A \ B \ C \ D \ E \ F \ G \ H \ I \ J \ K \ L \ M \ N \ O \ P \ R \ S \ T \ U \ V \ W \Z

His Masterpiece by Emile Zola

E >> Emile Zola >> His Masterpiece



HIS MASTERPIECE

BY

EMILE ZOLA


Edited, With a Preface, By
Ernest Alfred Vizetelly



PREFACE

'HIS MASTERPIECE,' which in the original French bears the title of
_L'Oeuvre_, is a strikingly accurate story of artistic life in Paris
during the latter years of the Second Empire. Amusing at times,
extremely pathetic and even painful at others, it not only contributes
a necessary element to the Rougon-Macquart series of novels--a series
illustrative of all phases of life in France within certain dates--but
it also represents a particular period of M. Zola's own career and
work. Some years, indeed, before the latter had made himself known at
all widely as a novelist, he had acquired among Parisian painters and
sculptors considerable notoriety as a revolutionary art critic, a
fervent champion of that 'Open-air' school which came into being
during the Second Empire, and which found its first real master in
Edouard Manet, whose then derided works are regarded, in these later
days, as masterpieces. Manet died before his genius was fully
recognised; still he lived long enough to reap some measure of
recognition and to see his influence triumph in more than one respect
among his brother artists. Indeed, few if any painters left a stronger
mark on the art of the second half of the nineteenth century than he
did, even though the school, which he suggested rather than
established, lapsed largely into mere impressionism--a term, by the
way, which he himself coined already in 1858; for it is an error to
attribute it--as is often done--to his friend and junior, Claude
Monet.

It was at the time of the Salon of 1866 that M. Zola, who criticised
that exhibition in the _Evenement_ newspaper,* first came to the front
as an art critic, slashing out, to right and left, with all the vigour
of a born combatant, and championing M. Manet--whom he did not as yet
know personally--with a fervour born of the strongest convictions. He
had come to the conclusion that the derided painter was being treated
with injustice, and that opinion sufficed to throw him into the fray;
even as, in more recent years, the belief that Captain Dreyfus was
innocent impelled him in like manner to plead that unfortunate
officer's cause. When M. Zola first championed Manet and his disciples
he was only twenty-six years old, yet he did not hesitate to pit
himself against men who were regarded as the most eminent painters and
critics of France; and although (even as in the Dreyfus case) the only
immediate result of his campaign was to bring him hatred and
contumely, time, which always has its revenges, has long since shown
how right he was in forecasting the ultimate victory of Manet and his
principal methods.

* Some of the articles will be found in the volume of his
miscellaneous writings entitled _Mes Haines_.

In those days M. Zola's most intimate friend--a companion of his
boyhood and youth--was Paul Cezanne, a painter who developed talent as
an impressionist; and the lives of Cezanne and Manet, as well as that
of a certain rather dissolute engraver, who sat for the latter's
famous picture _Le Bon Bock_, suggested to M. Zola the novel which he
has called _L'Oeuvre_. Claude Lantier, the chief character in the
book, is, of course, neither Cezanne nor Manet, but from the careers
of those two painters, M. Zola has borrowed many little touches and
incidents.* The poverty which falls to Claude's lot is taken from the
life of Cezanne, for Manet--the only son of a judge--was almost
wealthy. Moreover, Manet married very happily, and in no wise led the
pitiful existence which in the novel is ascribed to Claude Lantier and
his helpmate, Christine. The original of the latter was a poor woman
who for many years shared the life of the engraver to whom I have
alluded; and, in that connection, it as well to mention that what may
be called the Bennecourt episode of the novel is virtually
photographed from life.

* So far as Manet is concerned, the curious reader may consult M.
Antonin Proust's interesting 'Souvenirs,' published in the _Revue
Blanche_, early in 1897.

Whilst, however, Claude Lantier, the hero of _L'Oeuvre_, is unlike
Manet in so many respects, there is a close analogy between the
artistic theories and practices of the real painter and the imaginary
one. Several of Claude's pictures are Manet's, slightly modified. For
instance, the former's painting, 'In the Open Air,' is almost a
replica of the latter's _Dejeuner sur l'Herbe_ ('A Lunch on the
Grass'), shown at the Salon of the Rejected in 1863. Again, many of
the sayings put into Claude's mouth in the novel are really sayings of
Manet's. And Claude's fate, at the end of the book, is virtually that
of a moody young fellow who long assisted Manet in his studio,
preparing his palette, cleaning his brushes, and so forth. This lad,
whom Manet painted in _L'Enfant aux Cerises_ ('The Boy with the
Cherries'), had artistic aspirations of his own and, being unable to
justify them, ended by hanging himself.

