His Masterpiece by Emile Zola (read along books .txt) 📖

Fellow,  Who Still Continued Pursuing Him.

 

Claude For A Moment Elbowed His Way Through The Crowd To Go And Ask

Fagerolles Where His Picture Had Been Hung. But On Seeing His Friend

So Surrounded,  Pride Restrained Him. Was There Not Something Absurd

And Painful About This Constant Need Of Another's Help? Besides,  He

Suddenly Reflected That He Must Have Skipped A Whole Suite Of

Galleries On The Right-Hand Side; And,  Indeed,  There Were Fresh

Leagues Of Painting There. He Ended By Reaching A Gallery Where A

Stifling Crowd Was Massed In Front Of A Large Picture Which Filled The

Central Panel Of Honour. At First He Could Not See It,  There Was Such

A Surging Sea Of Shoulders,  Such A Thick Wall Of Heads,  Such A Rampart

Of Hats. People Rushed Forward With Gaping Admiration. At Length,

However,  By Dint Of Rising On Tiptoe,  He Perceived The Marvel,  And

Recognised The Subject,  By What Had Been Told Him.

 

It Was Fagerolles' Picture. And In That 'Picnic' He Found His Own

Forgotten Work,  'In The Open Air,' The Same Light Key Of Colour,  The

Same Artistic Formula,  But Softened,  Trickishly Rendered,  Spoilt By

Skin-Deep Elegance,  Everything Being 'Arranged' With Infinite Skill To

Satisfy The Low Ideal Of The Public. Fagerolles Had Not Made The

Mistake Of Stripping His Three Women; But,  Clad In The Audacious

Toilets Of Women Of Society,  They Showed No Little Of Their Persons.

As For The Two Gallant Gentlemen In Summer Jackets Beside Them,  They

Realised The Ideal Of Everything Most _Distingue_; While Afar Off A

Footman Was Pulling A Hamper Off The Box Of A Landau Drawn Up Behind

The Trees. The Whole Of It,  The Figures,  The Drapery,  The Bits Of

Still Life Of The Repast,  Stood Out Gaily In Full Sunlight Against The

Darkened Foliage Of The Background; And The Supreme Skill Of The

Painter Lay In His Pretended Audacity,  In A Mendacious Semblance Of

Forcible Treatment Which Just Sufficed To Send The Multitude Into

Ecstasies. It Was Like A Storm In A Cream-Jug!

 

Claude,  Being Unable To Approach,  Listened To The Remarks Around Him.

At Last There Was A Man Who Depicted Real Truth! He Did Not Press His

Points Like Those Fools Of The New School; He Knew How To Convey

Everything Without Showing Anything. Ah! The Art Of Knowing Where To

Draw The Line,  The Art Of Letting Things Be Guessed,  The Respect Due

To The Public,  The Approval Of Good Society! And Withal Such Delicacy,

Such Charm And Art! He Did Not Unseasonably Deliver Himself Of

Passionate Things Of Exuberant Design; No,  When He Had Taken Three

Notes From Nature,  He Gave Those Three Notes,  Nothing More. A

Newspaper Man Who Arrived Went Into Raptures Over The 'Picnic,' And

Coined The Expression 'A Very Parisian Style Of Painting.' It Was

Repeated,  And People No Longer Passed Without Declaring That The

Picture Was 'Very Parisian' Indeed.

 

All Those Bent Shoulders,  All Those Admiring Remarks Rising From A Sea

Of Spines,  Ended By Exasperating Claude; And Seized With A Longing To

See The Faces Of The Folk Who Created Success,  He Manoeuvred In Such A

Way As To Lean His Back Against The Handrail Hard By. From That Point,

He Had The Public In Front Of Him In The Grey Light Filtering Through

The Linen Awning Which Kept The Centre Of The Gallery In Shade; Whilst

The Brighter Light,  Gliding From The Edges Of The Blinds,  Illumined

The Paintings On The Walls With A White Flow,  In Which The Gilding Of

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The Frames Acquired A Warm Sunshiny Tint. Claude At Once Recognised

