The Masterpiece

by Émile Zola

  ‘Well, if it isn’t old Claude!’ he cried. ‘What’s been happening to you lately? What are you doing? Nobody ever sees you these days!’

  Then, when Claude, full of his latest production, told him he had just sent his little picture to the Salon, he added:

  ‘Fine! Fine! I must see to it they accept it. You know I’m a candidate for the Committee this year.’

  And indeed he was, for as a result of the everlasting grumbling and dissatisfaction among the artists, and after endless futile attempts at reform, it had been officially decided that exhibitors should have the right to appoint their own Selection Committee. The result had been a furore in the world of sculpture and painting and a violent outbreak of election fever complete with all the ambition, cliques, intrigues, and chicanery that have brought politics into such disrepute.

  ‘Come along home with me,’ Fagerolles went on, ‘and have a look at this little place I’ve got. You’ve not seen it yet though you’ve promised often enough to drop in. It’s not far … just on the corner of the Avenue de Villiers.’

  Since he had gaily taken Claude by the arm Claude had to go with him, torn between shame and desire as he found himself thinking that his old school-friend might be able to get his picture accepted. When they reached the small mansion in the Avenue de Villiers he stopped to take in the façade, a dainty, rather precious bit of architecture, the exact reproduction of a Renaissance house at Bourges, with mullioned windows, turret, and fancy lead roofing. It was a gem, just flashy enough for a kept woman, he thought; but he was rather surprised when he turned round and noticed straight across the road the palatial residence of Irma Bécot, where he had once spent a night, the memory of which still haunted him like a dream. It looked vast, substantial, almost severe in its regal splendour and made its neighbour opposite look like a bit of fancy jewellery.

  ‘What about Irma over there?’ said Fagerolles, with a note of respect in his voice. ‘She’s got herself a cathedral. … But then I’ve got nothing to sell but pictures! … Come inside.’

  The interior was both magnificent and bizarre in its luxury, starting in the hall with antique tapestries, old weapons, and an amazing collection of antique furniture and Oriental curios. In the dining-room, on the left of the hall, the walls were panelled with lacquer and the ceiling hung with a red-dragon tapestry, while the carved monumental staircase streamed with banners and bristled with exotic plants. The greatest marvel of all was the studio upstairs. Not too big, without a picture on the walls which were entirely hung with Oriental draperies, one end of it was occupied by an enormous fireplace with chimeras supporting the mantelpiece, while the other was filled by a kind of tent composed of sumptuous hangings stretched on lances, under which, on a profusion of magnificent carpets, was a huge divan, very low, but heaped high with furs and cushions.

  As Claude was taking everything in a question came into his mind which he refrained, however, from asking. Was all this paid for? Since Fagerolles had been officially decorated a year ago he was said to have been asking ten thousand francs a portrait. Naudet, once he had launched him, exploited him openly and never let one of his canvases go for less than twenty, thirty, or even forty thousand francs. Orders would have come in thick and fast if Fagerolles had not affected the indifference and the overstrain of the artist whose tiniest sketches are always eagerly sought after. And yet all this show of luxury reeked of debts and part-payments, and all the money it represented, money made as easily as by gambling on the Stock Exchange, simply ran to waste through the artist’s fingers and that was the end of it. Still enjoying the full blaze of his new fortune, so suddenly acquired, Fagerolles never worried about expenditure. Confident that he would always be able to sell, and at higher and higher prices, he revelled in the glory of the fine position he was securing for himself in the world of modern art.

  After a time Claude noticed a small canvas on a blackwood easel draped with red plush. It represented the artist’s tools just as he had put them down, including a rosewood paint-box and a box of pastels.

  ‘Neat bit of work,’ said Claude to please Fagerolles. ‘What about your “Salon”? Has it gone in?’

  ‘Oh, yes, it’s gone in, thank goodness! You should have seen the callers I’ve had. One endless procession, day in, day out; kept me on the run for over a week. … I didn’t want to send anything; it’s looked on as rather infra dig., you know. Naudet was against it, too. But you know how it is. I’ve been solicited from every side, and all the youngsters want to get me on the Committee so that I can stand up for them. … The thing I’ve sent in is quite simple: “A Lunch Party”—that’s what I’ve called it—two men and three women, house-party guests, taking an al fresco lunch in a forest clearing. … It’s rather original, I think you’ll agree when you see it.’

