His Masterpiece, Emile Zola [read ebook pdf .TXT] 📗
- Author: Emile Zola
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Without Seeing Each Other They Ended By Conversing Far Into The Night,
Amidst The Deep Mournful Silence Of That Deserted District.
On That Particular Evening, At About Nine O'clock, The Charwoman Came
In.
'Monsieur, I Have Done. Can I Go?'
'Yes, Go To Bed. You Have Left The Kettle On The Fire, Haven't You?
I'll Make The Tea Myself.'
Sandoz Had Risen. He Went Off At The Heels Of The Charwoman, And Only
Returned A Quarter Of An Hour Afterwards. He Had No Doubt Been To Kiss
His Mother, Whom He Tucked Up Every Night Before She Dozed Off.
Meanwhile The Voices Had Risen To A High Pitch Again. Fagerolles Was
Telling A Story.
'Yes, Old Fellow; At The School They Even Correct Nature Herself. The
Other Day Mazel Comes Up To Me And Says: "Those Two Arms Don't
Correspond"; Whereupon I Reply: "Look For Yourself, Monsieur--The
Model's Are Like That." It Was Little Flore Beauchamp, You Know.
"Well," Mazel Furiously Replies, "If She Has Them Like That, It's Very
Wrong Of Her."'
They Almost All Shrieked, Especially Claude, To Whom Fagerolles Told
The Story By Way Of Paying Court. For Some Time Previously The Younger
Artist Had Yielded To The Elder's Influence; And Although He Continued
To Paint With Purely Tricky Skill, He No Longer Talked Of Anything But
Substantial, Thickly-Painted Work, Of Bits Of Nature Thrown On To
Canvas, Palpitating With Life, Such As They Really Were. This Did Not
Prevent Him, Though, From Elsewhere Chaffing The Adepts Of The
Open-Air School, Whom He Accused Of Impasting With A Kitchen Ladle.
Dubuche, Who Had Not Laughed, His Sense Of Rectitude Being Offended,
Made So Bold As To Reply:
'Why Do You Stop At The School If You Think You Are Being Brutified
There? It's Simple Enough, One Goes Away--Oh, I Know You Are All
Against Me, Because I Defend The School. But, You See, My Idea Is
That, When A Fellow Wants To Carry On A Trade, It Is Not A Bad Thing
For Him To Begin By Learning It.'
Ferocious Shouts Arose At This, And Claude Had Need Of All His
Authority To Secure A Hearing.
'He Is Right. One Must Learn One's Trade. But It Won't Do To Learn It
Under The Ferule Of Professors Who Want To Cram Their Own Views
Forcibly Into Your Nut. That Mazel Is A Perfect Idiot!'
He Flung Himself Backward On The Bed, On Which He Had Been Sitting,
And With His Eyes Raised To The Ceiling, He Went On, In An Excited
Tone:
'Ah! Life! Life! To Feel It And Portray It In Its Reality, To Love It
For Itself, To Behold In It The Only Real, Lasting, And Changing
Beauty, Without Any Idiotic Idea Of Ennobling It By Mutilation. To
Understand That All So-Called Ugliness Is Nothing But The Mark Of
Part 3 Pg 62Individual Character, To Create Real Men And Endow Them With Life
--Yes, That's The Only Way To Become A God!'
His Faith Was Coming Back To Him, The March Across Paris Had Spurred
Him On Once More; He Was Again Seized By His Passion For Living Flesh.
They Listened To Him In Silence. He Made A Wild Gesture, Then Calmed
Down.
'No Doubt Every One Has His Own Ideas; But The Annoyance Is That At
The Institute They Are Even More Intolerant Than We Are. The Hanging
Committee Of The Salon Is In Their Hands. I Am Sure That That Idiot
Mazel Will Refuse My Picture.'
Thereupon They All Broke Out Into Imprecations, For This Question Of
The Hanging Committee Was The Everlasting Subject Of Their Wrath. They
Demanded Reforms; Every One Had A Solution Of The Problem Ready--From
Universal Suffrage, Applied To The Election Of A Hanging Committee,
Liberal In The Widest Sense Of The Word, Down To Unrestricted Liberty,
A Salon Open To All Exhibitors.*
* The Reader Will Bear In Mind That All These Complaints Made By
Claude And His Friends Apply To The Old Salons, As Organized
Under Government Control, At The Time Of The Second Empire.--Ed.
While The Others Went On Discussing The Subject, Gagniere Drew
Mahoudeau To The Open Window, Where, In A Low Voice, His Eyes The
While Staring Into Space, He Murmured:
'Oh, It's Nothing At All, Only Four Bars; A Simple Impression Jotted
Down There And Then. But What A Deal There Is In It! To Me It's First
Of All A Landscape, Dwindling Away In The Distance; A Bit Of
Melancholy Road, With The Shadow Of A Tree That One Cannot See; And
Then A Woman Passes Along, Scarcely A Silhouette; On She Goes And You
Never Meet Her Again, No, Never More Again.'
Just At That Moment, However, Fagerolles Exclaimed, 'I Say, Gagniere,
What Are You Going To Send To The Salon This Year?'
Gagniere Did Not Hear, But Continued Talking, Enraptured, As It Were.
'In Schumann One Finds Everything--The Infinite. And Wagner, Too, Whom
They Hissed Again Last Sunday!'
But A Fresh Call From Fagerolles Made Him Start.
'Eh! What? What Am I Going To Send To The Salon? A Small Landscape,
Perhaps; A Little Bit Of The Seine. It Is So Difficult To Decide;
First Of All I Must Feel Pleased With It Myself.'