I had just a slight acquaintance with Manet, whose studio I first
visited early in my youth, and though the exigencies of life led me
long ago to cast aside all artistic ambition of my own, I have been
for more than thirty years on friendly terms with members of the
French art world. Thus it would be comparatively easy for me to
identify a large number of the characters and the incidents figuring
in 'His Masterpiece'; but I doubt if such identification would have
any particular interest for English readers. I will just mention that
Mahoudeau, the sculptor, is, in a measure, Solari, another friend of
M. Zola's boyhood and youth; that Fagerolles, in his main features, is
Gervex; and that Bongrand is a commingling of Courbet, Cabanel and
Gustave Flaubert. For instance, his so-called 'Village Wedding' is
suggested by Courbet's 'Funeral at Ornans'; his friendship for Claude
is Cabanel's friendship for Manet; whilst some of his mannerisms, such
as his dislike for the praise accorded to certain of his works, are
simply those of Flaubert, who (like Balzac in the case of _Eugenie
Grandet_) almost invariably lost his temper if one ventured to extol
_Madame Bovary_ in his presence. Courbet, by the way, so far as
disposition goes, crops up again in M. Zola's pages in the person of
Champbouvard, a sculptor, who, artistically, is a presentment of
Clesinger.

I now come to a personage of a very different character, Pierre
Sandoz, clerk, journalist, and novelist; and Sandoz, it may be frankly
admitted, is simply M. Zola himself. Personal appearance, life,
habits, opinions, all are those of the novelist at a certain period of
his career; and for this reason, no doubt, many readers of 'His
Masterpiece' will find Sandoz the most interesting personage in the
book. It is needless, I think, to enter into particulars on the
subject. The reader may take it from me that everything attributed in
the following pages to Pierre Sandoz was done, experienced, felt or
said by Emile Zola. In this respect, then 'His Masterpiece' is
virtually M. Zola's 'David Copperfield'--the book into which he has
put most of his real life. I may also mention, perhaps, that the long
walks on the quays of Paris which in the narrative are attributed to
Claude Lantier are really M. Zola's walks; for, in his youth, when he
vainly sought employment after failing in his examinations, he was
wont, at times of great discouragement, to roam the Paris quays,
studying their busy life and their picturesque vistas, whenever he was
not poring over the second-hand books set out for sale upon their
parapets. From a purely literary standpoint, the pictures of the quays
and the Seine to be found in _L'Oeuvre_ are perhaps the best bits of
the book, though it is all of interest, because it is essentially a
_livre vecu_, a work really 'lived' by its author. And if in the
majority of its characters, those readers possessing some real
knowledge of French art life find one man's qualities blended with
another's defects, the appearance of a third, and the habits of a
fourth, the whole none the less makes a picture of great fidelity to
life and truth. This is the Parisian art world as it really was, with
nothing improbable or overstrained in the narrative, save its very
first chapter, in which romanticism is certainly allowed full play.

It is quite possible that some readers may not judge Claude Lantier,
the 'hero,' very favourably; he is like the dog in the fable who
forsakes the substance for the shadow; but it should be borne in mind
that he is only in part responsible for his actions, for the
fatal germ of insanity has been transmitted to him from his
great-grandmother. He is, indeed, the son of Gervaise, the heroine of
_L'Assommoir_ ('The Dram Shop'), by her lover Lantier. And Gervaise,
it may be remembered, was the daughter of Antoine Macquart (of 'The
Fortune of the Rougons' and 'Dr. Pascal'), the latter being the
illegitimate son of Adelaide Fouque, from whom sprang the insanity of
the Rougon-Macquarts. At the same time, whatever view may be taken of
Claude's artistic theories, whatever interest his ultimate fate may
inspire, it cannot be denied that his opinions on painting are very
ably expressed, and that his 'case,' from a pathological point of
view, is diagnosticated by M. Zola with all the skill of a physician.
Moreover, there can be but one opinion concerning the helpmate of his
life, the poor devoted Christine; and no one possessed of feeling will
be able to read the history of little Jacques unmoved.

Stories of artistic life are not as a rule particularly popular with
English readers, but this is not surprising when one remembers that
those who take a genuine interest in art, in this country, are still a
small minority. Quite apart from artistic matters, however, there is,
I think, an abundance of human interest in the pages of 'His
Masterpiece,' and thus I venture to hope that the present version,
which I have prepared as carefully as my powers permit, will meet with
the favour of those who have supported me, for a good many years now,
in my endeavours to make the majority of M. Zola's works accessible in
this country.

E. A. V.

MERTON, SURREY.



