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.
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.