The People Who Had Formerly Derided Him--If These Were Not The Same,

They Were At Least Their Relatives--Serious,  However,  And Enraptured,

Their Appearance Greatly Improved By Their Respectful Attention. The

Evil Look,  The Weariness,  Which He Had At First Remarked On Their

Faces,  As Envious Bile Drew Their Skin Together And Dyed It Yellow,

Disappeared Here While They Enjoyed The Treat Of An Amiable Lie. Two

Fat Ladies,  Open-Mouthed,  Were Yawning With Satisfaction. Some Old

Gentlemen Opened Their Eyes Wide With A Knowing Air. A Husband

Explained The Subject To His Young Wife,  Who Jogged Her Chin With A

Pretty Motion Of The Neck. There Was Every Kind Of Marvelling,

Beatifical,  Astonished,  Profound,  Gay,  Austere,  Amidst Unconscious

Smiles And Languid Postures Of The Head. The Men Threw Back Their

Black Silk Hats,  The Flowers In The Women's Bonnets Glided To The

Napes Of Their Necks. And All The Faces,  After Remaining Motionless

For A Moment,  Were Then Drawn Aside And Replaced By Others Exactly

Like Them.

 

Then Claude,  Stupefied By That Triumph,  Virtually Forgot Everything

Else. The Gallery Was Becoming Too Small,  Fresh Bands Of People

Constantly Accumulated Inside It. There Were No More Vacant Spaces,  As

There Had Been Early In The Morning; No More Cool Whiffs Rose From The

Garden Amid The Ambient Smell Of Varnish; The Atmosphere Was Now

Becoming Hot And Bitter With The Perfumes Scattered By The Women's

Dresses. Before Long The Predominant Odour Suggested That Of A Wet

Dog. It Must Have Been Raining Outside; One Of Those Sudden Spring

Showers Had No Doubt Fallen,  For The Last Arrivals Brought Moisture

With Them--Their Clothes Hung About Them Heavily And Seemed To Steam

As Soon As They Encountered The Heat Of The Gallery. And,  Indeed,

Patches Of Darkness Had For A Moment Been Passing Above The Awning Of

The Roof. Claude,  Who Raised His Eyes,  Guessed That Large Clouds Were

Galloping Onward Lashed By The North Wind,  That Driving Rain Was

Beating Upon The Glass Panes. Moire-Like Shadows Darted Along The

Walls,  All The Paintings Became Dim,  The Spectators Themselves Were

Blended In Obscurity Until The Cloud Was Carried Away,  Whereupon The

Painter Saw The Heads Again Emerge From The Twilight,  Ever Agape With

Idiotic Rapture.

 

But There Was Another Cup Of Bitterness In Reserve For Claude. On The

Left-Hand Panel,  Facing Fagerolles',  He Perceived Bongrand's Picture.

And In Front Of That Painting There Was No Crush Whatever; The

Visitors Walked By With An Air Of Indifference. Yet It Was Bongrand's

Supreme Effort,  The Thrust He Had Been Trying To Give For Years,  A

Last Work Conceived In His Obstinate Craving To Prove The Virility Of

His Decline. The Hatred He Harboured Against The 'Village Wedding,'

That First Masterpiece Which Had Weighed Upon All His Toilsome

After-Life,  Had Impelled Him To Select A Contrasting But Corresponding

Subject: The 'Village Funeral'--The Funeral Of A Young Girl,  With

Relatives And Friends Straggling Among Fields Of Rye And Oats.

