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
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.
Part 10 Pg 205'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.
Part 10 Pg 206
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!'
Part 10 Pg 207They 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
Part 10 Pg 208Protracted 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
Comments (0)