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

Centralising Masterpieces,  And There Opening Large Art Shops Of The

Modern Style. One Heard A Jingle Of Millions On The Very Threshold Of

His Hall; He Held Exhibitions There,  Even Ran Up Other Galleries

Elsewhere; And Each Time That May Came Round,  He Awaited The Visits Of

The American Amateurs Whom He Charged Fifty Thousand Francs For A

Picture Which He Himself Had Purchased For Ten Thousand. Moreover,  He

Lived In Princely Style,  With A Wife And Children,  A Mistress,  A

Country Estate In Picardy,  And Extensive Shooting Grounds. His First

Large Profits Had Come From The Rise In Value Of Works Left By

Illustrious Artists,  Now Defunct,  Whose Talent Had Been Denied While

They Lived,  Such As Courbet,  Millet,  And Rousseau; And This Had Ended

By Making Him Disdain Any Picture Signed By A Still Struggling Artist.

However,  Ominous Rumours Were Already In Circulation. As The Number Of

Well-Known Pictures Was Limited,  And The Number Of Amateurs Could

Barely Be Increased,  A Time Seemed To Be Coming When Business Would

Prove Very Difficult. There Was Talk Of A Syndicate,  Of An

Understanding With Certain Bankers To Keep Up The Present High Prices;

The Expedient Of Simulated Sales Was Resorted To At The Hotel Drouot

--Pictures Being Bought In At A Big Figure By The Dealer Himself--And

Bankruptcy Seemed To Be At The End Of All That Stock Exchange Jobbery,

A Perfect Tumble Head-Over-Heels After All The Excessive,  Mendacious

_Agiotage_.

'Good-Day,  Dear Master,' Said Naudet,  Who Had Drawn Near. 'So You Have

Come,  Like Everybody Else,  To See My Fagerolles,  Eh?'

He No Longer Treated Bongrand In The Wheedling,  Respectful Manner Of

Yore. And He Spoke Of Fagerolles As Of A Painter Belonging To Him,  Of

A Workman To Whom He Paid Wages,  And Whom He Often Scolded. It Was He

Who Had Settled The Young Artist In The Avenue De Villiers,  Compelling

Him To Have A Little Mansion Of His Own,  Furnishing It As He Would

Have Furnished A Place For A Hussy,  Running Him Into Debt With

Supplies Of Carpets And Nick-Nacks,  So That He Might Afterwards Hold

Him At His Mercy; And Now He Began To Accuse Him Of Lacking

Orderliness And Seriousness,  Of Compromising Himself Like A

Feather-Brain. Take That Picture,  For Instance,  A Serious Painter

Would Never Have Sent It To The Salon; It Made A Stir,  No Doubt,  And

People Even Talked Of Its Obtaining The Medal Of Honour; But Nothing

Could Have A Worse Effect On High Prices. When A Man Wanted To Get

Hold Of The Yankees,  He Ought To Know How To Remain At Home,  Like An

Idol In The Depths Of His Tabernacle.

'You May Believe Me Or Not,  My Dear Fellow,' He Said To Bongrand,  'But

I Would Have Given Twenty Thousand Francs Out Of My Pocket To Prevent

Those Stupid Newspapers From Making All This Row About My Fagerolles

This Year.'

Bongrand,  Who,  Despite His Sufferings,  Was Listening Bravely,  Smiled.

'In Point Of Fact,' He Said,  'They Are Perhaps Carrying Indiscretion

Too Far. I Read An Article Yesterday In Which I Learnt That Fagerolles

Ate Two Boiled Eggs Every Morning.'