HIS MASTERPIECE



I

CLAUDE was passing in front of the Hotel de Ville, and the clock was
striking two o'clock in the morning when the storm burst forth. He had
been roaming forgetfully about the Central Markets, during that
burning July night, like a loitering artist enamoured of nocturnal
Paris. Suddenly the raindrops came down, so large and thick, that he
took to his heels and rushed, wildly bewildered, along the Quai de la
Greve. But on reaching the Pont Louis Philippe he pulled up, ragefully
breathless; he considered this fear of the rain to be idiotic; and so
amid the pitch-like darkness, under the lashing shower which drowned
the gas-jets, he crossed the bridge slowly, with his hands dangling by
his side.

He had only a few more steps to go. As he was turning on to the Quai
Bourbon, on the Isle of St. Louis, a sharp flash of lightning
illumined the straight, monotonous line of old houses bordering the
narrow road in front of the Seine. It blazed upon the panes of the
high, shutterless windows, showing up the melancholy frontages of the
old-fashioned dwellings in all their details; here a stone balcony,
there the railing of a terrace, and there a garland sculptured on a
frieze. The painter had his studio close by, under the eaves of the
old Hotel du Martoy, nearly at the corner of the Rue de la
Femme-sans-Tete.* So he went on while the quay, after flashing forth
for a moment, relapsed into darkness, and a terrible thunder-clap
shook the drowsy quarter.

* The street of the Headless woman.--ED.

When Claude, blinded by the rain, got to his door--a low, rounded
door, studded with iron--he fumbled for the bell knob, and he was
exceedingly surprised--indeed, he started--on finding a living,
breathing body huddled against the woodwork. Then, by the light of a
second flash, he perceived a tall young girl, dressed in black, and
drenched already, who was shivering with fear. When a second
thunder-clap had shaken both of them, Claude exclaimed:

'How you frighten one! Who are you, and what do you want?'

He could no longer see her; he only heard her sob, and stammer:

'Oh, monsieur, don't hurt me. It's the fault of the driver, whom I
hired at the station, and who left me at this door, after ill-treating
me. Yes, a train ran off the rails, near Nevers. We were four hours
late, and a person who was to wait for me had gone. Oh, dear me; I
have never been in Paris before, and I don't know where I am. . . .'

Another blinding flash cut her short, and with dilated eyes she
stared, terror-stricken, at that part of the strange capital, that
violet-tinted apparition of a fantastic city. The rain had ceased
falling. On the opposite bank of the Seine was the Quai des Ormes,
with its small grey houses variegated below by the woodwork of their
shops and with their irregular roofs boldly outlined above, while the
horizon suddenly became clear on the left as far as the blue slate
eaves of the Hotel de Ville, and on the right as far as the
leaden-hued dome of St. Paul. What startled her most of all, however,
was the hollow of the stream, the deep gap in which the Seine flowed,
black and turgid, from the heavy piles of the Pont Marie, to the light
arches of the new Pont Louis Philippe. Strange masses peopled the
river, a sleeping flotilla of small boats and yawls, a floating
washhouse, and a dredger moored to the quay. Then, farther down,
against the other bank, were lighters, laden with coals, and barges
full of mill stone, dominated as it were by the gigantic arm of a
steam crane. But, suddenly, everything disappeared again.

Claude had an instinctive distrust of women--that story of an
accident, of a belated train and a brutal cabman, seemed to him a
ridiculous invention. At the second thunder-clap the girl had shrunk
farther still into her corner, absolutely terrified.

'But you cannot stop here all night,' he said.

She sobbed still more and stammered, 'I beseech you, monsieur, take me
to Passy. That's where I was going.'

He shrugged his shoulders. Did she take him for a fool? Mechanically,
however, he turned towards the Quai des Celestins, where there was a
cabstand. Not the faintest glimmer of a lamp to be seen.

'To Passy, my dear? Why not to Versailles? Where do you think one can
pick up a cab at this time of night, and in such weather?'

Her only answer was a shriek; for a fresh flash of lightning had
almost blinded her, and this time the tragic city had seemed to her to
be spattered with blood. An immense chasm had been revealed, the two
arms of the river stretching far away amidst the lurid flames of a
conflagration. The smallest details had appeared: the little closed
shutters of the Quai des Ormes, and the two openings of the Rue de la
Masure, and the Rue du Paon-Blanc, which made breaks in the line of
frontages; then near the Pont Marie one could have counted the leaves
on the lofty plane trees, which there form a bouquet of magnificent
verdure; while on the other side, beneath the Pont Louis Philippe, at
the Mail, the barges, ranged in a quadruple line, had flared with the
piles of yellow apples with which they were heavily laden. And there
was also the ripple of the water, the high chimney of the floating
washhouse, the tightened chain of the dredger, the heaps of sand on
the banks, indeed, an extraordinary agglomeration of things, quite a
little world filling the great gap which seemed to stretch from one
horizon to the other. But the sky became dark again, and the river
flowed on, all obscurity, amid the crashing of the thunder.

