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

In Their Grasp; The Only Matters Talked Of Were Themselves,  Their

Exhibits,  Their Sayings Or Doings--In Fact,  Everything Connected With

Them. It Was One Of Those Infatuations Which At Last Draw Bands Of

Country Folk,  Common Soldiers,  And Even Nursemaids To The Galleries On

Days Of Gratuitous Admission,  In Such Wise That Fifty Thousand

Visitors Are Recorded On Some Fine Sundays,  An Entire Army,  All The

Rear Battalions Of The Ignorant Lower Orders,  Following Society,  And

Marching,  With Dilated Eyes,  Through That Vast Picture Shop.

That Famous 'Varnishing Day' At First Frightened Claude,  Who Was

Intimidated By The Thought Of All The Fine People Whom The Newspapers

Spoke About,  And He Resolved To Wait For The More Democratic Day Of

The Real Inauguration. He Even Refused To Accompany Sandoz. But He Was

Consumed By Such A Fever,  That After All He Started Off Abruptly At

Eight O'clock In The Morning,  Barely Taking Time To Eat A Bit Of Bread

And Cheese Beforehand. Christine,  Who Lacked The Courage To Go With

Him,  Kissed Him Again And Again,  Feeling Anxious And Moved.

'Mind,  My Dear,  Don't Worry,  Whatever Happens,' Said She.

Claude Felt Somewhat Oppressed As He Entered The Gallery Of Honour.

His Heart Was Beating Fast From The Swiftness With Which He Had

Climbed The Grand Staircase. There Was A Limpid May Sky Out Of Doors,

And Through The Linen Awnings,  Stretched Under The Glazed Roof,  There

Filtered A Bright White Light,  While The Open Doorways,  Communicating

With The Garden Gallery,  Admitted Moist Gusts Of Quivering Freshness.

For A Moment Claude Drew Breath In That Atmosphere Which Was Already

Tainted With A Vague Smell Of Varnish And The Odour Of The Musk With

Which The Women Present Perfumed Themselves. At A Glance He Took Stock

Of The Pictures On The Walls: A Huge Massacre Scene In Front Of Him,

Streaming With Carmine; A Colossal,  Pallid,  Religious Picture On His

Left; A Government Order,  The Commonplace Delineation Of Some Official

Festivity,  On The Right; And Then A Variety Of Portraits,  Landscapes,

And Indoor Scenes,  All Glaring Sharply Amid The Fresh Gilding Of Their

Frames. However,  The Fear Which He Retained Of The Folks Usually

Present At This Solemnity Led Him To Direct His Glances Upon The

Gradually Increasing Crowd. On A Circular Settee In The Centre Of The

Gallery,  From Which Sprang A Sheaf Of Tropical Foliage,  There Sat

Three Ladies,  Three Monstrously Fat Creatures,  Attired In An

Abominable Fashion,  Who Had Settled There To Indulge In A Whole Day's

Backbiting. Behind Him He Heard Somebody Crushing Harsh Syllables In A

Hoarse Voice. It Was An Englishman In A Check-Pattern Jacket,

Explaining The Massacre Scene To A Yellow Woman Buried In The Depths

Of A Travelling Ulster. There Were Some Vacant Spaces; Groups Of

People Formed,  Scattered,  And Formed Again Further On; All Heads Were

Raised; The Men Carried Walking-Sticks And Had Overcoats On Their

Arms,  The Women Strolled About Slowly,  Showing Distant Profiles As

They Stopped Before The Pictures; And Claude's Artistic Eye Was Caught

By The Flowers In Their Hats And Bonnets,  Which Seemed Very Loud In

Tint Amid The Dark Waves Of The Men's Silk Hats. He Perceived Three

Priests,  Two Common Soldiers Who Had Found Their Way There No One Knew

Whence,  Some Endless Processions Of Gentlemen Decorated With The

Ribbon Of The Legion Of Honour,  And Troops Of Girls And Their Mothers,

Who Constantly Impeded The Circulation. However,  A Good Many Of These

People Knew Each Other; There Were Smiles And Bows From Afar,  At Times

A Rapid Handshake In Passing. And Conversation Was Carried On In A

Discreet Tone Of Voice,  Above Which Rose The Continuous Tramping Of

Feet.

