To Speak,  And Said:

'You Know Matters Aren't Progressing Very Well Over Yonder With Those

Brutes. But Everything Isn't Lost. Fagerolles And I Are On The Watch.

Still,  You Must Rely On Fagerolles; As For Me,  My Dear Fellow,  I Am

Awfully Afraid Of Compromising Your Chances.'

To Tell The Truth,  There Was Constant Hostility Between Bongrand And

The President Of The Hanging Committee,  Mazel,  A Famous Master Of The

School Of Arts,  And The Last Rampart Of The Elegant,  Buttery,

Conventional Style Of Art. Although They Called Each Other 'Dear

Colleague' And Made A Great Show Of Shaking Hands,  Their Hostility Had

Burst Forth The Very First Day; One Of Them Could Never Ask For The

Admission Of A Picture Without The Other One Voting For Its Rejection.

Fagerolles,  Who Had Been Elected Secretary,  Had,  On The Contrary,  Made

Himself Mazel's Amuser,  His Vice,  And Mazel Forgave His Old Pupil's

Defection,  So Skilfully Did The Renegade Flatter Him. Moreover,  The

Young Master,  A Regular Turncoat,  As His Comrades Said,  Showed Even

More Severity Than The Members Of The Institute Towards Audacious

Beginners. He Only Became Lenient And Sociable When He Wanted To Get A

Picture Accepted,  On Those Occasions Showing Himself Extremely Fertile

In Devices,  Intriguing And Carrying The Vote With All The Supple

Deftness Of A Conjurer.

The Committee Work Was Really A Hard Task,  And Even Bongrand's Strong

Legs Grew Tired Of It. It Was Cut Out Every Day By The Assistants. An

Endless Row Of Large Pictures Rested On The Ground Against The

Handrails,  All Along The First-Floor Galleries,  Right Round The

Palace; And Every Afternoon,  At One O'clock Precisely,  The Forty

Committee-Men,  Headed By Their President,  Who Was Equipped With A

Bell,  Started Off On A Promenade,  Until All The Letters In The

Alphabet,  Serving As Exhibitors' Initials,  Had Been Exhausted. They

Gave Their Decisions Standing,  And The Work Was Got Through As Fast As

Possible,  The Worst Canvases Being Rejected Without Going To The Vote.

At Times,  However,  Discussions Delayed The Party,  There Came A Ten

Minutes' Quarrel,  And Some Picture Which Caused A Dispute Was Reserved

For The Evening Revision. Two Men,  Holding A Cord Some Thirty Feet

Long,  Kept It Stretched At A Distance Of Four Paces From The Line Of

Pictures,  So As To Restrain The Committee-Men,  Who Kept On Pushing

Each Other In The Heat Of Their Dispute,  And Whose Stomachs,  Despite

Everything,  Were Ever Pressing Against The Cord. Behind The Committee

Marched Seventy Museum-Keepers In White Blouses,  Executing Evolutions

Under The Orders Of A Brigadier. At Each Decision Communicated To Them

By The Secretaries,  They Sorted The Pictures,  The Accepted Paintings

Being Separated From The Rejected Ones,  Which Were Carried Off Like

Corpses After A Battle. And The Round Lasted During Two Long Hours,

Without A Moment's Respite,  And Without There Being A Single Chair To

Sit Upon. The Committee-Men Had To Remain On Their Legs,  Tramping On

In A Tired Way Amid Icy Draughts,  Which Compelled Even The Least

Chilly Among Them To Bury Their Noses In The Depths Of Their Fur-Lined

Overcoats.

Then The Three O'clock Snack Proved Very Welcome: There Was Half An

Hour's Rest At A Buffet,  Where Claret,  Chocolate,  And Sandwiches Could

Be Obtained. It Was There That The Market Of Mutual Concessions Was

Held,  That The Bartering Of Influence And Votes Was Carried On. In

Order That Nobody Might Be Forgotten Amid The Hailstorm Of

Applications Which Fell Upon The Committee-Men,  Most Of Them Carried

Little Note-Books,  Which They Consulted; And They Promised To Vote For

Certain Exhibitors Whom A Colleague Protected On Condition That This

Colleague Voted For The Ones In Whom They Were Interested. Others,

However,  Taking No Part In These Intrigues,  Either From Austerity Or

Indifference,  Finished The Interval In Smoking A Cigarette And Gazing

Vacantly About Them.

Then The Work Began Again,  But More Agreeably,  In A Gallery Where

There Were Chairs,  And Even Tables With Pens And Paper And Ink. All

The Pictures Whose Height Did Not Reach Four Feet Ten Inches Were

Judged There--'Passed On The Easel,' As The Expression Goes--Being

Ranged,  Ten Or Twelve Together,  On A Kind Of Trestle Covered With

Green Baize. A Good Many Committee-Men Then Grew Absent-Minded,

Several Wrote Their Letters,  And The President Had To Get Angry To

Obtain Presentable Majorities. Sometimes A Gust Of Passion Swept By;

They All Jostled Each Other; The Votes,  Usually Given By Raising The

Hand,  Took Place Amid Such Feverish Excitement That Hats And

Walking-Sticks Were Waved In The Air Above The Tumultuous Surging

Of Heads.

And It Was There,  'On The Easel,' That 'The Dead Child' At Last Made

Its Appearance. During The Previous Week Fagerolles,  Whose Pocket-Book

Was Full Of Memoranda,  Had Resorted To All Kinds Of Complicated

Bartering In Order To Obtain Votes In Claude's Favour; But It Was A

Difficult Business,  It Did Not Tally With His Other Engagements,  And

He Only Met With Refusals As Soon As He Mentioned His Friend's Name.

