His Masterpiece, Emile Zola [read ebook pdf .TXT] 📗
- Author: Emile Zola
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The Same Passionate Love Of Art.
'Next Thursday? No, I Think Not,' Answered Dubuche.
'I Am Obliged To Go To A Dance At A Family's I Know.'
'Where You Expect To Get Hold Of A Dowry, I Suppose?'
'Well, It Wouldn't Be Such A Bad Spec.'
He Shook The Ashes From His Pipe On To His Left Palm, And Then,
Suddenly Raising His Voice--'I Almost Forgot. I Have Had A Letter From
Pouillaud.'
'You, Too!--Well, I Think He's Pretty Well Done For, Pouillaud.
Another Good Fellow Gone Wrong.'
'Why Gone Wrong? He'll Succeed His Father; He'll Spend His Money
Quietly Down There. He Writes Rationally Enough. I Always Said He'd
Show Us A Thing Or Two, In Spite Of All His Practical Jokes. Ah! That
Beast Of A Pouillaud.'
Sandoz, Furious, Was About To Reply, When A Despairing Oath From
Claude Stopped Him. The Latter Had Not Opened His Lips Since He Had So
Obstinately Resumed His Work. To All Appearance He Had Not Even
Listened.
'Curse It--I Have Failed Again. Decidedly, I'm A Brute, I Shall Never
Do Anything.' And In A Fit Of Mad Rage He Wanted To Rush At His
Part 2 Pg 38Picture And Dash His Fist Through It. His Friends Had To Hold Him
Back. Why, It Was Simply Childish To Get Into Such A Passion. Would
Matters Be Improved When, To His Mortal Regret, He Had Destroyed His
Work? Still Shaking, He Relapsed Into Silence, And Stared At The
Canvas With An Ardent Fixed Gaze That Blazed With All The Horrible
Agony Born Of His Powerlessness. He Could No Longer Produce Anything
Clear Or Life-Like; The Woman's Breast Was Growing Pasty With Heavy
Colouring; That Flesh Which, In His Fancy, Ought To Have Glowed, Was
Simply Becoming Grimy; He Could Not Even Succeed In Getting A Correct
Focus. What On Earth Was The Matter With His Brain That He Heard It
Bursting Asunder, As It Were, Amidst His Vain Efforts? Was He Losing
His Sight That He Was No Longer Able To See Correctly? Were His Hands
No Longer His Own That They Refused To Obey Him? And Thus He Went On
Winding Himself Up, Irritated By The Strange Hereditary Lesion Which
Sometimes So Greatly Assisted His Creative Powers, But At Others
Reduced Him To A State Of Sterile Despair, Such As To Make Him Forget
The First Elements Of Drawing. Ah, To Feel Giddy With Vertiginous
Nausea, And Yet To Remain There Full Of A Furious Passion To Create,
When The Power To Do So Fled With Everything Else, When Everything
Seemed To Founder Around Him--The Pride Of Work, The Dreamt-Of Glory,
The Whole Of His Existence!
'Look Here, Old Boy,' Said Sandoz At Last, 'We Don't Want To Worry
You, But It's Half-Past Six, And We Are Starving. Be Reasonable, And
Come Down With Us.'
Claude Was Cleaning A Corner Of His Palette. Then He Emptied Some More
Tubes On It, And, In A Voice Like Thunder, Replied With One Single
Word, 'No.'
For The Next Ten Minutes Nobody Spoke; The Painter, Beside Himself,
Wrestled With His Picture, Whilst His Friends Remained Anxious At This
Attack, Which They Did Not Know How To Allay. Then, As There Came A
Knock At The Door, The Architect Went To Open It.
'Hallo, It's Papa Malgras.'
Malgras, The Picture-Dealer, Was A Thick-Set Individual, With
Close-Cropped, Brush-Like, White Hair, And A Red Splotchy Face. He Was
Wrapped In A Very Dirty Old Green Coat, That Made Him Look Like An
Untidy Cabman. In A Husky Voice, He Exclaimed: 'I Happened To Pass
Along The Quay, On The Other Side Of The Way, And I Saw That Gentleman
At The Window. So I Came Up.'
