His Masterpiece by Émile Zola (classic novels for teens .TXT) 📕

“Come along, let’s go, eh? I’m catching my death of cold here.”

The band resumed its march. The worst was that to make a shortcut they had to go right through the official Salon, and they resigned themselves to doing so, notwithstanding the oath they had taken not to set foot in it, as a matter of protest. Cutting their way through the crowd, keeping rigidly erect, they followed the suite of galleries, casting indignant glances to right and left. There was none of the gay scandal of their Salon, full of fresh tones and an exaggeration of sunlight, here. One after the other came gilt frames full of shadows; black pretentious things, nude figures showing yellowish in a cellar-like light, the frippery of so-called classical art, historical, genre and landscape painting, all showing the same conventional black grease. The works reeked of uniform mediocrity, they were characterised by a muddy dinginess of tone, despite their primness⁠—the primness of impoverished, degenerate blood. And the friends quickened their steps: they ran to escape from that reign of bitumen, condemning everything in one lump with their superb sectarian injustice, repeating that there was nothing in the place worth looking at⁠—nothing, nothing at all!

At last they emerged from the galleries, and were going down into the garden when they met Mahoudeau and Chaîne. The former threw himself into Claude’s arms.

“Ah, my dear fellow, your picture; what artistic temperament it shows!”

The painter at once began to praise the Vintaging Girl.

“And you, I say, you have thrown a nice big lump at their heads!”

But the sight of Chaîne, to whom no one spoke about the Woman Taken in Adultery, and who went silently wandering around, awakened Claude’s compassion. He thought there was something very sad about that execrable painting, and the wasted life of that peasant who was a victim of middle-class admiration. He always gave him the delight of a little praise; so now he shook his hand cordially, exclaiming:

“Your machine’s very good too. Ah, my fine fellow, draughtsmanship has no terrors for you!”

“No, indeed,” declared Chaîne, who had grown purple with vanity under his black bushy beard.

He and Mahoudeau joined the band, and the latter asked the others whether they had seen Chambouvard’s Sower. It was marvellous; the only piece of statuary worth looking at in the Salon. Thereupon they all followed him into the garden, which the crowd was now invading.

“There,” said Mahoudeau, stopping in the middle of the central path: “Chambouvard is standing just in front of his Sower.”

In fact, a portly man stood there, solidly planted on his fat legs, and admiring his handiwork. With his head sunk between his shoulders, he had the heavy, handsome features of a Hindu idol. He was said to be the son of a veterinary surgeon of the neighbourhood of Amiens. At forty-five he had already produced twenty masterpieces: statues all simplicity and life, flesh modern and palpitating, kneaded by a workman of genius, without any pretension to refinement; and all this was chance production, for he furnished work as a field bears harvest, good one day, bad the next, in absolute ignorance of what he created. He carried the lack of critical acumen to such a degree that he made no distinction between the most glorious offspring of his hands and the detestably grotesque figures which now and then he chanced to put together. Never troubled by nervous feverishness, never doubting, always solid and convinced, he had the pride of a god.

“Wonderful, the Sower!” whispered Claude. “What a figure! and what an attitude!”

Fagerolles, who had not looked at the statue, was highly amused by the great man, and the string of young, open-mouthed disciples whom as usual he dragged at his tail.

“Just look at them, one would think they are taking the sacrament, ’pon my word⁠—and he himself, eh? What a fine brutish face he has!”

Isolated, and quite at his ease, amidst the general curiosity, Chambouvard stood there wondering, with the stupefied air of a man who is surprised at having produced such a masterpiece. He seemed to behold it for the first time, and was unable to get over his astonishment. Then an expression of delight gradually stole over his broad face, he nodded his head, and burst into soft, irresistible laughter, repeating a dozen times, “It’s comical, it’s really comical!”

His train of followers went into raptures, while he himself could find nothing more forcible to express how much he worshipped himself. All at once there was a slight stir. Bongrand, who had been walking about with his hands behind his back, glancing vaguely around him, had just stumbled on Chambouvard, and the public, drawing back, whispered, and watched the two celebrated artists shaking hands; the one short and of a sanguine temperament, the other tall and restless. Some expressions of good-fellowship were overheard. “Always fresh marvels.” “Of course! And you, nothing this year?” “No, nothing; I am resting, seeking⁠—” “Come, you joker! There’s no need to seek, the thing comes by itself.” “Goodbye.” “Goodbye.” And Chambouvard, followed by his court, was already moving slowly away among the crowd, with the glances of a king, who enjoys life, while Bongrand, who had recognised Claude and his friends, approached them with outstretched feverish hands, and called attention to the sculptor with a nervous jerk of the chin, saying, “There’s a fellow I envy! Ah! to be confident of always producing masterpieces!”

He complimented Mahoudeau on his Vintaging Girl; showed himself paternal to all of them, with that broad-minded good-nature of his, the free and easy manner of an old Bohemian of the romantic school, who had settled down and was decorated. Then, turning to Claude:

“Well, what did I tell you? Did you see upstairs? You have become the chief of a school.”

“Ah! yes,” replied Claude. “They are giving it me nicely. You are the master of us all.”

But Bongrand made his usual gesture of vague suffering and went off, saying, “Hold your tongue! I am