'Thank heaven it's over. Oh, heaven! what's to become of me?'

Just then the rain began to fall again, so stiffly and impelled by so
strong a wind that it swept along the quay with the violence of water
escaping through an open lock.

'Come, let me get in,' said Claude; 'I can stand this no longer.'

Both were getting drenched. By the flickering light of the gas lamp at
the corner of the Rue de la Femme-sans-Tete the young man could see
the water dripping from the girl's dress, which was clinging to her
skin, in the deluge that swept against the door. He was seized with
compassion. Had he not once picked up a cur on such a stormy night as
this? Yet he felt angry with himself for softening. He never had
anything to do with women; he treated them all as if ignorant of their
existence, with a painful timidity which he disguised under a mask of
bravado. And that girl must really think him a downright fool, to
bamboozle him with that story of adventure--only fit for a farce.
Nevertheless, he ended by saying, 'That's enough. You had better come
in out of the wet. You can sleep in my rooms.'

But at this the girl became even more frightened, and threw up her
arms.

'In your rooms? Oh! good heavens. No, no; it's impossible. I beseech
you, monsieur, take me to Passy. Let me beg of you.'

But Claude became angry. Why did she make all this fuss, when he was
willing to give her shelter? He had already rung the bell twice. At
last the door opened and he pushed the girl before him.

'No, no, monsieur; I tell you, no--'

But another flash dazzled her, and when the thunder growled she
bounded inside, scarce knowing what she was about. The heavy door had
closed upon them, she was standing under a large archway in complete
darkness.

'It's I, Madame Joseph,' cried Claude to the doorkeeper. Then he
added, in a whisper, 'Give me your hand, we have to cross the
courtyard.'

The girl did as she was told; she no longer resisted; she was
overwhelmed, worn out. Once more they encountered the diluvian rain,
as they ran side by side as hard as they could across the yard. It was
a baronial courtyard, huge, and surrounded with stone arcades,
indistinct amidst the gloom. However, they came to a narrow passage
without a door, and he let go her hand. She could hear him trying to
strike some matches, and swearing. They were all damp. It was
necessary for them to grope their way upstairs.

'Take hold of the banisters, and be careful,' said Claude; 'the steps
are very high.'

The staircase, a very narrow one, a former servants' staircase, was
divided into three lofty flights, which she climbed, stumbling, with
unskilful, weary limbs. Then he warned her that they had to turn down
a long passage. She kept behind him, touching the walls on both sides
with her outstretched hands, as she advanced along that endless
passage which bent and came back to the front of the building on the
quay. Then there were still other stairs right under the roof
--creaking, shaky wooden stairs, which had no banister, and suggested
the unplaned rungs of a miller's ladder. The landing at the top was so
small that the girl knocked against the young man, as he fumbled in
his pocket for his key. At last, however, he opened the door.

'Don't come in, but wait, else you'll hurt yourself again.'

She did not stir. She was panting for breath, her heart was beating
fast, there was a buzzing in her ears, and she felt indeed exhausted
by that ascent in the dense gloom. It seemed to her as if she had been
climbing for hours, in such a maze, amidst such a turning and twisting
of stairs that she would never be able to find her way down again.
Inside the studio there was a shuffling of heavy feet, a rustling of
hands groping in the dark, a clatter of things being tumbled about,
accompanied by stifled objurgations. At last the doorway was lighted
up.

'Come in, it's all right now.'

She went in and looked around her, without distinguishing anything.
The solitary candle burned dim in that garret, more than fifteen feet
high, and filled with a confused jumble of things whose big shadows
showed fantastically on the walls, which were painted in grey
distemper. No, she did not distinguish anything. She mechanically
raised her eyes to the large studio-window, against which the rain was
beating with a deafening roll like that of a drum, but at that moment
another flash of lightning illumined the sky, followed almost
immediately by a thunder-clap that seemed to split the roof.
Dumb-stricken, pale as death, she dropped upon a chair.

'The devil!' muttered Claude, who also was rather pale. 'That clap
wasn't far off. We were just in time. It's better here than in the
streets, isn't it?'

Then he went towards the door, closed it with a bang and turned the
key, while she watched him with a dazed look.

'There, now, we are at home.'