Claude's Continued Silence Made Him Pause. The Painter Had Turned To
His Picture Again With An Impatient Gesture. Not That This Silence In
Any Way Embarrassed The New Comer, Who, Standing Erect On His Sturdy
Legs And Feeling Quite At Home, Carefully Examined The New Picture
With His Bloodshot Eyes. Without Any Ceremony, He Passed Judgment Upon
It In One Phrase--Half Ironic, Half Affectionate: 'Well, Well, There's
A Machine.'
Then, Seeing That Nobody Said Anything, He Began To Stroll Round The
Studio, Looking At The Paintings On The Walls.
Papa Malgras, Beneath His Thick Layer Of Grease And Grime, Was Really
A Very Cute Customer, With Taste And Scent For Good Painting. He Never
Wasted His Time Or Lost His Way Among Mere Daubers; He Went Straight,
Part 2 Pg 39As If From Instinct, To Individualists, Whose Talent Was Contested
Still, But Whose Future Fame His Flaming, Drunkard's Nose Sniffed From
Afar. Added To This He Was A Ferocious Hand At Bargaining, And
Displayed All The Cunning Of A Savage In His Efforts To Secure, For A
Song, The Pictures That He Coveted. True, He Himself Was Satisfied
With Very Honest Profits, Twenty Per Cent., Thirty At The Most. He
Based His Calculations On Quickly Turning Over His Small Capital,
Never Purchasing In The Morning Without Knowing Where To Dispose Of
His Purchase At Night. As A Superb Liar, Moreover, He Had No Equal.
Pausing Near The Door, Before The Studies From The Nude, Painted At
The Boutin Studio, He Contemplated Them In Silence For A Few Moments,
His Eyes Glistening The While With The Enjoyment Of A Connoisseur,
Which His Heavy Eyelids Tried To Hide. Assuredly, He Thought, There
Was A Great Deal Of Talent And Sentiment Of Life About That Big Crazy
Fellow Claude, Who Wasted His Time In Painting Huge Stretches Of
Canvas Which No One Would Buy. The Girl's Pretty Legs, The Admirably
Painted Woman's Trunk, Filled The Dealer With Delight. But There Was
No Sale For That Kind Of Stuff, And He Had Already Made His Choice--A
Tiny Sketch, A Nook Of The Country Round Plassans, At Once Delicate
And Violent--Which He Pretended Not To Notice. At Last He Drew Near,
And Said, In An Off-Hand Way:
'What's This? Ah! Yes, I Know, One Of The Things You Brought Back With
You From The South. It's Too Crude. I Still Have The Two I Bought Of
You.'
And He Went On In Mellow, Long-Winded Phrases. 'You'll Perhaps Not
Believe Me, Monsieur Lantier, But That Sort Of Thing Doesn't Sell At
All--Not At All. I've A Set Of Rooms Full Of Them. I'm Always Afraid
Of Smashing Something When I Turn Round. I Can't Go On Like That,
Honour Bright; I Shall Have To Go Into Liquidation, And I Shall End My
Days In The Hospital. You Know Me, Eh? My Heart Is Bigger Than My
Pocket, And There's Nothing I Like Better Than To Oblige Young Men Of
Talent Like Yourself. Oh, For The Matter Of That, You've Got Talent,
And I Keep On Telling Them So--Nay, Shouting It To Them--But What's
The Good? They Won't Nibble, They Won't Nibble!'
He Was Trying The Emotional Dodge; Then, With The Spirit Of A Man
About To Do Something Rash: 'Well, It Sha'n't Be Said That I Came In
To Waste Your Time. What Do You Want For That Rough Sketch?'
Claude, Still Irritated, Was Painting Nervously. He Dryly Answered,
Without Even Turning His Head: 'Twenty Francs.'
