His Masterpiece, Emile Zola [read ebook pdf .TXT] 📗
- Author: Emile Zola
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These Beginners, Whose Enthusiasm Warmed His Heart.
'I Am Going To Make The Tea,' Exclaimed Sandoz.
When He Came Back From The Kitchen, Carrying The Teapot And Cups, He
Found Bongrand Installed Astride A Chair, Smoking His Short Cutty,
Amidst The Din Which Had Again Arisen. Bongrand Himself Was Holding
Forth In A Stentorian Voice. The Grandson Of A Farmer Of The Beauce
Region, The Son Of A Man Risen To The Middle Classes, With Peasant
Blood In His Veins, Indebted For His Culture To A Mother Of Very
Artistic Tastes, He Was Rich, Had No Need To Sell His Pictures, And
Retained Many Tastes And Opinions Of Bohemian Life.
'The Hanging Committee? Well, I'd Sooner Hang Myself Than Belong To
It!' Said He, With Sweeping Gestures. 'Am I An Executioner To Kick
Poor Devils, Who Often Have To Earn Their Bread, Out Of Doors?'
'Still, You Might Render Us Great Service By Defending Our Pictures
Before The Committee,' Observed Claude.
'Oh, Dear, No! I Should Only Make Matters Worse For You--I Don't
Count; I'm Nobody.'
There Was A Chorus Of Protestations; Fagerolles Objected, In A Shrill
Voice:
'Well, If The Painter Of "The Village Wedding" Does Not Count--'
But Bongrand Was Getting Angry; He Had Risen, His Cheeks Afire.
'Eh? Don't Pester Me With "The Wedding"; I Warn You I Am Getting Sick
Of That Picture. It Is Becoming A Perfect Nightmare To Me Ever Since
It Has Been Hung In The Luxembourg Museum.'
This 'Village Wedding'--A Party Of Wedding Guests Roaming Through A
Part 3 Pg 65Corn-Field, Peasants Studied From Life, With An Epic Look Of The
Heroes Of Homer About Them--Had So Far Remained His Masterpiece. The
Picture Had Brought About An Evolution In Art, For It Had Inaugurated
A New Formula. Coming After Delacroix, And Parallel With Courbet, It
Was A Piece Of Romanticism Tempered By Logic, With More Correctness Of
Observation, More Perfection In The Handling. And Though It Did Not
Squarely Tackle Nature Amidst The Crudity Of The Open Air, The New
School Claimed Connection With It.
'There Can Be Nothing More Beautiful,' Said Claude, 'Than The Two
First Groups, The Fiddler, And Then The Bride With The Old Peasant.'
'And The Strapping Peasant Girl, Too,' Added Mahoudeau; The One Who Is
Turning Round And Beckoning! I Had A Great Mind To Take Her For The
Model Of A Statue.'
'And That Gust Of Wind Among The Corn,' Added Gagniere, 'And The
Pretty Bit Of The Boy And Girl Skylarking In The Distance.'
Bongrand Sat Listening With An Embarrassed Air, And A Smile Of Inward
Suffering; And When Fagerolles Asked Him What He Was Doing Just Then,
He Answered, With A Shrug Of His Shoulders:
'Well, Nothing; Some Little Things. But I Sha'n't Exhibit This Time. I
Should Like To Find A Telling Subject. Ah, You Fellows Are Happy At
Still Being At The Bottom Of The Hill. A Man Has Good Legs Then, He
Feels So Plucky When It's A Question Of Getting Up. But When Once He
Is A-Top, The Deuce Take It! The Worries Begin. A Real Torture,
Fisticuffs, Efforts Which Must Be Constantly Renewed, Lest One Should
Slip Down Too Quickly. Really Now, One Would Prefer Being Below, For
The Pleasure Of Still Having Everything To Do-- Ah, You May Laugh, But
You'll See It All For Yourselves Some Day!'
