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

Skilful Tactics:

'Come,  Gentlemen,  An Old Combatant--'

But Furious Exclamations Cut Him Short. Oh,  No! Not That One. They

Knew Him,  That Old Combatant! A Madman Who Had Been Persevering In His

Obstinacy For Fifteen Years Past--A Proud,  Stuck-Up Fellow Who Posed

For Being A Genius,  And Who Had Talked About Demolishing The Salon,

Without Even Sending A Picture That It Was Possible To Accept. All

Their Hatred Of Independent Originality,  Of The Competition Of The

'Shop Over The Way,' Which Frightened Them,  Of That Invincible Power

Which Triumphs Even When It Is Seemingly Defeated,  Resounded In Their

Voices. No,  No; Away With It!

Then Fagerolles Himself Made The Mistake Of Getting Irritated,

Yielding To The Anger He Felt At Finding What Little Real Influence He

Possessed.

'You Are Unjust; At Least,  Be Impartial,' He Said.

Thereupon The Tumult Reached A Climax. He Was Surrounded And Jostled,

Arms Waved About Him In Threatening Fashion,  And Angry Words Were Shot

Out At Him Like Bullets.

'You Dishonour The Committee,  Monsieur!'

'If You Defend That Thing,  It's Simply To Get Your Name In The

Newspapers!'

'You Aren't Competent To Speak On The Subject!'

Then Fagerolles,  Beside Himself,  Losing Even The Pliancy Of His

Bantering Disposition,  Retorted:

'I'm As Competent As You Are.'

'Shut Up!' Resumed A Comrade,  A Very Irascible Little Painter With A

Fair Complexion. 'You Surely Don't Want To Make Us Swallow Such A

Turnip As That?'

Yes,  Yes,  A Turnip! They All Repeated The Word In Tones Of Conviction

--That Word Which They Usually Cast At The Very Worst Smudges,  At The

Pale,  Cold,  Glairy Painting Of Daubers.

'All Right,' At Last Said Fagerolles,  Clenching His Teeth. 'I Demand

The Vote.'

Since The Discussion Had Become Envenomed,  Mazel Had Been Ringing His

Bell,  Extremely Flushed At Finding His Authority Ignored.

'Gentlemen--Come,  Gentlemen; It's Extraordinary That One Can't Settle

Matters Without Shouting--I Beg Of You,  Gentlemen--'

At Last He Obtained A Little Silence. In Reality,  He Was Not A

Bad-Hearted Man. Why Should Not They Admit That Little Picture,

Although He Himself Thought It Execrable? They Admitted So Many

Others!

'Come,  Gentlemen,  The Vote Is Asked For.'

He Himself Was,  Perhaps,  About To Raise His Hand,  When Bongrand,  Who

Had Hitherto Remained Silent,  With The Blood Rising To His Cheeks In

The Anger He Was Trying To Restrain,  Abruptly Went Off Like A Pop-Gun,

Most Unseasonably Giving Vent To The Protestations Of His Rebellious

Conscience.

'But,  Curse It All! There Are Not Four Among Us Capable Of Turning Out

Such A Piece Of Work!'

Some Grunts Sped Around; But The Sledge-Hammer Blow Had Come Upon Them

With Such Force That Nobody Answered.

'Gentlemen,  The Vote Is Asked For,' Curtly Repeated Mazel,  Who Had

Turned Pale.

His Tone Sufficed To Explain Everything: It Expressed All His Latent

Hatred Of Bongrand,  The Fierce Rivalry That Lay Hidden Under Their

Seemingly Good-Natured Handshakes.

Things Rarely Came To Such A Pass As This. They Almost Always Arranged

Matters. But In The Depths Of Their Ravaged Pride There Were Wounds

Which Always Bled; They Secretly Waged Duels Which Tortured Them With

Agony,  Despite The Smile Upon Their Lips.

Bongrand And Fagerolles Alone Raised Their Hands,  And 'The Dead

Child,' Being Rejected,  Could Only Perhaps Be Rescued At The General

Revision.

This General Revision Was The Terrible Part Of The Task. Although,

After Twenty Days' Continuous Toil,  The Committee Allowed Itself

Forty-Eight Hours' Rest,  So As To Enable The Keepers To Prepare The

Final Work,  It Could Not Help Shuddering On The Afternoon When It Came

Upon The Assemblage Of Three Thousand Rejected Paintings,  From Among

Which It Had To Rescue As Many Canvases As Were Necessary For The Then

Regulation Total Of Two Thousand Five Hundred Admitted Works To Be

Complete. Ah! Those Three Thousand Pictures,  Placed One After The

Other Alongside The Walls Of All The Galleries,  Including The Outer

One,  Deposited Also Even On The Floors,  And Lying There Like Stagnant

Pools,  Between Which The Attendants Devised Little Paths--They Were

Like An Inundation,  A Deluge,  Which Rose Up,  Streamed Over The Whole

Palais De L'industrie,  And Submerged It Beneath The Murky Flow Of All

The Mediocrity And Madness To Be Found In The River Of Art. And But A

Single Afternoon Sitting Was Held,  From One Till Seven O'clock--Six

Hours Of Wild Galloping Through A Maze! At First They Held Out Against

Fatigue And Strove To Keep Their Vision Clear; But The Forced March

Soon Made Their Legs Give Way,  Their Eyesight Was Irritated By All The

Dancing Colours,  And Yet It Was Still Necessary To March On,  To Look

And Judge,  Even Until They Broke Down With Fatigue. By Four O'clock

The March Was Like A Rout--The Scattering Of A Defeated Army. Some

Committee-Men,  Out Of Breath,  Dragged Themselves Along Very Far In The

Rear; Others,  Isolated,  Lost Amid The Frames,  Followed The Narrow

Paths,  Renouncing All Prospect Of Emerging From Them,  Turning Round

And Round Without Any Hope Of Ever Getting To The End! How Could They

Be Just And Impartial,  Good Heavens? What Could They Select From Amid

That Heap Of Horrors? Without Clearly Distinguishing A Landscape From

A Portrait,  They Made Up The Number They Required In Pot-Luck Fashion.

