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

De Douai,

Growing Pale And Stupid By Degrees,  And Then In The Rue Tourlaque,  No

Longer Able To Carry His Head,  And Dying One Night,  All Alone,  While

His Mother Was Asleep; And He Beheld Her Also,  That Mother,  The Sad

Woman Who Had Stopped At Home,  To Weep There,  No Doubt,  As She Was Now

In The Habit Of Doing For Entire Days. No Matter,  She Had Done Right

In Not Coming; 'Twas Too Mournful--Their Little Jacques,  Already Cold

In His Bed,  Cast On One Side Like A Pariah,  And So Brutalised By The

Dancing Light That His Face Seemed To Be Laughing,  Distorted By An

Abominable Grin.

 

But Claude Suffered Still More From The Loneliness Of His Work.

Astonishment And Disappointment Made Him Look For The Crowd,  The Rush

Which He Had Anticipated. Why Was He Not Hooted? Ah! The Insults Of

Yore,  The Mocking,  The Indignation That Had Rent His Heart,  But Made

Him Live! No,  Nothing More,  Not Even A Passing Expectoration: This Was

Death. The Visitors Filed Rapidly Through The Long Gallery,  Seized

With Boredom. There Were Merely Some People In Front Of The 'Opening

Of The Chamber,' Where They Collected To Read The Inscriptions,  And

Show Each Other The Deputies' Heads. At Last,  Hearing Some Laughter

Behind Him,  He Turned Round; But Nobody Was Jeering,  Some Visitors

Were Simply Making Merry Over The Tipsy Monks,  The Comic Success Of

The Salon,  Which Some Gentlemen Explained To Some Ladies,  Declaring

That It Was Brilliantly Witty. And All These People Passed Beneath

Little Jacques,  And Not A Head Was Raised,  Not A Soul Even Knew That

He Was Up There.

 

However,  The Painter Had A Gleam Of Hope. On The Central Settee,  Two

Personages,  One Of Them Fat And The Other Thin,  And Both Of Them

Decorated With The Legion Of Honour,  Sat Talking,  Reclining Against

The Velvet,  And Looking At The Pictures In Front Of Them. Claude Drew

Near Them And Listened.

 

'And I Followed Them,' Said The Fat Fellow. 'They Went Along The Rue

St. Honore,  The Rue St. Roch,  The Rue De La Chaussee D'antin,  The Rue

La Fayette--'

 

'And You Spoke To Them?' Asked The Thin Man,  Who Appeared To Be Deeply

Interested.

 

'No,  I Was Afraid Of Getting In A Rage.'

 

Claude Went Off And Returned On Three Occasions,  His Heart Beating

Fast Each Time That Some Visitor Stopped Short And Glanced Slowly From

The Line To The Ceiling. He Felt An Unhealthy Longing To Hear One

Word,  But One. Why Exhibit? How Fathom Public Opinion? Anything Rather

Part 10 Pg 218

Than Such Torturing Silence! And He Almost Suffocated When He Saw A

Young Married Couple Approach,  The Husband A Good-Looking Fellow With

Little Fair Moustaches,  The Wife,  Charming,  With The Delicate Slim

Figure Of A Shepherdess In Dresden China. She Had Perceived The

Picture,  And Asked What The Subject Was,  Stupefied That She Could Make

Nothing Out Of It; And When Her Husband,  Turning Over The Leaves Of

The Catalogue,  Had Found The Title,  'The Dead Child,' She Dragged Him

Away,  Shuddering,  And Raising This Cry Of Affright:

 

'Oh,  The Horror! The Police Oughtn't To Allow Such Horrors!'

 

Then Claude Remained There,  Erect,  Unconscious And Haunted,  His Eyes

Raised On High,  Amid The Continuous Flow Of The Crowd Which Passed On,

Quite Indifferent,  Without One Glance For That Unique Sacred Thing,

Visible To Him Alone. And It Was There That Sandoz Came Upon Him,  Amid

The Jostling.