Then Claude Began To Look For His Own Picture. He Tried To Find His

Way By Means Of The Initial Letters Inscribed Above The Entrances Of

The Galleries,  But Made A Mistake,  And Went Through Those On The Left

Hand. There Was A Succession Of Open Entrances,  A Perspective Of Old

Tapestry Door-Hangings,  With Glimpses Of The Distant Pictures. He Went

As Far As The Great Western Gallery,  And Came Back By The Parallel

Suite Of Smaller Galleries Without Finding That Allotted To The Letter

L. And When He Reached The Gallery Of Honour Again,  The Crowd Had

Greatly Increased. In Fact,  It Was Now Scarcely Possible For One To

Move About There. Being Unable To Advance,  He Looked Around,  And

Recognised A Number Of Painters,  That Nation Of Painters Which Was At

Home There That Day,  And Was Therefore Doing The Honours Of Its Abode.

Claude Particularly Remarked An Old Friend Of The Boutin Studio--A

Young Fellow Consumed With The Desire To Advertise Himself,  Who Had

Been Working For A Medal,  And Who Was Now Pouncing Upon All The

Visitors Possessed Of Any Influence And Forcibly Taking Them To See

His Pictures. Then There Was A Celebrated And Wealthy Painter Who

Received His Visitors In Front Of His Work With A Smile Of Triumph On

His Lips,  Showing Himself Compromisingly Gallant With The Ladies,  Who

Formed Quite A Court Around Him. And There Were All The Others: The

Rivals Who Execrated One Another,  Although They Shouted Words Of

Praise In Full Voices; The Savage Fellows Who Covertly Watched Their

Comrades' Success From The Corner Of A Doorway; The Timid Ones Whom

One Could Not For An Empire Induce To Pass Through The Gallery Where

Their Pictures Were Hung; The Jokers Who Hid The Bitter Mortification

Of Their Defeat Under An Amusing Witticism; The Sincere Ones Who Were

Absorbed In Contemplation,  Trying To Understand The Various Works,  And

Already In Fancy Distributing The Medals. And The Painters' Families

Were Also There. One Charming Young Woman Was Accompanied By A

Coquettishly Bedecked Child; A Sour-Looking,  Skinny Matron Of

Middle-Class Birth Was Flanked By Two Ugly Urchins In Black; A Fat

Mother Had Foundered On A Bench Amid Quite A Tribe Of Dirty Brats; And

A Lady Of Mature Charms,  Still Very Good-Looking,  Stood Beside Her

Grown-Up Daughter,  Quietly Watching A Hussy Pass--This Hussy Being The

Father's Mistress. And Then There Were Also The Models--Women Who

Pulled One Another By The Sleeve,  Who Showed One Another Their Own

Forms In The Various Pictorial Nudities,  Talking Very Loudly The While

And Dressed Without Taste,  Spoiling Their Superb Figures By Such

Wretched Gowns That They Seemed To Be Hump-Backed Beside The

Well-Dressed Dolls--Those Parisiennes Who Owed Their Figures Entirely

To Their Dressmakers.

When Claude Got Free Of The Crowd,  He Enfiladed The Line Of Doorways

On The Right Hand. His Letter Was On That Side; But He Searched The

Galleries Marked With An L Without Finding Anything. Perhaps His

Canvas Had Gone Astray And Served To Fill Up A Vacancy Elsewhere. So

When He Had Reached The Large Eastern Gallery,  He Set Off Along A

Number Of Other Little Ones,  A Secluded Suite Visited By Very Few

People,  Where The Pictures Seemed To Frown With Boredom. And There

Again He Found Nothing. Bewildered,  Distracted,  He Roamed About,  Went

On To The Garden Gallery,  Searching Among The Superabundant Exhibits

Which Overflowed There,  Pallid And Shivering In The Crude Light; And

Eventually,  After Other Distant Excursions,  He Tumbled Into The

Gallery Of Honour For The Third Time.