Two Hundred,  Two Hundred And Forty--Another Eight,  They Still Wanted

Eight More. That One? No,  That Other. As You Like! Seven,  Eight,  It

Was Over! At Last They Had Got To The End,  And They Hobbled Away,

Saved--Free!

In One Gallery A Fresh Scene Drew Them Once More Round 'The Dead

Child,' Lying On The Floor Among Other Waifs. But This Time They

Jested. A Joker Pretended To Stumble And Set His Foot In The Middle Of

The Canvas,  While Others Trotted Along The Surrounding Little Paths,

As If Trying To Find Out Which Was The Picture's Top And Which Its

Bottom,  And Declaring That It Looked Much Better Topsy-Turvy.

Fagerolles Himself Also Began To Joke.

'Come,  A Little Courage,  Gentlemen; Go The Round,  Examine It,  You'll

Be Repaid For Your Trouble. Really Now,  Gentlemen,  Be Kind,  Rescue It;

Pray Do That Good Action!'

They All Grew Merry In Listening To Him,  But With Cruel Laughter They

Refused More Harshly Than Ever. "No,  No,  Never!'

'Will You Take It For Your "Charity"?' Cried A Comrade.

This Was A Custom; The Committee-Men Had A Right To A 'Charity'; Each

Of Them Could Select A Canvas Among The Lot,  No Matter How Execrable

It Might Be,  And It Was Thereupon Admitted Without Examination. As A

Rule,  The Bounty Of This Admission Was Bestowed Upon Poor Artists. The

Forty Paintings Thus Rescued At The Eleventh Hour,  Were Those Of The

Beggars At The Door--Those Whom One Allowed To Glide With Empty

Stomachs To The Far End Of The Table.

'For My "Charity,"' Repeated Fagerolles,  Feeling Very Much

Embarrassed; 'The Fact Is,  I Meant To Take Another Painting For My

"Charity." Yes,  Some Flowers By A Lady--'

He Was Interrupted By Loud Jeers. Was She Pretty? In Front Of The

Women's Paintings The Gentlemen Were Particularly Prone To Sneer,

Never Displaying The Least Gallantry. And Fagerolles Remained

Perplexed,  For The 'Lady' In Question Was A Person Whom Irma Took An

Interest In. He Trembled At The Idea Of The Terrible Scene Which Would

Ensue Should He Fail To Keep His Promise. An Expedient Occurred To

Him.

'Well,  And You,  Bongrand? You Might Very Well Take This Funny Little

Dead Child For Your Charity.'

Bongrand,  Wounded To The Heart,  Indignant At All The Bartering,  Waved

His Long Arms:

'What! _I_? _I_ Insult A Real Painter In That Fashion? Let Him Be

Prouder,  Dash It,  And Never Send Anything To The Salon!'

Then,  As The Others Still Went On Sneering,  Fagerolles,  Desirous That

Victory Should Remain To Him,  Made Up His Mind,  With A Proud Air,  Like

A Man Who Is Conscious Of His Strength And Does Not Fear Being

Compromised.

'All Right,  I'll Take It For My "Charity,"' He Said.

The Others Shouted Bravo,  And Gave Him A Bantering Ovation,  With A

Series Of Profound Bows And Numerous Handshakes. All Honour To The

Brave Fellow Who Had The Courage Of His Opinions! And An Attendant

Carried Away In His Arms The Poor Derided,  Jolted,  Soiled Canvas; And

Thus It Was That A Picture By The Painter Of 'In The Open Air' Was At

Last Accepted By The Hanging Committee Of The Salon.

On The Very Next Morning A Note From Fagerolles Apprised Claude,  In A

Couple Of Lines,  That He Had Succeeded In Getting 'The Dead Child'

Admitted,  But That It Had Not Been Managed Without Trouble. Claude,

Despite The Gladness Of The Tidings,  Felt A Pang At His Heart; The

Note Was So Brief,  And Was Written In Such A Protecting,  Pitying

Style,  That All The Humiliating Features Of The Business Were Apparent

To Him. For A Moment He Felt Sorry Over This Victory,  So Much So That

He Would Have Liked To Take His Work Back And Hide It. Then His

Delicacy Of Feeling,  His Artistic Pride Again Gave Way,  So Much Did

Protracted Waiting For Success Make His Wretched Heart Bleed. Ah! To

Be Seen,  To Make His Way Despite Everything! He Had Reached The Point

When Conscience Capitulates; He Once More Began To Long For The

Opening Of The Salon With All The Feverish Impatience Of A Beginner,

Again Living In A State Of Illusion Which Showed Him A Crowd,  A Press

Of Moving Heads Acclaiming His Canvas.

By Degrees Paris Had Made It The Fashion To Patronise 'Varnishing

Day'--That Day Formerly Set Aside For Painters Only To Come And Finish

The Toilets Of Their Pictures. Now,  However,  It Was Like A Feast Of

Early Fruit,  One Of Those Solemnities Which Set The City Agog And

Attract A Tremendous Crowd. For A Week Past The Newspaper Press,  The

Streets,  And The