 

The Novelist,  Who Had Been Strolling About Alone--His Wife Having

Remained At Home Beside His Ailing Mother--Had Just Stopped Short,

Heart-Rent,  Below The Little Canvas,  Which He Had Espied By Chance.

Ah! How Disgusted He Felt With Life! He Abruptly Lived The Days Of His

Youth Over Again. He Recalled The College Of Plassans,  His Freaks With

Claude On The Banks Of The Viorne,  Their Long Excursions Under The

Burning Sun,  And All The Flaming Of Their Early Ambition; And,  Later

On,  When They Had Lived Side By Side,  He Remembered Their Efforts,

Their Certainty Of Coming Glory,  That Fine Irresistible,  Immoderate

Appetite That Had Made Them Talk Of Swallowing Paris At One Bite! How

Many Times,  At That Period,  Had He Seen In Claude A Great Man,  Whose

Unbridled Genius Would Leave The Talent Of All Others Far Behind In

The Rear! First Had Come The Studio Of The Impasse Des Bourdonnais;

Later,  The Studio Of The Quai De Bourbon,  With Dreams Of Vast

Compositions,  Projects Big Enough To Make The Louvre Burst; And,

Meanwhile,  The Struggle Was Incessant; The Painter Laboured Ten Hours

A Day,  Devoting His Whole Being To His Work. And Then What? After

Twenty Years Of That Passionate Life He Ended Thus--He Finished With

That Poor,  Sinister Little Thing,  Which Nobody Noticed,  Which Looked

So Distressfully Sad In Its Leper-Like Solitude! So Much Hope And

Torture,  A Lifetime Spent In The Toil Of Creating,  To Come To That,  To

That,  Good God!

 

Sandoz Recognised Claude Standing By,  And Fraternal Emotion Made His

Voice Quake As He Said To Him:

 

'What! So You Came? Why Did You Refuse To Call For Me,  Then?'

 

The Painter Did Not Even Apologise. He Seemed Very Tired,  Overcome

With Somniferous Stupor.

 

'Well,  Don't Stay Here,' Added Sandoz. 'It's Past Twelve O'clock,  And

You Must Lunch With Me. Some People Were To Wait For Me At Ledoyen's;

But I Shall Give Them The Go-By. Let's Go Down To The Buffet; We Shall

Pick Up Our Spirits There,  Eh,  Old Fellow?'

 

And Then Sandoz Led Him Away,  Holding His Arm,  Pressing It,  Warming

It,  And Trying To Draw Him From His Mournful Silence.

 

'Come,  Dash It All! You Mustn't Give Way Like That. Although They Have

Hung Your Picture Badly,  It Is All The Same Superb,  A Real Bit Of

Part 10 Pg 219

Genuine Painting. Oh! I Know That You Dreamt Of Something Else! But

You Are Not Dead Yet,  It Will Be For Later On. And,  Just Look,  You

Ought To Be Proud,  For It's You Who Really Triumph At The Salon This

Year. Fagerolles Isn't The Only One Who Pillages You; They All Imitate

You Now; You Have Revolutionised Them Since Your "Open Air," Which

They Laughed So Much About. Look,  Look! There's An "Open Air" Effect,

And There's Another,  And Here And There--They All Do It.'

 

He Waved His Hand Towards The Pictures As He And Claude Passed Along

The Galleries. In Point Of Fact,  The Dash Of Clear Light,  Introduced

By Degrees Into Contemporary Painting,  Had Fully Burst Forth At Last.