He Laughed Over The Coarse Puffery Which,  After A First Article On The

'Young Master's' Picture,  As Yet Seen By Nobody,  Had For A Week Past

Kept All Paris Occupied About Him. The Whole Fraternity Of Reporters

Had Been Campaigning,  Stripping Fagerolles To The Skin,  Telling Their

Readers All About His Father,  The Artistic Zinc Manufacturer,  His

Education,  The House In Which He Resided,  How He Lived,  Even Revealing

The Colour Of His Socks,  And Mentioning A Habit He Had Of Pinching His

Nose. And He Was The Passion Of The Hour,  The 'Young Master' According

To The Tastes Of The Day,  One Who Had Been Lucky Enough To Miss The

Prix De Rome,  And Break Off With The School Of Arts,  Whose Principles,

However,  He Retained. After All,  The Success Of That Style Of Painting

Which Aims Merely At Approximating Reality,  Not At Rendering It In All

Its Truth,  Was The Fortune Of A Season Which The Wind Brings And Blows

Away Again,  A Mere Whim On The Part Of The Great Lunatic City; The

Stir It Caused Was Like That Occasioned By Some Accident,  Which Upsets

The Crowd In The Morning And Is Forgotten By Night Amidst General

Indifference.

However,  Naudet Noticed The 'Village Funeral.'

'Hullo! That's Your Picture,  Eh?' He Said. 'So You Wanted To Give A

Companion To The "Wedding"? Well,  I Should Have Tried To Dissuade You!

Ah! The "Wedding"! The "Wedding"!'

Bongrand Still Listened To Him Without Ceasing To Smile. Barely A

Twinge Of Pain Passed Over His Trembling Lips. He Forgot His

Masterpieces,  The Certainty Of Leaving An Immortal Name,  He Was Only

Cognisant Of The Vogue Which That Youngster,  Unworthy Of Cleaning His

Palette,  Had So Suddenly And Easily Acquired,  That Vogue Which Seemed

To Be Pushing Him,  Bongrand,  Into Oblivion--He Who Had Struggled For

Ten Years Before He Had Succeeded In Making Himself Known. Ah! When

The New Generations Bury A Man,  If They Only Knew What Tears Of Blood

They Make Him Shed In Death!

However,  As He Had Remained Silent,  He Was Seized With The Fear That

He Might Have Let His Suffering Be Divined. Was He Falling To The

Baseness Of Envy? Anger With Himself Made Him Raise His Head--A Man

Should Die Erect. And Instead Of Giving The Violent Answer Which Was

Rising To His Lips,  He Said In A Familiar Way:

'You Are Right,  Naudet,  I Should Have Done Better If I Had Gone To Bed

On The Day When The Idea Of That Picture Occurred To Me.'

'Ah! There He Is; Excuse Me!' Cried The Dealer,  Making Off.

It Was Fagerolles Showing Himself At The Entrance Of The Gallery. He

Discreetly Stood There Without Entering,  Carrying His Good Fortune

With The Ease Of A Man Who Knows What He Is About. Besides,  He Was

Looking For Somebody; He Made A Sign To A Young Man,  And Gave Him An

Answer,  A Favourable One,  No Doubt,  For The Other Brimmed Over With

Gratitude. Then Two Other Persons Sprang Forward To Congratulate Him;

A Woman Detained Him,  Showing Him,  With A Martyr's Gesture,  A Bit Of

Still Life Hung In A Dark Corner. And Finally He Disappeared,  After

Casting But One Glance At The People In Raptures Before His Picture.

Claude,  Who Had Looked And Listened,  Was Overwhelmed With Sadness. The

Crush Was Still Increasing,  He Now Had Nought Before Him But Faces

Gaping And Sweating In The Heat,  Which Had Become Intolerable. Above

The Nearer Shoulders Rose Others,  And So On And So On As Far As The

Door,  Whence Those Who Could See Nothing Pointed Out The Painting To

Each Other With The Tips Of Their Umbrellas,  From Which Dripped The

Water Left By The Showers Outside. And Bongrand Remained There Out Of

Pride,  Erect In Defeat,  Firmly Planted On His Legs,  Those Of An Old

Combatant,  And Gazing With Limpid Eyes Upon Ungrateful Paris. He

Wished To Finish Like A Brave Man,  Whose Kindness Of Heart Is

Boundless. Claude,  Who Spoke To Him Without Receiving Any Answer,  Saw

Very Well That There Was Nothing Behind That Calm,  Gay Face; The Mind

Was Absent,  It Had Flown Away In Mourning,  Bleeding With Frightful

Torture; And Thereupon,  Full Of Alarm And Respect,  He Did Not Insist,

But Went Off. And Bongrand,  With His Vacant Eyes,  Did Not Even Notice

His Departure.