They Were Indeed Laughing, Thinking It A Paradox, Or A Little Piece Of
Affectation, Which They Excused. To Be Hailed, Like Bongrand, With The
Name Of Master--Was That Not The Height Of Bliss? He, With His Arms
Resting On The Back Of His Chair, Listened To Them In Silence,
Leisurely Puffing His Pipe, And Renouncing The Idea Of Trying To Make
Them Understand Him.
Meanwhile, Dubuche, Who Had Rather Domesticated Tastes, Helped Sandoz
To Hand The Tea Round, And The Din Continued. Fagerolles Related A
Story About Daddy Malgras And A Female Cousin By Marriage, Whom The
Dealer Offered As A Model On Conditions That He Was Given A
Presentment Of Her In Oils. Then They Began To Talk Of Models.
Mahoudeau Waxed Furious, Because The Really Well-Built Female Models
Were Disappearing. It Was Impossible To Find One With A Decent Figure
Now. Then Suddenly The Tumult Increased Again; Gagniere Was Being
Congratulated About A Connoisseur Whose Acquaintance He Had Made In
The Palais Royal One Afternoon, While The Band Played, An Eccentric
Gentleman Living On A Small Income, Who Never Indulged In Any Other
Extravagance Than That Of Buying Pictures. The Other Artists Laughed
And Asked For The Gentleman's Address. Then They Fell Foul Of The
Picture Dealers, Dirty Black-Guards, Who Preyed On Artists And Starved
Them. It Was Really A Pity That Connoisseurs Mistrusted Painters To
Such A Degree As To Insist Upon A Middleman Under The Impression That
They Would Thus Make A Better Bargain. This Question Of Bread And
Butter Excited Them Yet More, Though Claude Showed Magnificent
Part 3 Pg 66Contempt For It All. The Artist Was Robbed, No Doubt, But What Did
That Matter, If He Had Painted A Masterpiece, And Had Some Water To
Drink? Jory, Having Again Expressed Some Low Ideas About Lucre,
Aroused General Indignation. Out With The Journalist! He Was Asked
Stringent Questions. Would He Sell His Pen? Would He Not Sooner Chop
Off His Wrist Than Write Anything Against His Convictions? But They
Scarcely Waited For His Answer, For The Excitement Was On The
Increase; It Became The Superb Madness Of Early Manhood, Contempt For
The Whole World, An Absorbing Passion For Good Work, Freed From All
Human Weaknesses, Soaring In The Sky Like A Very Sun. Ah! How
Strenuous Was Their Desire To Lose Themselves, Consume Themselves, In
That Brazier Of Their Own Kindling!
Bongrand, Who Had Not Stirred The While, Made A Vague Gesture Of
Suffering At The Sight Of That Boundless Confidence, That Boisterous
Joy At The Prospect Of Attack. He Forgot The Hundred Paintings Which
Had Brought Him His Glory, He Was Thinking Of The Work Which He Had
Left Roughed Out On His Easel Now. Taking His Cutty From Between His
Lips, He Murmured, His Eyes Glistening With Kindliness, 'Oh, Youth,
Youth!'
Until Two In The Morning, Sandoz, Who Seemed Ubiquitous, Kept On
Pouring Fresh Supplies Of Hot Water Into The Teapot. From The
Neighbourhood, Now Asleep, One Now Only Heard The Miawing Of An
Amorous Tabby. They All Talked At Random, Intoxicated By Their Own
Words, Hoarse With Shouting, Their Eyes Scorched, And When At Last
They Made Up Their Minds To Go, Sandoz Took The Lamp To Show Them A
Light Over The Banisters, Saying Very Softly:
'Don't Make A Noise, My Mother Is Asleep.'
The Hushed Tread Of Their Boots On The Stairs Died Away At Last, And
Deep Silence Fell Upon The House.
