His Masterpiece by Emile Zola (most inspirational books of all time txt) 📕
- Author: Emile Zola
Book online «His Masterpiece by Emile Zola (most inspirational books of all time txt) 📕». Author Emile Zola
On The 15th May, A Friday, Claude, Who Had Returned At Three O'clock
In The Morning From Sandoz's, Was Still Asleep At Nine, When Madame
Joseph Brought Him Up A Large Bouquet Of White Lilac Which A
Commissionaire Had Just Left Downstairs. He Understood At Once.
Christine Had Wished To Be Beforehand In Celebrating The Success Of
His Painting. For This Was A Great Day For Him, The Opening Day Of The
'Salon Of The Rejected,' Which Was First Instituted That Year,* And At
Which His Picture--Refused By The Hanging Committee Of The Official
Salon--Was To Be Exhibited.
* This Was In 1863.--Ed.
That Delicate Attention On Christine's Part, That Fresh And Fragrant
Lilac, Affected Him Greatly, As If Presaging A Happy Day. Still In His
Nightshirt, With His Feet Bare, He Placed The Flowers In His Water-Jug
On The Table. Then, With His Eyes Still Swollen With Sleep, Almost
Part 5 Pg 87Bewildered, He Dressed, Scolding Himself The While For Having Slept So
Long. On The Previous Night He Had Promised Dubuche And Sandoz To Call
For Them At The Latter's Place At Eight O'clock, In Order That They
Might All Three Go Together To The Palais De L'industrie, Where They
Would Find The Rest Of The Band. And He Was Already An Hour Behind
Time.
Then, As Luck Would Have It, He Could Not Lay His Hands Upon Anything
In His Studio, Which Had Been Turned Topsy-Turvy Since The Despatch Of
The Big Picture. For More Than Five Minutes He Hunted On His Knees For
His Shoes, Among A Quantity Of Old Chases. Some Particles Of Gold Leaf
Flew About, For, Not Knowing Where To Get The Money For A Proper
Frame, He Had Employed A Joiner Of The Neighbourhood To Fit Four
Strips Of Board Together, And Had Gilded Them Himself, With The
Assistance Of His Friend Christine, Who, By The Way, Had Proved A Very
Unskilful Gilder. At Last, Dressed And Shod, And Having His Soft Felt
Hat Bespangled With Yellow Sparks Of The Gold, He Was About To Go,
When A Superstitious Thought Brought Him Back To The Nosegay, Which
Had Remained Alone On The Centre Of The Table. If He Did Not Kiss The
Lilac He Was Sure To Suffer An Affront. So He Kissed It And Felt
Perfumed By Its Strong Springtide Aroma.
Under The Archway, He Gave His Key As Usual To The Doorkeeper. 'Madame
Joseph,' He Said, 'I Shall Not Be Home All Day.'
In Less Than Twenty Minutes He Was In The Rue D'enfer, At Sandoz's.
But The Latter, Whom He Feared Would Have Already Gone, Was Equally
Late In Consequence Of A Sudden Indisposition Which Had Come Upon His
Mother. It Was Nothing Serious. She Had Merely Passed A Bad Night, But
It Had For A While Quite Upset Him With Anxiety. Now, Easy In Mind
Again, Sandoz Told Claude That Dubuche Had Written Saying That They
Were Not To Wait For Him, And Giving An Appointment At The Palais.
They Therefore Started Off, And As It Was Nearly Eleven, They Decided
To Lunch In A Deserted Little _Cremerie_ In The Rue St. Honore, Which
They Did Very Leisurely, Seized With Laziness Amidst All Their Ardent
Desire To See And Know; And Enjoying, As It Were, A Kind Of Sweet,
Tender Sadness From Lingering Awhile And Recalling Memories Of Their
Youth.
One O'clock Was Striking When They Crossed The Champs Elysees. It Was
A Lovely Day, With A Limpid Sky, To Which The Breeze, Still Somewhat
Chilly, Seemed To Impart A Brighter Azure. Beneath The Sun, Of The Hue
Of Ripe Corn, The Rows Of Chestnut Trees Showed New Foliage Of A
Delicate And Seemingly Freshly Varnished Green; And The Fountains With
Their Leaping Sheafs Of Water, The Well-Kept Lawns, The Deep Vistas Of
The Pathways, And The Broad Open Spaces, All Lent An Air Of Luxurious
Grandeur To The Panorama. A Few Carriages, Very Few At That Early
Hour, Were Ascending The Avenue, While A Stream Of Bewildered,
Bustling People, Suggesting A Swarm Of Ants, Plunged Into The Huge
Archway Of The Palais De L'industrie.
When They Were Inside, Claude Shivered Slightly While Crossing The
Gigantic Vestibule, Which Was As Cold As A Cellar, With A Damp
Pavement Which Resounded Beneath One's Feet, Like The Flagstones Of A
Church. He Glanced Right And Left At The Two Monumental Stairways, And
Asked Contemptuously: 'I Say, Are We Going Through Their Dirty Salon?'
'Oh! No, Dash It!' Answered Sandoz. 'Let's Cut Through The Garden. The
Part 5 Pg 88Western Staircase Over There Leads To "The Rejected."'
