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
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
Part 10 Pg 209Raised; 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
Part 10 Pg 210Galleries 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
Part 10 Pg 211Up 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
Comments (0)