His Masterpiece, Emile Zola [read ebook pdf .TXT] 📗
- Author: Emile Zola
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We'll Have A Talk Together.'
With The End Of His Brush He Pointed To A Study Of The Nude, Suspended
From The Wall Near The Door. It Was Really Magnificent, Full Of
Masterly Breadth Of Colouring. By Its Side Were Some Other Admirable
Bits, A Girl's Feet Exquisite In Their Delicate Truthfulness, And A
Woman's Trunk With Quivering Satin-Like Skin. In His Rare Moments Of
Content He Felt Proud Of Those Few Studies, The Only Ones Which
Satisfied Him, Which, As It Were, Foretold A Great Painter, Admirably
Gifted, But Hampered By Sudden And Inexplicable Fits Of Impotency.
Dealing Sabre-Like Strokes At The Velveteen Jacket, He Continued
Lashing Himself Into Excitement With His Uncompromising Theories Which
Respected Nobody:
'They Are All So Many Daubers Of Penny Prints, Who Have Stolen Their
Reputations; A Set Of Idiots Or Knaves On Their Knees Before Public
Imbecility! Not One Among Them Dares To Give The Philistines A Slap In
The Face. And, While We Are About It, You Know That Old Ingres Turns
Me Sick With His Glairy Painting. Nevertheless, He's A Brick, And A
Plucky Fellow, And I Take Off My Hat To Him, For He Did Not Care A
Curse For Anybody, And He Used To Draw Like The Very Devil. He Ended
By Making The Idiots, Who Nowadays Believe They Understand Him,
Swallow That Drawing Of His. After Him There Are Only Two Worth
Speaking Of, Delacroix And Courbet. The Others Are Only Numskulls. Oh,
That Old Romantic Lion, The Carriage Of Him! He Was A Decorator Who
Knew How To Make The Colours Blaze. And What A Grasp He Had! He Would
Have Covered Every Wall In Paris If They Had Let Him; His Palette
Boiled, And Boiled Over. I Know Very Well That It Was Only So Much
Phantasmagoria. Never Mind, I Like It For All That, As It Was Needed
To Set The School On Fire. Then Came The Other, A Stout Workman--That
One, The Truest Painter Of The Century, And Altogether Classical
Besides, A Fact Which Not One Of The Dullards Understood. They Yelled,
Of Course; They Shouted About Profanation And Realism, When, After
All, The Realism Was Only In The Subject. The Perception Remained That
Of The Old Masters, And The Execution Resumed And Continued The Best
Bits Of Work One Can Find In Our Public Galleries. Both Delacroix And
Courbet Came At The Proper Time. Each Made A Stride Forward. And Now
--Ah, Now!'
He Ceased Speaking And Drew Back A Few Steps To Judge Of The Effect Of
His Picture, Becoming Absorbed In Contemplation For A Moment, And Then
Resuming:
'Yes, Nowadays We Want Something Different--What, I Don't Exactly
Know. If I Did, And Could Do It, I Should Be Clever Indeed. No One
Else Would Be In The Race With Me. All I Do Know And Feel Is That
Delacroix's Grand Romantic Scenes Are Foundering And Splitting, That
Courbet's Black Painting Already Reeks Of The Mustiness Of A Studio
Which The Sun Never Penetrates. You Understand Me, Don't You? We,
Perhaps, Want The Sun, The Open Air, A Clear, Youthful Style Of
Painting, Men And Things Such As They Appear In The Real Light. In
Short, I Myself Am Unable To Say What Our Painting Should Be; The
Painting That Our Eyes Of To-Day Should Execute And Behold.'
Part 2 Pg 32His Voice Again Fell; He Stammered And Found Himself Unable To Explain
The Formulas Of The Future That Were Rising Within Him. Deep Silence
Came While He Continued Working At The Velveteen Jacket, Quivering All
The Time.
Sandoz Had Been Listening To Him Without Stirring From His Position.
His Back Was Still Turned, And He Said Slowly, As If Speaking To The
Wall In A Kind Of Dream:
'No; One Does Not Know, And Still We Ought To Know. But Each Time A
Professor Has Wanted To Impress A Truth Upon Me, I Have Mistrustfully
Revolted, Thinking: "He Is Either Deceiving Himself Or Deceiving Me."
Their Ideas Exasperate Me. It Seems To Me That Truth Is Larger, More
General. How Beautiful Would It Be If One Could Devote The Whole Of
One's Existence To One Single Work, Into Which One Would Endeavour To
Put Everything, The Beasts Of The Field As Well As Mankind; In Short,
A Kind Of Immense Ark. And Not In The Order Indicated By Manuals Of
Philosophy, Or According To The Idiotic Hierarchy On Which We Pride
Ourselves, But According To The Full Current Of Life; A World In Which
We Should Be Nothing More Than An Accident, In Which The Passing Cur,
Even The Stones Of The Roads, Would Complete And Explain Us. In Sum,
The Grand Whole, Without Low Or High, Or Clean Or Unclean, Such As It
Indeed Is In Reality. It Is Certainly To Science That Poets And
Novelists Ought To Address Themselves, For It Is The Only Possible
Source Of Inspiration To-Day. But What Are We To Borrow From It? How
Are We To March In Its Company? The Moment I Begin To Think About That
Sort Of Thing I Feel That I Am Floundering. Ah, If I Only Knew, What A
Series Of Books I Would Hurl At The Heads Of The Crowd!'