  His voice wavered as his eyes met Claude’s gaze fixed on him, but he turned aside his obvious uneasiness by a light-hearted reference to the little canvas on the easel.

  ‘This is a bit of rubbish Naudet asked me to do. Oh, I’m very much aware what I’m short of, my friend: a bit of what you’ve got too much of. … And I’m still on your side, you know; why, I was defending you only yesterday, believe it or not,’ he added, slapping Claude on the shoulder.

  He had sensed his old master’s silent contempt and wanted to win him over again by applying his usual wiles and flattery, like a common woman admitting she is common in the hope of being loved all the more. But it was very sincerely and with a kind of anxious deference that he promised yet again that he would do everything in his power to get Claude’s picture accepted.

  At that moment callers began to arrive, and within the next hour fifteen or twenty people passed through the studio: fathers introducing young pupils, exhibitors recommending their pictures for the Salon, colleagues to compare notes on persons with influence, and even women wielding their charm in the hope of winning a little protection for their talent. It was an eye-opener to Claude to see Fagerolles playing the part of the election candidate, shaking hands with all comers, saying to one: ‘Very nice, the picture you’ve sent in this year, very nice indeed. I like it’; feigning amazement as he said to someone else: ‘What! You still haven’t had a medal!’; saying to all and sundry: ‘If I’d anything to do with it, I’d show them when a picture’s worth looking at!’ The result was that he sent his callers away delighted, closing the door behind every one of them with an air of extreme amiability, behind which there was just the faintest suggestion of a snigger he had retained from his raffish past.

  ‘Now you can see for yourself,’ he said to Claude in one of the rare moments when they were alone, ‘the time I have to waste on all these brainless idiots!’

  Moving over to the bay window he suddenly flung it open, revealing on one of the balconies of the mansion opposite a white figure, a woman in a lace négligée, waving her handkerchief. In reply, Fagerolles raised his hand three times, then both windows closed.

  Claude had recognized Irma and, after a moment’s awkward silence, Fagerolles quietly explained the situation.

  ‘Very handy, as you observe. We can communicate direct; we even have a complete telegraphic code. She wants me, so I’ll have to go across. … There’s a girl who could teach you and me a thing or two!’

  ‘What, for example?’

  ‘Why, everything, if it comes to that. Vice, art, intelligence, she has it all … including a flair for success. Oh, yes, an extraordinary flair. It’s she who tells me what to paint! It is, seriously. … And in spite of it all, she doesn’t change. She’s just the same cheeky urchin she always was, always ready for a bit of fun, and once she’s taken a fancy to you there’s no holding her!’

  As he spoke two red patches came up on his cheeks, like flames, and his eyes clouded for a moment, like troubled water. He had taken up with Irma again since they both came to live in the same street, and rumour had it that he, the smart, hardened Parisian adventurer, was letting her bleed him white, perpetually sending her maid to claim co
nsiderable sums—for a tradesman, for a passing fancy, for nothing at all, very often, except the sheer pleasure of emptying his pockets. That explained, in part, his being in such straitened circumstances, his ever-increasing debt in spite of the regular upward trend of the price of his pictures. He knew, too, that to her he was just a useless luxury, a distraction for a woman fond of painting, enjoyed behind the backs of the serious gentlemen who footed her bills as if they were her husbands. She thought it a great joke, and, as their perversity had forged just sufficient of a link between them and given just that extra flavour of dishonesty to their relationship, Fagerolles thought it funny too, and gloated over being her secret lover without a thought for all the money it was costing him.

  Claude put his hat on, ready to go, as Fagerolles also was clearly anxious to go and kept casting anxious looks at the house across the road.

  ‘I don’t want to hurry you away,’ he said, ‘but you see she’s expecting me. Well, anyhow, it’s all settled, your picture’s in … unless, of course, I’m not elected. … Why not come down to the Palais de l’Industrie the night they count the votes. There’ll be a hell of a crush, of course, but then you’d know at once whether I can be any use to you.’