It Struck Four. Claude, Who Had Accompanied Bongrand, Still Went On
Talking To Him In The Deserted Streets. He Did Not Want To Go To Bed;
He Was Waiting For Daylight, With Impatient Fury, So That He Might Set
To Work At His Picture Again. This Time He Felt Certain Of Painting A
Masterpiece, Exalted As He Was By That Happy Day Of Good-Fellowship,
His Mind Pregnant With A World Of Things. He Had Discovered At Last
What Painting Meant, And He Pictured Himself Re-Entering His Studio As
One Returns Into The Presence Of A Woman One Adores, His Heart
Throbbing Violently, Regretting Even This One Day's Absence, Which
Seemed To Him Endless Desertion. And He Would Go Straight To His
Canvas, And Realise His Dream In One Sitting. However, At Every Dozen
Steps Or So, Amidst The Flickering Light Of The Gaslamps, Bongrand
Caught Him By A Button Of His Coat, To Repeat To Him That, After All,
Painting Was An Accursed Trade. Sharp As He, Bongrand, Was Supposed To
Be, He Did Not Understand It Yet. At Each New Work He Undertook, He
Felt As If He Were Making A Debut; It Was Enough To Make One Smash
One's Head Against The Wall. The Sky Was Now Brightening, Some Market
Gardeners' Carts Began Rolling Down Towards The Central Markets; And
The Pair Continued Chattering, Each Talking For Himself, In A Loud
Voice, Beneath The Paling Stars.
Part 4 Pg 67
Six Weeks Later, Claude Was Painting One Morning Amidst A Flood Of
Sunshine That Streamed Through The Large Window Of His Studio.
Constant Rain Had Made The Middle Of August Very Dull, But His Courage
For Work Returned With The Blue Sky. His Great Picture Did Not Make
Much Progress, Albeit He Worked At It Throughout Long, Silent
Mornings, Like The Obstinate, Pugnacious Fellow He Was.
All At Once There Came A Knock At His Door. He Thought That Madame
Joseph, The Doorkeeper, Was Bringing Up His Lunch, And As The Key Was
Always In The Door, He Simply Called: 'Come In!'
The Door Had Opened; There Was A Slight Rustle, And Then All Became
Still. He Went On Painting Without Even Turning His Head. But The
Quivering Silence, And The Consciousness Of Some Vague Gentle
Breathing Near Him, At Last Made Him Fidgety. He Looked Up, And Felt
Amazed; A Woman Stood There Clad In A Light Gown, Her Features
Half-Hidden By A White Veil, And He Did Not Know Her, And She Was
Carrying A Bunch Of Roses, Which Completed His Bewilderment.
All At Once He Recognised Her.
'You, Mademoiselle? Well, I Certainly Didn't Expect You!'
It Was Christine. He Had Been Unable To Restrain That Somewhat
Unamiable Exclamation, Which Was A Cry From The Heart Itself. At First
He Had Certainly Thought Of Her; Then, As The Days Went By For Nearly
A Couple Of Months Without Sign Of Life From Her, She Had Become For
Him Merely A Fleeting, Regretted Vision, A Charming Silhouette Which
Had Melted Away In Space, And Would Never Be Seen Again.
'Yes, Monsieur, It's I. I Wished To Come. I Thought It Was Wrong Not
To Come And Thank You--'
She Blushed And Stammered, At A Loss For Words. She Was Out Of Breath,
No Doubt Through Climbing The Stairs, For Her Heart Was Beating Fast.
What! Was This Long-Debated Visit Out Of Place After All? It Had Ended
By Seeming Quite Natural To Her. The Worst Was That, In Passing Along
The Quay, She Had Bought That Bunch Of Roses With The Delicate
Intention Of Thereby Showing Her Gratitude To The Young Fellow, And
The Flowers Now Dreadfully Embarrassed Her. How Was She To Give Them
To Him? What Would He Think Of Her? The Impropriety Of The Whole
Proceeding Had Only Struck Her As She Opened The Door.
But Claude, More Embarrassed Still, Resorted To Exaggerated
Politeness. He Had Thrown
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