The Dingy Salons Of Yore,  With Their Pitchy Canvases,  Had Made Way For

A Salon Full Of Sunshine,  Gay As Spring Itself. It Was The Dawn,  The

Aurora Which Had First Gleamed At The Salon Of The Rejected,  And Which

Was Now Rising And Rejuvenating Art With A Fine,  Diffuse Light,  Full

Of Infinite Shades. On All Sides You Found Claude's Famous 'Bluey

Tinge,' Even In The Portraits And The _Genre_ Scenes,  Which Had

Acquired The Dimensions And The Serious Character Of Historical

Paintings. The Old Academical Subjects Had Disappeared With The Cooked

Juices Of Tradition,  As If The Condemned Doctrine Had Carried Its

People Of Shadows Away With It; Rare Were The Works Of Pure

Imagination,  The Cadaverous Nudities Of Mythology And Catholicism,  The

Legendary Subjects Painted Without Faith,  The Anecdotic Bits Destitute

Of Life--In Fact,  All The Bric-A-Brac Of The School Of Arts Used Up By

Generations Of Tricksters And Fools; And The Influence Of The New

Principle Was Evident Even Among Those Artists Who Lingered Over The

Antique Recipes,  Even Among The Former Masters Who Had Now Grown Old.

The Flash Of Sunlight Had Penetrated To Their Studios. From Afar,  At

Every Step You Took,  You Saw A Painting Transpierce The Wall And Form,

As It Were,  A Window Open Upon Nature. Soon The Walls Themselves Would

Fall,  And Nature Would Walk In; For The Breach Was A Broad One,  And

The Assault Had Driven Routine Away In That Gay Battle Waged By

Audacity And Youth.

 

'Ah! Your Lot Is A Fine One,  All The Same,  Old Fellow!' Continued

Sandoz. 'The Art Of To-Morrow Will Be Yours; You Have Made Them All.'

 

Claude Thereupon Opened His Mouth,  And,  With An Air Of Gloomy

Brutality,  Said In A Low Voice:

 

'What Do I Care If I _Have_ Made Them All,  When I Haven't Made Myself?

See Here,  It's Too Big An Affair For Me,  And That's What Stifles Me.'

 

He Made A Gesture To Finish Expressing His Thought,  His Consciousness

Of His Inability To Prove The Genius Of The Formula He Had Brought

With Him,  The Torture He Felt At Being Merely A Precursor,  The One Who

Sows The Idea Without Reaping The Glory,  His Grief At Seeing Himself

Pillaged,  Devoured By Men Who Turned Out Hasty Work,  By A Whole Flight

Of Fellows Who Scattered Their Efforts And Lowered The New Form Of

Art,  Before He Or Another Had Found Strength Enough To Produce The

Masterpiece Which Would Make The End Of The Century A Date In Art.

 

But Sandoz Protested,  The Future Lay Open. Then,  To Divert Claude,  He

Stopped Him While Crossing The Gallery Of Honour And Said:

 

'Just Look At That Lady In Blue Before That Portrait! What A Slap

Nature Does Give To Painting! You Remember When We Used To Look At The

Dresses And The Animation Of The Galleries In Former Times? Not A

Part 10 Pg 220

Painting Then Withstood The Shock. And Yet Now There Are Some Which

Don't Suffer Overmuch. I Even Noticed Over There A Landscape,  The

General Yellowish Tinge Of Which Completely Eclipsed All The Women Who

Approached It.'

 

Claude Was Quivering With Unutterable Suffering.

 

'Pray,  Let's Go,' He Said. 'Take Me Away--I Can't Stand It Any

Longer.'

 

They Had All The Trouble In The World To Find A Free Table In The

Refreshment Room. People Were Pressed Together In That Big,  Shady

Retreat,  Girt Round With Brown Serge Drapery Under The Girders Of The

Lofty Iron Flooring Of The Upstairs Galleries. In The Background,  And

But Partially Visible In The Darkness,  Stood Three Dressers Displaying

Dishes Of Preserved Fruit Symmetrically Ranged On Shelves; While,

Nearer At Hand,  At Counters Placed On The Right And Left,  Two Ladies,

A Dark One And A Fair One,  Watched The Crowd With A Military Air; And

From The Dim Depths Of This Seeming Cavern Rose A Sea Of Little Marble

Tables,  A Tide Of Chairs,  Serried,  Entangled,  Surging,  Swelling,

Overflowing And Spreading Into The Garden,  Under The Broad,  Pallid

Light Which Fell From The Glass Roof.

 

At Last Sandoz Saw Some People Rise. He Darted Forward And Conquered

The Vacant Table By Sheer Struggling With The