There Was Now Quite A Crush There. All Those Who In Any Way Create A

Stir In Paris Were Assembled Together--The Celebrities,  The Wealthy,

The Adored,  Talent,  Money And Grace,  The Masters Of Romance,  Of The

Drama And Of Journalism,  Clubmen,  Racing Men And Speculators,  Women Of

Every Category,  Hussies,  Actresses And Society Belles. And Claude,

Angered By His Vain Search,  Grew Amazed At The Vulgarity Of The Faces

Thus Massed Together,  At The Incongruity Of The Toilets--But A Few Of

Which Were Elegant,  While So Many Were Common Looking--At The Lack Of

Majesty Which That Vaunted 'Society' Displayed,  To Such A Point,

Indeed,  That The Fear Which Had Made Him Tremble Was Changed Into

Contempt. Were These The People,  Then,  Who Were Going To Jeer At His

Picture,  Provided It Were Found Again? Two Little Reporters With Fair

Complexions Were Completing A List Of Persons Whose Names They

Intended To Mention. A Critic Pretended To Take Some Notes On The

Margin Of His Catalogue; Another Was Holding Forth In Professor's

Style In The Centre Of A Party Of Beginners; A Third,  All By Himself,

With His Hands Behind His Back,  Seemed Rooted To One Spot,  Crushing

Each Work Beneath His August Impassibility. And What Especially Struck

Claude Was The Jostling Flock-Like Behaviour Of The People,  Their

Banded Curiosity In Which There Was Nothing Youthful Or Passionate,

The Bitterness Of Their Voices,  The Weariness To Be Read On Their

Faces,  Their General Appearance Of Suffering. Envy Was Already At

Work; There Was The Gentleman Who Makes Himself Witty With The Ladies;

The One Who,  Without A Word,  Looks,  Gives A Terrible Shrug Of The

Shoulders,  And Then Goes Off; And There Were The Two Who Remain For A

Quarter Of An Hour Leaning Over The Handrail,  With Their Noses Close

To A Little Canvas,  Whispering Very Low And Exchanging The Knowing

Glances Of Conspirators.

But Fagerolles Had Just Appeared,  And Amid The Continuous Ebb And Flow

Of The Groups There Seemed To Be No One Left But Him. With His Hand

Outstretched,  He Seemed To Show Himself Everywhere At The Same Time,

Lavishly Exerting Himself To Play The Double Part Of A Young 'Master'

And An Influential Member Of The Hanging Committee. Overwhelmed With

Praise,  Thanks,  And Complaints,  He Had An Answer Ready For Everybody

Without Losing Aught Of His Affability. Since Early Morning He Had

Been Resisting The Assault Of The Petty Painters Of His Set Who Found

Their Pictures Badly Hung. It Was The Usual Scamper Of The First

Moment,  Everybody Looking For Everybody Else,  Rushing To See One

Another And Bursting Into Recriminations--Noisy,  Interminable Fury.

Either The Picture Was Too High Up,  Or The Light Did Not Fall Upon It

Properly,  Or The Paintings Near It Destroyed Its Effect; In Fact,  Some

Talked Of Unhooking Their Works And Carrying Them Off. One Tall Thin

Fellow Was Especially Tenacious,  Going From Gallery To Gallery In

Pursuit Of Fagerolles,  Who Vainly Explained That He Was Innocent In

The Matter And Could Do Nothing. Numerical Order Was Followed,  The

Pictures For Each Wall Were Deposited On The Floor Below And Then Hung

Up Without Anybody Being Favoured. He Carried His Obligingness So Far

As To Promise His Intervention When The Galleries Were Rearranged

After The Medals Had Been Awarded; But Even Then He Did Not Manage To

Calm The Tall Thin