A New Idea Had Just Impelled Claude Onward Through The Crowd. He Was

Lost In Wonderment At Not Having Been Able To Discover His Picture.

But Nothing Could Be More Simple. Was There Not Some Gallery Where

People Grinned,  Some Corner Full Of Noise And Banter,  Some Gathering

Of Jesting Spectators,  Insulting A Picture? That Picture Would

Assuredly Be His. He Could Still Hear The Laughter Of The Bygone Salon

Of The Rejected. And Now At The Door Of Each Gallery He Listened To

Ascertain If It Were There That He Was Being Hissed.

However,  As He Found Himself Once More In The Eastern Gallery,  That

Hall Where Great Art Agonises,  That Depository Where Vast,  Cold,  And

Gloomy Historical And Religious Compositions Are Accumulated,  He

Started,  And Remained Motionless With His Eyes Turned Upward. He Had

Passed Through That Gallery Twice Already,  And Yet That Was Certainly

His Picture Up Yonder,  So High Up That He Hesitated About Recognising

It. It Looked,  Indeed,  So Little,  Poised Like A Swallow At The Corner

Of A Frame--The Monumental Frame Of An Immense Painting

Five-And-Thirty Feet Long,  Representing The Deluge,  A Swarming Of

Yellow Figures Turning Topsy-Turvy In Water Of The Hue Of Wine Lees.

On The Left,  Moreover,  There Was A Pitiable Ashen Portrait Of A

General; On The Right A Colossal Nymph In A Moonlit Landscape,  The

Bloodless Corpse Of A Murdered Woman Rotting Away On Some Grass; And

Everywhere Around There Were Mournful Violet-Shaded Things,  Mixed Up

With A Comic Scene Of Some Bibulous Monks,  And An 'Opening Of The

Chamber Of Deputies,' With A Whole Page Of Writing On A Gilded

Cartouch,  Bearing The Heads Of The Better-Known Deputies,  Drawn In

Outline,  Together With Their Names. And High Up,  High Up,  Amid Those

Livid Neighbours,  The Little Canvas,  Over-Coarse In Treatment,  Glared

Ferociously With The Painful Grimace Of A Monster.

Ah! 'The Dead Child.' At That Distance The Wretched Little Creature

Was But A Confused Lump Of Flesh,  The Lifeless Carcase Of Some

Shapeless Animal. Was That Swollen,  Whitened Head A Skull Or A

Stomach? And Those Poor Hands Twisted Among The Bedclothes,  Like The

Bent Claws Of A Bird Killed By Cold! And The Bed Itself,  That

Pallidity Of The Sheets,  Below The Pallidity Of The Limbs,  All That

White Looking So Sad,  Those Tints Fading Away As If Typical Of The

Supreme End! Afterwards,  However,  One Distinguished The Light Eyes

Staring Fixedly,  One Recognised A Child's Head,  And It All Seemed To

Suggest Some Disease Of The Brain,  Profoundly And Frightfully Pitiful.

Claude Approached,  And Then Drew Back To See The Better. The Light Was

So Bad That Refractions Darted From All Points Across The Canvas. How

They _Had_ Hung His Little Jacques! No Doubt Out Of Disdain,  Or

Perhaps From Shame,  So As To Get Rid Of The Child's Lugubrious

Ugliness. But Claude Evoked The Little Fellow Such As He Had Once

Been,  And Beheld Him Again Over Yonder In The Country,  So Fresh And

Pinky,  As He Rolled About In The Grass; Then In The Rue