His Masterpiece, Émile Zola [essential reading txt] 📗

at as he had written that morning, began to talk of the first novel of his series, which he had published in October. Ah! they had treated his poor book nicely! It had been a throttling, a butchering, all the critics yelling at his heels, a broadside of imprecations, as if he had murdered people in a wood. He himself laughed at it, excited rather than otherwise, for he had sturdy shoulders and the quiet bearing of a toiler who knows what he’s after. Mere surprise remained to him at the profound lack of intelligence shown by those fellows the critics, whose articles, knocked off on the corner of some table, bespattered him with mud, without appearing as much as to guess at the least of his intentions. Everything was flung into the same slop-pail of abuse: his studies of physiological man; the important part he assigned to circumstances and surroundings; his allusions to nature, ever and ever creating; in short, life⁠—entire, universal life⁠—existent through all the animal world without there really being either high or low, beauty or ugliness; he was insulted, too, for his boldness of language for the conviction he expressed that all things ought to be said, that there are abominable expressions which become necessary, like branding irons, and that a language emerges enriched from such strength-giving baths. He easily granted their anger, but he would at least have liked them to do him the honour of understanding him and getting angry at his audacity, not at the idiotic, filthy designs of which he was accused.

“Really,” he continued, “I believe that the world still contains more idiots than downright spiteful people. They are enraged with me on account of the form I give to my productions, the written sentences, the similes, the very life of my style. Yes, the middle-classes fairly split with hatred of literature!”

Then he became silent, having grown sad.

“Never mind,” said Claude, after an interval, “you are happy, you at least work, you produce⁠—”

Sandoz had risen from his seat with a gesture of sudden pain.

“True, I work. I work out my books to their last pages⁠—But if you only knew, if I told you amidst what discouragement, amidst what torture! Won’t those idiots take it into their heads to accuse me of pride! I, whom the imperfection of my work pursues even in my sleep⁠—I, who never look over the pages of the day before, lest I should find them so execrable that I might afterwards lack the courage to continue. Oh, I work, no doubt, I work! I go on working, as I go on living, because I am born to it, but I am none the gayer on account of it. I am never satisfied; there is always a great collapse at the end.”

He was interrupted by a loud exclamation outside, and Jory appeared, delighted with life, and relating that he had just touched up an old article in order to have the evening to himself. Almost immediately afterwards Gagnière and Mahoudeau, who had met at the door, came in conversing together. The former, who had been absorbed for some months in a theory of colours, was explaining his system to the other.

“I paint my shade in,” he continued, as if in a dream. “The red of the flag loses its brightness and becomes yellowish because it stands out against the blue of the sky, the complementary shade of which⁠—orange⁠—blends with red⁠—”

Claude, interested at once, was already questioning him when the servant brought in a telegram.

“All right,” said Sandoz, “it’s from Dubuche, who apologises; he promises to come and surprise us at about eleven o’clock.”

At this moment Henriette threw the door wide open, and personally announced that dinner was ready. She had doffed her white apron, and cordially shook hands, as hostess, with all of them. “Take your seats! take your seats!” was her cry. It was half-past seven already, the bouillabaisse could not wait. Jory, having observed that Fagerolles had sworn to him that he would come, they would not believe it. Fagerolles was getting ridiculous with his habit of aping the great artist overwhelmed with work!

The dining-room into which they passed was so small that, in order to make room for a piano, a kind of alcove had been made out of a dark closet which had formerly served for the accommodation of crockery. However, on grand occasions half a score of people still gathered round the table, under the white porcelain hanging lamp, but this was only accomplished by blocking up the sideboard, so that the servant could not even pass to take a plate from it. However, it was the mistress of the house who carved, while the master took his place facing her, against the blockaded sideboard, in order to hand round whatever things might be required.

Henriette had placed Claude on her right hand, Mahoudeau on her left, while Gagnière and Jory were seated next to Sandoz.

“Françoise,” she called, “give me the slices of toast. They are on the range.”

And the girl having brought the toast, she distributed two slices to each of them, and was beginning to ladle the bouillabaisse into the plates, when the door opened once more.

“Fagerolles at last!” she said. “I have given your seat to Mahoudeau. Sit down there, next to Claude.”

He apologised with an air of courtly politeness, by alleging a business appointment. Very elegantly dressed, tightly buttoned up in clothes of an English cut, he had the carriage of a man about town, relieved by the retention of a touch of artistic free-and-easiness. Immediately on sitting down he grasped his neighbour’s hand, affecting great delight.

“Ah, my old Claude! I have for such a long time wanted to see you. A score of times I intended going after you into the country; but then, you know, circumstances⁠—”

Claude, feeling uncomfortable at these protestations, endeavoured to meet them with a like cordiality. But Henriette, who was still serving, saved the situation by growing impatient.

“Come, Fagerolles, just answer me. Do you wish two