He Had Suddenly Become Timid And Anxious Again. His Artistic Scruples,
His Conscientiousness, Kept Him Working For Months On A Canvas The
Size Of One's Hand. Following The Track Of The French Landscape
Painters, Those Masters Who Were The First To Conquer Nature, He
Worried About Correctness Of Tone, Pondering And Pondering Over The
Precise Value Of Tints, Till Theoretical Scruples Ended By Making His
Touch Heavy. And He Often Did Not Dare To Chance A Bright Dash Of
Colour, But Painted In A Greyish Gloomy Key Which Was Astonishing,
When One Remembered His Revolutionary Passions.
Part 3 Pg 63'For My Part,' Said Mahoudeau, 'I Feel Delighted At The Prospect Of
Making Them Squint With My Woman.'
Claude Shrugged His Shoulders. 'Oh! You'll Get In, The Sculptors Have
Broader Minds Than The Painters. And, Besides, You Know Very Well What
You Are About; You Have Something At Your Fingers' Ends That Pleases.
There Will Be Plenty Of Pretty Bits About Your Vintaging Girl.'
The Compliment Made Mahoudeau Feel Serious. He Posed Above All For
Vigour Of Execution; He Was Unconscious Of His Real Vein Of Talent,
And Despised Gracefulness, Though It Ever Invincibly Sprung From His
Big, Coarse Fingers--The Fingers Of An Untaught Working-Man--Like A
Flower That Obstinately Sprouts From The Hard Soil Where The Wind Has
Flung Its Seed.
Fagerolles, Who Was Very Cunning, Had Decided To Send Nothing, For
Fear Of Displeasing His Masters; And He Chaffed The Salon, Calling It
'A Foul Bazaar, Where All The Bad Painting Made Even The Good Turn
Musty.' In His Inmost Heart He Was Dreaming Of One Day Securing The
Rome Prize, Though He Ridiculed It, As He Did Everything Else.
However, Jory Stationed Himself In The Middle Of The Room, Holding Up
His Glass Of Beer. Sipping Every Now And Then, He Declared: 'Well,
Your Hanging Committee Quite Disgusts Me! I Say, Shall I Demolish It?
I'll Begin Bombarding It In Our Very Next Number. You'll Give Me Some
Notes, Eh? And We'll Knock It To Pieces. That Will Be Fine Fun.'
Claude Was At Last Fully Wound Up, And General Enthusiasm Prevailed.
Yes, Yes, They Must Start A Campaign. They Would All Be In It, And,
Pressing Shoulder To Shoulder, March To The Battle Together. At That
Moment There Was Not One Of Them Who Reserved His Share Of Fame, For
Nothing Divided Them As Yet; Neither The Profound Dissemblance Of
Their Various Natures, Of Which They Themselves Were Ignorant, Nor
Their Rivalries, Which Would Some Day Bring Them Into Collision. Was
Not The Success Of One The Success Of All The Others? Their Youth Was
Fermenting, They Were Brimming Over With Mutual Devotion; They
Indulged Anew In Their Everlasting Dream Of Gathering Into A Phalanx
To Conquer The World, Each Contributing His Individual Effort; This
One Helping That One Forward, And The Whole Band Reaching Fame At Once
In One Row. Claude, As The Acknowledged Chief, Was Already Sounding
The Victory, Distributing Laurels With Such Lyrical Abundance That He
Overlooked Himself. Fagerolles Himself, Gibing Parisian Though He
Might Be, Believed In The Necessity Of Forming An Army; While Even
Jory, Although He Had A Coarser Appetite, With A Deal Of The
Provincial Still About Him, Displayed Much Useful Comradeship,
Catching Various Artistic Phrases As They Fell From His Companions'
Lips, And Already Preparing In His Mind The Articles Which Would
Herald The Advent Of The Band And Make Them Known. And Mahoudeau
Purposely Exaggerated His Intentional Roughness, And Clasped His Hands
Like An Ogre Kneading Human Flesh; While Gagniere, In Ecstasy, As If
Freed From The Everlasting Greyishness Of His Art, Sought To Refine
Sensation To The Utmost Limits Of Intelligence; And Dubuche, With His
Matter-Of-Fact Convictions, Threw In But A Word Here And There; Words,
However, Which Were Like Club-Blows In The Very Midst Of The Fray.
Then Sandoz, Happy And Smiling At Seeing Them So United, 'All In One
Shirt,' As He Put It, Opened Another Bottle Of Beer. He Would Have
Emptied Every One In The House.
Part 3 Pg 64'Eh?' He Cried, 'We're Agreed, Let's Stick To It. It's Really Pleasant
To Come To An Understanding Among Fellows Who Have Something In Their
Nuts, So May The Thunderbolts Of Heaven Sweep All Idiots Away!'
At That Same Moment A Ring At The Bell Stupefied Him. Amidst The
Sudden Silence Of The Others, He Inquired--'Who, To The Deuce, Can
That Be--At Eleven O'clock?'
He Ran To Open The Door, And They Heard Him Utter A Cry Of Delight. He
Was Already Coming Back Again, Throwing The Door Wide Open As He Said
--'Ah! It's Very Kind Indeed To Think Of Us And Surprise Us Like This!
Bongrand, Gentlemen.'
The Great Painter, Whom The Master Of The House Announced In This
Respectfully Familiar Way, Entered, Holding Out Both Hands. They All
Eagerly Rose, Full Of Emotion, Delighted With That Manly, Cordial
Handshake So Willingly Bestowed. Bongrand Was Then Forty-Five Years
Old, Stout, And With A Very Expressive Face And Long Grey Hair. He Had
Recently Become A Member Of The Institute, And Wore The Rosette Of An
Officer Of The Legion Of Honour In The Top Button-Hole Of His
Unpretentious Alpaca Jacket. He Was Fond Of Young People; He Liked
Nothing So Much As To Drop In From Time To Time And Smoke A
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