  At first Claude swore to himself he would do no such thing. Protection by Fagerolles was almost more than he could bear, until he realized that there was only one thing he was afraid of: that the villain might not keep his promise if he thought there was any chance of failure. And so, when voting day arrived, it was more than he could do to stay at home and wait; he went out and wandered about the Champs-Élysées, pretending he was going for a good long walk. The Champs-Élysées was as good as any other place, after all, for he had stopped working—though he would not admit that it was because the Salon was approaching—and resumed his lengthy rambles around the city. He had no vote himself, as he had not yet had a picture accepted, but he kept walking past the Palais de l’Industrie, fascinated by the noise and activity near the entrance: voters passing in and out, pounced upon by men in dirty smocks shouting lists of candidates. There were at least thirty different lists, he noticed, representing all possible cliques and opinions: Beaux-Arts lists, liberal, die-hard, coalition lists, ‘young-school’ lists, and ladies’ lists. It was exactly like the rush at the polling-booths the day after a riot.

  At four o’clock in the afternoon, when voting finished, Claude could not resist his curiosity and went up to see what was happening. The staircase was clear, and anyone could go in who pleased. At the top of the steps he found himself in the huge Committee Room, overlooking the Champs-Élysées. A table twelve metres long stood in the middle and in a monumental fireplace at one end whole trees were burning, while the talk and laughter of some four or five hundred voters, their friends and a sprinkling of sightseers who all wanted to watch the counting, rose to the lofty ceiling with a roar like thunder. Around the table tellers were preparing, or had already started, to work. They worked in threes, two to count, one to check, and there were to be about fifteen such groups in all. Three or four more were still required to make up the number, but there were no more volunteers; everybody was fighting shy of a laborious task which would keep them hard at it through most of the night.

  It so happened that Fagerolles, who had been on the go ever since morning, was doing his best to make himself heard, and shouting:

  ‘Come along, gentlemen, one volunteer wanted! One volunteer, gentlemen!’

  Then, catching sight of Claude, he pounced on him and brought him to the table by brute force.

  ‘Just the man we want. Now do us a favour; sit down here and give us a hand. It’s all in a good cause, so you can’t refuse!’

  On the spot, Claude found himself made a ‘checker’, a function he carried out with great solemnity, being naturally shy, and not without a certain subdued excitement, for he seemed to think that the acceptance of his picture depended in some way on his conscientious application to the task in hand. It was he who had to call out the names on the lists prepared and handed to him by his tellers, with the most frightful din going on all round him, twenty or thirty different voices shouting twenty or thirty different names pelting like hailstones against the never-ceasing rumble of the crowd. As he could do nothing in cold blood, he grew more and more excited as the lists kept coming in, downcast when Fagerolles’s name did not appear, elated when he had to call it out again. This last sensation, be it said, he experienced fairly frequently, for the young man in question had made himself popular, having been seen everywhere, frequenting cafés favoured by the powers that be, risking even certain professions of faith, taking up the cudgels on behalf of the younger painters, but not forgetting to kowtow to Members of the Institut. The tide of support was rising, and Fagerolles was obviously a general favourite.

  Night fell, on this wet March day, about six o’clock. Attendants brought in lamps and round them gathered the dark, silent shapes of wary artists keeping a weather eye on the counting. Others, in a more carefree mood, began cat-calling, and there was even an attempt at yodelling. But it was at eight o’clock, when a collation of cold meats and wine was served, that the fun really started. Bottles were emptied in a twinkling, everybody stuffed himself at random with whatever he could lay his hands on, and soon the huge room, lighted like a forge by the huge logs burning in the fireplace, was like a village fair in full swing. When everyone started to smoke the atmosphere grew so dense that it dimmed the yellow light of the lamps. The floor was ankle-deep in rubbish, a thick carpet of scrap paper and discarded voting forms, corks, crusts of bread, and even a few broken plates. People let themselves go. One pale-faced little sculptor stood up on a stool to harangue the crowd, while a painter with a waxed moustache and a beaky nose sat astride a chair and galloped round the table, saluting like the Emperor.