'Nonsense; Twenty Francs! You Must Be Mad. You Sold Me The Others Ten
Francs A-Piece--And To-Day I Won't Give A Copper More Than Eight
Francs.'
As A Rule The Painter Closed With Him At Once, Ashamed And Humbled At
This Miserable Chaffering, Glad Also To Get A Little Money Now And
Then. But This Time He Was Obstinate, And Took To Insulting The
Picture-Dealer, Who, Giving Tit For Tat, All At Once Dropped The
Formal 'You' To Assume The Glib 'Thou,' Denied His Talent, Overwhelmed
Him With Invective, And Taxed Him With Ingratitude. Meanwhile,
However, He Had Taken From His Pocket Three Successive Five-Franc
Pieces, Which, As If Playing At Chuck-Farthing, He Flung From A
Distance Upon The Table, Where They Rattled Among The Crockery.
Part 2 Pg 40'One, Two, Three--Not One More, Dost Hear? For There Is Already One
Too Many, And I'll Take Care To Get It Back; I'll Deduct It From
Something Else Of Thine, As I Live. Fifteen Francs For That! Thou Art
Wrong, My Lad, And Thou'lt Be Sorry For This Dirty Trick.'
Quite Exhausted, Claude Let Him Take Down The Little Canvas, Which
Disappeared As If By Magic In His Capacious Green Coat. Had It Dropped
Into A Special Pocket, Or Was It Reposing On Papa Malgras' Ample
Chest? Not The Slightest Protuberance Indicated Its Whereabouts.
Having Accomplished His Stroke Of Business, Papa Malgras Abruptly
Calmed Down And Went Towards The Door. But He Suddenly Changed His
Mind And Came Back. 'Just Listen, Lantier,' He Said, In The Honeyest
Of Tones; 'I Want A Lobster Painted. You Really Owe Me That Much After
Fleecing Me. I'll Bring You The Lobster, You'll Paint Me A Bit Of
Still Life From It, And Keep It For Your Pains. You Can Eat It With
Your Friends. It's Settled, Isn't It?'
At This Proposal Sandoz And Dubuche, Who Had Hitherto Listened
Inquisitively, Burst Into Such Loud Laughter That The Picture-Dealer
Himself Became Gay. Those Confounded Painters, They Did Themselves No
Good, They Simply Starved. What Would Have Become Of The Lazy Beggars
If He, Papa Malgras, Hadn't Brought A Leg Of Mutton Now And Then, Or A
Nice Fresh Plaice, Or A Lobster, With Its Garnish Of Parsley?
'You'll Paint Me My Lobster, Eh, Lantier? Much Obliged.' And He
Stationed Himself Anew Before The Large Canvas, With His Wonted Smile
Of Mingled Derision And Admiration. And At Last He Went Off,
Repeating, 'Well, Well, There's A Machine.'
Claude Wanted To Take Up His Palette And Brushes Once More. But His
Legs Refused Their Service; His Arms Fell To His Side, Stiff, As If
Pinioned There By Some Occult Force. In The Intense Melancholy Silence
That Had Followed The Din Of The Dispute He Staggered, Distracted,
Bereft Of Sight Before His Shapeless Work.
'I'm Done For, I'm Done For,' He Gasped. 'That Brute Has Finished Me
Off!'
The Clock Had Just Struck Seven; He Had Been At Work For Eight Mortal
Hours Without Tasting Anything But A Crust Of Bread, Without Taking A
Moment's Rest, Ever On His Legs, Shaken By Feverish Excitement. And
Now The Sun Was Setting, Shadows Began To Darken The Studio, Which In
The Gloaming Assumed A Most Melancholy Aspect. When The Light Went
Down Like This On The Crisis Of A Bad Day's Work, It Seemed To Claude
As If The Sun Would Never Rise Again, But Had For Ever Carried Life
And All The Jubilant Gaiety Of Colour Away.
'Come,' Implored Sandoz, With All The Gentleness Of Brotherly
Compassion. 'Come,
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