Then They Passed Disdainfully Between The Two Little Tables Of The
Catalogue Vendors. Between The Huge Red Velvet Curtains And Beyond A
Shady Porch Appeared The Garden, Roofed In With Glass. At That Time Of
Day It Was Almost Deserted; There Were Only Some People At The Buffet
Under The Clock, A Throng Of People Lunching. The Crowd Was In The
Galleries On The First Floor, And The White Statues Alone Edged The
Yellow-Sanded Pathways Which With Stretches Of Crude Colour
Intersected The Green Lawns. There Was A Whole Nation Of Motionless
Marble There Steeped In The Diffuse Light Falling From The Glazed Roof
On High. Looking Southwards, Some Holland Screens Barred Half Of The
Nave, Which Showed Ambery In The Sunlight And Was Speckled At Both
Ends By The Dazzling Blue And Crimson Of Stained-Glass Windows. Just A
Few Visitors, Tired Already, Occupied The Brand-New Chairs And Seats,
Shiny With Fresh Paint; While The Flights Of Sparrows, Who Dwelt
Above, Among The Iron Girders, Swooped Down, Quite At Home, Raking Up
The Sand And Twittering As They Pursued Each Other.
Claude And Sandoz Made A Show Of Walking Very Quickly Without Giving A
Glance Around Them. A Stiff Classical Bronze Statue, A Minerva By A
Member Of The Institute, Had Exasperated Them At The Very Door. But As
They Hastened Past A Seemingly Endless Line Of Busts, They Recognised
Bongrand, Who, All Alone, Was Going Slowly Round A Colossal,
Overflowing, Recumbent Figure, Which Had Been Placed In The Middle Of
The Path. With His Hands Behind His Back, Quite Absorbed, He Bent His
Wrinkled Face Every Now And Then Over The Plaster.
'Hallo, It's You?' He Said, As They Held Out Their Hands To Him. 'I
Was Just Looking At Our Friend Mahoudeau's Figure, Which They Have At
Least Had The Intelligence To Admit, And To Put In A Good Position.'
Then, Breaking Off: 'Have You Been Upstairs?' He Asked.
'No, We Have Just Come In,' Said Claude.
Thereupon Bongrand Began To Talk Warmly About The Salon Of The
Rejected. He, Who Belonged To The Institute, But Who Lived Apart From
His Colleagues, Made Very Merry Over The Affair; The Everlasting
Discontent Of Painters; The Campaign Conducted By Petty Newspapers
Like 'The Drummer'; The Protestations, The Constant Complaints That
Had At Last Disturbed The Emperor, And The Artistic _Coup D'etat_
Carried Out By That Silent Dreamer, For This Salon Of The Rejected Was
Entirely His Work. Then The Great Painter Alluded To All The Hubbub
Caused By The Flinging Of Such A Paving-Stone Into That Frog's Pond,
The Official Art World.
'No,' He Continued, 'You Can Have No Idea Of The Rage And Indignation
Among The Members Of The Hanging Committee. And Remember I'm
Distrusted, They Generally Keep Quiet When I'm There. But They Are All
Furious With The Realists. It Was To Them That They Systematically
Closed The Doors Of The Temple; It Is On Account Of Them That The
Emperor Has Allowed The Public To Revise Their Verdict; And Finally It
Is They, The Realists, Who Triumph. Ah! I Hear Some Nice Things Said;
I Wouldn't Give A High Price For Your Skins, Youngsters.'
He Laughed His Big, Joyous Laugh, Stretching Out His Arms The While As
If To Embrace All The Youthfulness That He Divined Rising Around Him.
Part 5 Pg 85
'Your Disciples Are Growing,' Said Claude, Simply.
But Bongrand, Becoming Embarrassed, Silenced Him With A Wave Of His
Hand. He Himself Had Not Sent Anything For Exhibition, And The
Prodigious Mass Of Work Amidst Which He Found Himself--Those Pictures,
Those Statues, All Those Proofs Of Creative Effort--Filled Him With
Regret. It Was Not Jealousy, For There Lived Not A More Upright And
Better Soul; But As A Result Of Self-Examination, A Gnawing Fear Of
Impotence, An Unavowed Dread Haunted Him.
'And At "The Rejected,"' Asked Sandoz; 'How Goes It There?'
'Superb; You'll See.'
Then Turning Towards Claude, And Keeping Both The Young Man's Hands In
His Own, 'You, My Good Fellow, You Are A Trump. Listen! They Say I Am
Clever: Well, I'd Give Ten Years Of My Life To Have Painted That Big
Hussy Of Yours.'
Praise Like That, Coming From Such Lips, Moved The Young Painter To
Tears. Victory Had Come At Last, Then? He Failed To Find A Word Of
Thanks, And Abruptly Changed The Conversation, Wishing To Hide His
Emotion.
'That Good Fellow Mahoudeau!' He Said, 'Why His Figure's Capital! He
Has A Deuced Fine Temperament, Hasn't He?'
Sandoz And Claude Had Begun To Walk Round The Plaster Figure. Bongrand
Replied With A Smile.
'Yes, Yes; There's Too Much Fulness And Massiveness In Parts. But Just
Look At The Articulations, They Are Delicate And Really Pretty. Come,
Good-Bye, I Must Leave You. I'm Going To Sit Down A While. My Legs Are
Bending Under Me.'
Claude Had Raised His Head To Listen. A Tremendous Uproar, An
Incessant Crashing That Had Not Struck Him At First, Careered Through
The Air; It Was Like The Din Of A Tempest Beating Against A Cliff, The
Rumbling Of An Untiring Assault, Dashing Forward From Endless Space.
'Hallow, What's That?' He Muttered.
'That,' Said Bongrand, As He Walked Away, 'That's The Crowd Upstairs
In The Galleries.'
And The Two Young Fellows, Having Crossed The Garden, Then Went Up To
The Salon Of The Rejected.
It Had Been Installed In First-Rate Style. The Officially Received
Pictures Were Not Lodged More Sumptuously: Lofty Hangings Of Old
Tapestry At The Doors; 'The Line' Set Off With Green Baize; Seats Of
Crimson Velvet; White Linen Screens Under The Large Skylights Of The
Roof. And All Along The Suite Of Galleries The First Impression Was
The Same--There Were The Same Gilt Frames, The Same Bright
Comments (0)