  As time went by, however, a certain number tired of the jollifications and went home, and by eleven o’clock only about two hundred were left. But after midnight the crowd was swelled again by the arrival of late-comers in evening dress on their way home from theatres or parties, keen on getting the results of the voting before the rest of Paris. There were some reporters among them, too, and they could be seen dashing out of the room as soon as any partial results were announced.

  Claude, now thoroughly hoarse, was still busy calling out names. The smoke and the heat were getting unbearable and the stench of a stable was rising from the filth on the floor. One o’clock struck, then two o’clock, but Claude was still busy counting so conscientiously that all the other tellers had finished long ago while he was still firmly entangled in columns of figures. At last, when all the partial lists had been pooled, the final results were announced. Fagerolles came out fifteenth out of forty, five places above Bongrand, who was on the same list but whose name must often have been crossed out. Day was breaking when Claude reached home in the Rue Tourlaque, worn out but delighted.

  Then for a fortnight he lived on his nerves. A dozen times he thought of going to ask Fagerolles what was happening, but shame always prevented him. Besides, as the Committee discussed exhibits in alphabetical order, it was impossible for them to have reached a decision already. Then, one evening, on the Boulevard de Clichy, his heart leapt when he recognized a broad-shouldered figure with a rolling gait coming towards him.

  It was Bongrand, who seemed embarrassed by the meeting. It was he who spoke first.

  ‘Things are not going too smoothly down at the Palais,’ he said. ‘But there’s still hope; Fagerolles and I are keeping an eye on things. Rely on Fagerolles, my lad, for I’m scared to death I might say something to spoil your chances.’

  The truth was that Bongrand was continually at loggerheads with Mazel, a famous teacher from the Beaux-Arts and one of the die-hards of the elegant, glossy school, who had been appointed chairman of the Selection Committee. Although they called each other ‘dear colleague’ and exchanged many cordial handshakes, their hostility had been manifest from the very first day; one had only got to propose the ac
ceptance of a picture for the other to vote for its rejection. Fagerolles, on the other hand, who had been elected secretary, had constituted himself official jester to Mazel and fawned so successfully on him that the master very readily forgave his renegade pupil. But the pupil, now a master, had already a reputation for ruthlessness and was known to be far harder on novices or over-adventurous painters than any Member of the Institut. But he could suddenly become human when he wanted to get a picture accepted; then, with his endless flow of witticisms and his clever handling of intrigue, he would carry the vote with all the coolness and ease of a conjuror.

  Being on the Committee was no light task; it used to tire out even the sturdy Bongrand. Every day its work was prepared by the attendants, who set out an endless display of canvases, laid out flat on the ground, propped up around the walls, running through all the first-floor rooms of the entire Palais de I’Industrie. Every afternoon, starting at one o’clock, the forty members of the Committee, led by their Chairman armed with a little bell, started out on their round, which they repeated until they had gone through every letter in the alphabet. Verdicts were pronounced on the spot, and they made as short work of it as they could, casting out the obvious failures without even taking a vote. Occasionally a discussion would hold them up; they would squabble for ten minutes or so and then have the picture put on one side for the evening’s second viewing. Meanwhile a couple of men with some ten metres of rope would stretch it tight about four paces from the row of pictures, to keep the judges from getting too close, as they tended to do in the heat of their discussion. Even then an occasional paunch would bend the rope considerably out of the straight. Behind the Committee came seventy white-coated attendants, working to the orders of a foreman. It was their job, after the decisions had been announced by the secretaries, to sort out the rejected pictures and lay them aside, like corpses after a battle. It took two good hours to do the whole round, without a rest or a chance to sit down, in an exhausting tramp through a suite of cold, draughty rooms which made even the least susceptible among them wrap themselves up in heavy fur coats. No wonder, then, that the three o’clock collation was so welcome! It meant half an hour’s rest at a buffet where claret and chocolate and sandwiches were served and where all the bargaining for mutual concessions and the bartering of influence and votes were indulged in. Most of the Committee were so heavily bombarded with recommendations that they carried little notebooks to make sure they were forgetting no one, and freely consulted them when agreeing to vote for a colleague’s protégé if he would vote for one of theirs. Others, on the contrary, either on principle or through lack of interest, remained aloof from all the intrigues and stood about, gazing into space, smoking their cigarettes.