But it was all over. There were only a few more thunder-claps in the
distance, and the rain soon ceased altogether. Claude, who was now
growing embarrassed, had examined the girl, askance. She seemed by no
means bad looking, and assuredly she was young: twenty at the most.
This scrutiny had the effect of making him more suspicious of her
still, in spite of an unconscious feeling, a vague idea, that she was
not altogether deceiving him. In any case, no matter how clever she
might be, she was mistaken if she imagined she had caught him. To
prove this he wilfully exaggerated his gruffness and curtness of
manner.

Her very anguish at his words and demeanour made her rise, and in her
turn she examined him, though without daring to look him straight in
the face. And the aspect of that bony young man, with his angular
joints and wild bearded face, increased her fears. With his black felt
hat and his old brown coat, discoloured by long usage, he looked like
a kind of brigand.

Directly he told her to make herself at home and go to bed, for he
placed his bed at her disposal, she shrinkingly replied: 'Thank you;
I'll do very well as I am; I'll not undress.'

'But your clothes are dripping,' he retorted. 'Come now, don't make an
idiot of yourself.'

And thereupon he began to knock about the chairs, and flung aside an
old screen, behind which she noticed a washstand and a tiny iron
bedstead, from which he began to remove the coverlet.

'No, no, monsieur, it isn't worth while; I assure you that I shall
stay here.'

At this, however, Claude became angry, gesticulating and shaking his
fists.

'How much more of this comedy are we to have?' said he. 'As I give you
my bed, what have you to complain of? You need not pay any attention
to me. I shall sleep on that couch.'

He strode towards her with a threatening look, and thereupon, beside
herself with fear, thinking that he was going to strike her, she
tremblingly unfastened her hat. The water was dripping from her
skirts. He kept on growling. Nevertheless, a sudden scruple seemed to
come to him, for he ended by saying, condescendingly:

'Perhaps you don't like to sleep in my sheets. I'll change them.'

He at once began dragging them from the bed and flinging them on to
the couch at the other end of the studio. And afterwards he took a
clean pair from the wardrobe and began to make the bed with all the
deftness of a bachelor accustomed to that kind of thing. He carefully
tucked in the clothes on the side near the wall, shook the pillows,
and turned back a corner of the coverlet.

'There, that'll do; won't it?' said he.

And as she did not answer, but remained motionless, he pushed her
behind the screen. 'Good heavens! what a lot of fuss,' he thought. And
after spreading his own sheets on the couch, and hanging his clothes
on an easel, he quickly went to bed himself. When he was on the point
of blowing out the candle, however, he reflected that if he did so she
would have to undress in the dark, and so he waited. At first he had
not heard her stir; she had no doubt remained standing against the
iron bedstead. But at last he detected a slight rustling, a slow,
faint movement, as if amidst her preparations she also were listening,
frightened perchance by the candle which was still alight. At last,
after several minutes, the spring mattress creaked, and then all
became still.

'Are you comfortable, mademoiselle?' now asked Claude, in a much more
gentle voice.

'Yes, monsieur, very comfortable,' she replied, in a scarcely audible
voice, which still quivered with emotion.

'Very well, then. Good-night.'

'Good-night.'

He blew out the candle, and the silence became more intense. In spite
of his fatigue, his eyes soon opened again, and gazed upward at the
large window of the studio. The sky had become very clear again, the
stars were twinkling in the sultry July night, and, despite the storm,
the heat remained oppressive. Claude was thinking about the girl
--agitated for a moment by contrary feelings, though at last contempt
gained the mastery. He indeed believed himself to be very
strong-minded; he imagined a romance concocted to destroy his
tranquillity, and he gibed contentedly at having frustrated it. His
experience of women was very slight, nevertheless he endeavoured to
draw certain conclusions from the story she had told him, struck as he
was at present by certain petty details, and feeling perplexed. But
why, after all, should he worry his brain? What did it matter whether
she had told him the truth or a lie? In the morning she would go off;
there would be an end to it all, and they would never see each other
again. Thus Claude lay cogitating, and it was only towards daybreak,
when the stars began to pale, that he fell asleep. As for the girl
behind the screen, in spite of the crushing fatigue of her journey,
she continued tossing about uneasily, oppressed by the heaviness of
the atmosphere beneath the hot zinc-work of the roof; and doubtless,
too, she was rendered nervous by the strangeness of her surroundings.

Copyright (c) 2007. bestextbooks.com. All rights reserved.

Various - "Different Girls"

Lafcadio Hearn - "The Romance of the Milky Way"

Various - "Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 1, September 18, 1841"

The Author of The Waldos - "Charles Duran"