Bongrand Had Wrestled With Himself,  Saying That People Should See If

He Were Done For,  If The Experience Of His Sixty Years Were Not Worth

All The Lucky Dash Of His Youth; And Now Experience Was Defeated,  The

Picture Was Destined To Be A Mournful Failure,  Like The Silent Fall Of

An Old Man,  Which Does Not Even Stay Passers-By In Their Onward

Course. There Were Still Some Masterly Bits,  The Choirboy Holding The

Cross,  The Group Of Daughters Of The Virgin Carrying The Bier,  Whose

White Dresses And Ruddy Flesh Furnished A Pretty Contrast With The

Black Sunday Toggery Of The Rustic Mourners,  Among All The Green

Part 10 Pg 213

Stuff; Only The Priest In His Alb,  The Girl Carrying The Virgin's

Banner,  The Family Following The Body,  Were Drily Handled; The Whole

Picture,  In Fact,  Was Displeasing In Its Very Science And The

Obstinate Stiffness Of Its Treatment. One Found In It A Fatal,

Unconscious Return To The Troubled Romanticism Which Had Been The

Starting-Point Of The Painter's Career. And The Worst Of The Business

Was That There Was Justification For The Indifference With Which The

Public Treated That Art Of Another Period,  That Cooked And Somewhat

Dull Style Of Painting,  Which No Longer Stopped One On One's Way,

Since Great Blazes Of Light Had Come Into Vogue.

 

It Precisely Happened That Bongrand Entered The Gallery With The

Hesitating Step Of A Timid Beginner,  And Claude Felt A Pang At His

Heart As He Saw Him Give A Glance At His Neglected Picture And Then

Another At Fagerolles',  Which Was Bringing On A Riot. At That Moment

The Old Painter Must Have Been Acutely Conscious Of His Fall. If He

Had So Far Been Devoured By The Fear Of Slow Decline,  It Was Because

He Still Doubted; And Now He Obtained Sudden Certainty; He Was

Surviving His Reputation,  His Talent Was Dead,  He Would Never More

Give Birth To Living,  Palpitating Works. He Became Very Pale,  And Was

About To Turn And Flee,  When Chambouvard,  The Sculptor,  Entering The

Gallery By The Other Door,  Followed By His Customary Train Of

Disciples,  Called To Him Without Caring A Fig For The People Present:

 

'Ah! You Humbug,  I Catch You At It--Admiring Yourself!'

 

He,  Chambouvard,  Exhibited That Year An Execrable 'Reaping Woman,' One

Of Those Stupidly Spoilt Figures Which Seemed Like Hoaxes On His Part,

So Unworthy They Were Of His Powerful Hands; But He Was None The Less

Radiant,  Feeling Certain That He Had Turned Out Yet Another

Masterpiece,  And Promenading His God-Like Infallibility Through The

Crowd Which He Did Not Hear Laughing At Him.

 

Bongrand Did Not Answer,  But Looked At Him With Eyes Scorched By

Fever.

 

'And My Machine Downstairs?' Continued The Sculptor. 'Have You Seen

It? The Little Fellows Of Nowadays May Try It On,  But We Are The Only

Masters--We,  Old France!'

 

And Thereupon He Went Off,  Followed By His Court And Bowing To The

Astonished Public.

 

'The Brute!' Muttered Bongrand,  Suffocating With Grief,  As Indignant

As At The Outburst Of Some Low-Bred Fellow Beside A Deathbed.

 

He Perceived Claude,  And Approached Him. Was It Not Cowardly To Flee

From This Gallery? And He Determined To Show His Courage,  His Lofty

Soul,  Into Which Envy Had Never Entered.

 

'Our Friend Fagerolles Has A Success And No Mistake,' He Said. 'I

Should Be A Hypocrite If I Went Into Ecstasies Over His Picture,  Which

I Scarcely Like; But He Himself Is Really A Very Nice Fellow Indeed.

Besides,  You Know How He Exerted Himself On Your Behalf.'

 

Claude Was Trying To Find A Word Of Admiration For The 'Village

Funeral.'

 

Part 10 Pg 214

'The Little Cemetery In The Background Is So Pretty!' He Said At Last.

'Is It Possible That The Public--'

 

But Bongrand Interrupted Him In A Rough Voice:

 

'No Compliments Of Condolence,  My Friend,  Eh? I See Clear Enough.'

 

At This Moment Somebody Nodded To Them In A Familiar Way,  And Claude

Recognised Naudet--A Naudet Who Had Grown And Expanded,  Gilded By The

Success Of His Colossal Strokes Of Business. Ambition Was Turning His

Head; He Talked About Sinking All The Other Picture Dealers; He Had

Built