He Also Became Silent. The Previous Winter He Had Published His First
Book: A Series Of Little Sketches, Brought From Plassans, Among Which
Only A Few Rougher Notes Indicated That The Author Was A Mutineer, A
Passionate Lover Of Truth And Power. And Lately He Had Been Feeling
His Way, Questioning Himself While All Sorts Of Confused Ideas
Throbbed In His Brain. At First, Smitten With The Thought Of
Undertaking Something Herculean, He Had Planned A Genesis Of The
Universe, In Three Phases Or Parts; The Creation Narrated According To
Science; Mankind Supervening At The Appointed Hour And Playing Its
Part In The Chain Of Beings And Events; Then The Future--Beings
Constantly Following One Another, And Finishing The Creation Of The
World By The Endless Labour Of Life. But He Had Calmed Down In
Presence Of The Venturesome Hypotheses Of This Third Phase; And He Was
Now Looking Out For A More Restricted, More Human Framework, In Which,
However, His Vast Ambition Might Find Room.
'Ah, To Be Able To See And Paint Everything,' Exclaimed Claude, After
A Long Interval. 'To Have Miles Upon Miles Of Walls To Cover, To
Decorate The Railway Stations, The Markets, The Municipal Offices,
Everything That Will Be Built, When Architects Are No Longer Idiots.
Only Strong Heads And Strong Muscles Will Be Wanted, For There Will Be
No Lack Of Subjects. Life Such As It Runs About The Streets, The Life
Of The Rich And The Poor, In The Market Places, On The Race-Courses,
On The Boulevards, In The Populous Alleys; And Every Trade Being
Plied, And Every Passion Portrayed In Full Daylight, And The Peasants,
Too, And The Beasts Of The Fields And The Landscapes--Ah! You'll See
It All, Unless I Am A Downright Brute. My Very Hands Are Itching To Do
It. Yes! The Whole Of Modern Life! Frescoes As High As The Pantheon! A
Part 2 Pg 33Series Of Canvases Big Enough To Burst The Louvre!'
Whenever They Were Thrown Together The Painter And The Author
Generally Reached This State Of Excitement. They Spurred Each Other
Mutually, They Went Mad With Dreams Of Glory; And There Was Such A
Burst Of Youth, Such A Passion For Work About Their Plans, That They
Themselves Often Smiled Afterwards At Those Great, Proud Dreams Which
Seemed To Endow Them With Suppleness, Strength, And Spirit.
Claude, Who Had Stepped Back As Far As The Wall, Remained Leaning
Against It, And Gazing At His Work. Seeing Which, Sandoz, Overcome By
Fatigue, Left The Couch And Joined Him. Then Both Looked At The
Picture Without Saying A Word. The Gentleman In The Velveteen Jacket
Was Entirely Roughed In. His Hand, More Advanced Than The Rest,
Furnished A Pretty Fresh Patch Of Flesh Colour Amid The Grass, And The
Dark Coat Stood Out So Vigorously That The Little Silhouettes In The
Background, The Two Little Women Wrestling In The Sunlight, Seemed To
Have Retreated Further Into The Luminous Quivering Of The Glade. The
Principal Figure, The Recumbent Woman, As Yet Scarcely More Than
Outlined, Floated About Like Some Aerial Creature Seen In Dreams, Some
Eagerly Desired Eve Springing From The Earth, With Her Features
Vaguely Smiling And Her Eyelids Closed.
'Well, Now, What Are You Going To Call It?' Asked Sandoz.
'_The Open Air_,' Replied Claude, Somewhat Curtly.
The Title Sounded Rather Technical To The Writer, Who, In Spite Of
Himself, Was Sometimes Tempted To Introduce Literature Into Pictorial
Art.
'_The Open Air_! That Doesn't Suggest Anything.'
'There Is No Occasion For It To Suggest Anything. Some Women And A Man
Are Reposing In A Forest In The Sunlight. Does Not That Suffice? Don't
Fret, There's Enough In It To Make A Masterpiece.'
He Threw Back His Head And Muttered Between His Teeth: 'Dash It All!
It's Very Black Still. I Can't Get Delacroix Out Of My Eye, Do What I
Will. And Then The Hand, That's Courbet's Manner. Everyone Of Us Dabs
His Brush Into The Romantic Sauce Now And Then. We Had Too Much Of It
In Our Youth, We Floundered In It Up To Our Very Chins. We Need A
Jolly Good Wash To Get Clear Of It.'
Sandoz Shrugged His Shoulders With A Gesture Of Despair. He Also
Bewailed The Fact That He Had Been Born At What He Called The
Confluence Of Hugo And Balzac. Nevertheless, Claude Remained
Satisfied, Full Of The Happy Excitement Of A Successful Sitting. If
His Friend Could Give Him Two Or Three More Sundays The Man In The
Jacket Would Be All There. He Had Enough Of Him For The Present. Both
Began To Joke, For, As A Rule, Claude Almost Killed His Models, Only
Letting Them Go When They Were Fainting, Half Dead With Fatigue. He
Himself Now Very Nigh Dropped, His Legs Bending Under Him, And His
Stomach Empty. And As The Cuckoo Clock Struck Five, He Snatched At His
Crust Of Bread And Devoured It. Thoroughly Worn Out, He Broke It With
Trembling Fingers, And Scarcely Chewed It, Again Standing Before His
Picture, Pursued By His Passion To Such A Degree As To Be Unconscious
Even That He Was Eating.
Part 2 Pg 34'Five O'clock,' Said Sandoz, As He Stretched Himself, With His Arms
Upraised. 'Let's Go And Have Dinner. Ah! Here Comes Dubuche, Just In
Time.'
There Was A Knock At The Door, And Dubuche Came In. He Was A Stout
Young Fellow, Dark, With Regular But Heavy Features, Close-Cropped
Hair,
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