He Complained,  Moreover,  That He Could Get No Help From Bongrand,  Who

Did Not Carry A Pocket-Book,  And Who Was So Clumsy,  Too,  That He

Spoilt The Best Causes By His Outbursts Of Unseasonable Frankness. A

Score Of Times Already Would Fagerolles Have Forsaken Claude,  Had It

Not Been For His Obstinate Desire To Try His Power Over His Colleagues

By Asking For The Admittance Of A Work By Lantier,  Which Was A Reputed

Impossibility. However,  People Should See If He Wasn't Yet Strong

Enough To Force The Committee Into Compliance With His Wishes.

Moreover,  Perhaps From The Depths Of His Conscience There Came A Cry

For Justice,  An Unconfessed Feeling Of Respect For The Man Whose Ideas

He Had Stolen.

As It Happened,  Mazel Was In A Frightfully Bad Humour That Day. At The

Outset Of The Sitting The Brigadier Had Come To Him,  Saying: 'There

Was A Mistake Yesterday,  Monsieur Mazel. A _Hors-Concours_* Picture

Was Rejected. You Know,  No. 2520,  A Nude Woman Under A Tree.'

  * A Painting By One Of Those Artists Who,  From The Fact That They

    Had Obtained Medals At Previous Salons,  Had The Right To Go On

    Exhibiting At Long As They Lived,  The Committee Being Debarred

    From Rejecting Their Work However Bad It Might Be.--Ed.

In Fact,  On The Day Before,  This Painting Had Been Consigned To The

Grave Amid Unanimous Contempt,  Nobody Having Noticed That It Was The

Work Of An Old Classical Painter Highly Respected By The Institute;

And The Brigadier's Fright,  And The Amusing Circumstance Of A Picture

Having Thus Been Condemned By Mistake,  Enlivened The Younger Members

Of The Committee And Made Them Sneer In A Provoking Manner.

Mazel,  Who Detested Such Mishaps,  Which He Rightly Felt Were

Disastrous For The Authority Of The School Of Arts,  Made An Angry

Gesture,  And Drily Said:

'Well,  Fish It Out Again,  And Put It Among The Admitted Pictures. It

Isn't So Surprising,  There Was An Intolerable Noise Yesterday. How Can

One Judge Anything Like That At A Gallop,  When One Can't Even Obtain

Silence?'

He Rang His Bell Furiously,  And Added:

'Come,  Gentlemen,  Everything Is Ready--A Little Good Will,  If You

Please.'

Unluckily,  A Fresh Misfortune Occurred As Soon As The First Paintings

Were Set On The Trestle. One Canvas Among Others Attracted Mazel's

Attention,  So Bad Did He Consider It,  So Sharp In Tone As To Make

One's Very Teeth Grate. As His Sight Was Failing Him,  He Leant Forward

To Look At The Signature,  Muttering The While: 'Who's The Pig--'

But He Quickly Drew Himself Up,  Quite Shocked At Having Read The Name

Of One Of His Friends,  An Artist Who,  Like Himself,  Was A Rampart Of

Healthy Principles. Hoping That He Had Not Been Overheard,  He

Thereupon Called Out:

'Superb! No. 1,  Eh,  Gentlemen?'

No. 1 Was Granted--The Formula Of Admission Which Entitled The Picture

To Be Hung On The Line. Only,  Some Of The Committee-Men Laughed And

Nudged Each Other,  At Which Mazel Felt Very Hurt,  And Became Very

Fierce.

Moreover,  They All Made Such Blunders At Times. A Great Many Of Them

Eased Their Feelings At The First Glance,  And Then Recalled Their

Words As Soon As They Had Deciphered The Signature. This Ended By

Making Them Cautious,  And So With Furtive Glances They Made Sure Of

The Artist's Name Before Expressing Any Opinion. Besides,  Whenever A

Colleague's Work,  Some Fellow Committee-Man's Suspicious-Looking

Canvas,  Was Brought Forward,  They Took The Precaution To Warn Each

Other By Making Signs Behind The Painter's Back,  As If To Say,  'Take

Care,  No Mistake,  Mind; It's His Picture.'

Fagerolles,  Despite His Colleagues' Fidgety Nerves,  Carried The Day On

A First Occasion. It Was A Question Of Admitting A Frightful Portrait

Painted By One Of His Pupils,  Whose Family,  A Very Wealthy One,

Received Him On A Footing Of Intimacy. To Achieve This He Had Taken

Mazel On One Side In Order To Try To Move Him With A Sentimental Story

About An Unfortunate Father With Three Daughters,  Who Were Starving.

But The President Let Himself Be Entreated For A Long While,  Saying

That A Man Shouldn't Waste His Time Painting When He Was Dying For

Lack Of Food,  And That He Ought To Have A Little More Consideration

For His Three Daughters! However,  In The Result,  Mazel Raised His

Hand,  Alone,  With Fagerolles. Some Of The Others Then Angrily

Protested,  And Even Two Members Of The Institute Seemed Disgusted,

Whereupon Fagerolles Whispered To Them In A Low Key:

'It's For Mazel! He Begged Me To Vote. The Painter's A Relative Of

His,  I Think; At All Events,  He Greatly Wants The Picture To Be

Accepted.'

At This The Two Academicians Promptly Raised Their Hands,  And A Large

Majority Declared Itself In Favour Of The Portrait.

But All At Once Laughter,  Witticisms,  And Indignant Cries Rang Out:

'The Dead Child' Had Just Been Placed On The Trestle. Were They To

Have The Morgue Sent To Them Now? Said Some. And While The Old Men

Drew Back In Alarm,  The Younger Ones Scoffed At The Child's Big Head,

Which Was Plainly That Of A Monkey Who Had Died From Trying To Swallow

A Gourd.

Fagerolles At Once Understood That The Game Was Lost. At First He

Tried To