His Masterpiece by Emile Zola (most inspirational books of all time txt) 📕

Friends,  And Stopped Before The Picture,  Looking Nonplussed. In

Reality That Harum-Scarum Style Of Painting Upset Him,  Such Was The

Even Balance Of His Nature,  Such His Reverence As A Steady Student For

The Established Formulas Of Art; And It Was Only His Feeling Of

Friendship Which,  As A Rule,  Prevented Him From Criticising. But This

Time His Whole Being Revolted Visibly.

'Well,  What's The Matter? Doesn't It Suit You?' Asked Sandoz,  Who Was

Watching Him.

'Yes,  Oh Yes,  It's Very Well Painted--But--'

'Well,  Spit It Out. What Is It That Ruffles You?'

'Not Much,  Only The Gentleman Is Fully Dressed,  And The Women Are Not.

People Have Never Seen Anything Like That Before.'

This Sufficed To Make Both The Others Wild. Why,  Were There Not A

Hundred Pictures In The Louvre Composed In Precisely The Same Way?

Hadn't All Paris And All The Painters And Tourists Of The World Seen

Them? And Besides,  If People Had Never Seen Anything Like It,  They

Would See It Now. After All,  They Didn't Care A Fig For The Public!

Not In The Least Disconcerted By These Violent Replies,  Dubuche

Repeated Quietly: 'The Public Won't Understand--The Public Will Think

It Indecorous--And So It Is!'

'You Wretched Bourgeois Philistine!' Exclaimed Claude,  Exasperated.

'They Are Making A Famous Idiot Of You At The School Of Arts. You

Weren't Such A Fool Formerly.'

These Were The Current Amenities Of His Two Friends Since Dubuche Had

Attended The School Of Arts. He Thereupon Beat A Retreat,  Rather

Afraid Of The Turn The Dispute Was Taking,  And Saved Himself By

Belabouring The Painters Of The School. Certainly His Friends Were

Right In One Respect,  The School Painters Were Real Idiots. But As For

The Architects,  That Was A Different Matter. Where Was He To Get His

Tuition,  If Not There? Besides His Tuition Would Not Prevent Him From

Having Ideas Of His Own,  Later On. Wherewith He Assumed A Very

Revolutionary Air.

'All Right,' Said Sandoz,  'The Moment You Apologise,  Let's Go And

Dine.'

But Claude Had Mechanically Taken Up A Brush And Set To Work Again.

Beside The Gentleman In The Velveteen Jacket The Figure Of The

Recumbent Woman Seemed To Be Fading Away. Feverish And Impatient,  He

Traced A Bold Outline Round Her So As To Bring Her Forward.

'Are You Coming?'

'In A Minute; Hang It,  What's The Hurry? Just Let Me Set This Right,

And I'll Be With You.'

Sandoz Shook His Head And Then Remarked Very Quietly,  Lest He Should

Still Further Annoy Him: 'You Do Wrong To Worry Yourself Like That,

Old Man. Yes,  You Are Knocked Up,  And Have Had Nothing To Eat,  And

You'll Only Spoil Your Work,  As You Did The Other Day.'

But The Painter Waved Him Off With A Peevish Gesture. It Was The Old

Story--He Did Not Know When To Leave Off; He Intoxicated Himself With

Work In His Craving For An Immediate Result,  In Order To Prove To

Himself That He Held His Masterpiece At Last. Doubts Had Just Driven

Him To Despair In The Midst Of His Delight At Having Terminated A

Successful Sitting. Had He Done Right,  After All,  In Making The

Velveteen Jacket So Prominent,  And Would He Not Afterwards Fail To

Secure The Brilliancy Which He Wished The Female Figure To Show?

Rather Than Remain In Suspense He Would Have Dropped Down Dead On The

Spot. Feverishly Drawing The Sketch Of Christine's Head From The

Portfolio Where He Had Hidden It,  He Compared It With The Painting On

The Canvas,  Assisting Himself,  As It Were,  By Means Of This Document

Derived From Life.

'Hallo!' Exclaimed Dubuche,  'Where Did You Get That From? Who Is It?'

Claude,  Startled By The Questions,  Did Not Answer; Then,  Without

Reflecting,  He Who Usually Told Them Everything,  Brusquely Lied,

Prompted By A Delicate Impulse To Keep Silent Respecting The Adventure

Of The Night.

'Tell Us Who It Is?' Repeated The Architect.

'Nobody At All--A Model.'

'A Model! A Very Young One,  Isn't She? She Looks Very Nice. I Wish You

Would Give Me Her Address. Not For Myself,  But For A Sculptor I Know

Who's On The Look-Out For A Psyche. Have You Got The Address There?'

Thereupon Dubuche Turned To A Corner Of The Greyish Wall On Which The

Addresses Of Several Models Were Written In Chalk,  Haphazard. The

Women Particularly Left Their Cards In That Way,  In Awkward,  Childish

Handwriting. Zoe Piedefer,  7 Rue Campagne-Premiere,  A Big Brunette,

Who Was Getting Rather Too Stout,  Had Scrawled Her Sign Manual Right

Across The Names Of Little Flore Beauchamp,  32 Rue De Laval,  And

Judith Vaquez,  69 Rue Du Rocher,  A Jewess,  Both Of Whom Were Too Thin.

'I Say,  Have You Got The Address?' Resumed Dubuche.

Then Claude Flew Into A Passion. 'Don't Pester Me! I Don't Know And

Don't Care. You're A Nuisance,  Worrying Like That Just When A Fellow

Wants To Work.'

Sandoz Had Not Said A Word. Surprised At First,  He Had Soon Smiled. He

Was Gifted With More Penetration Than Dubuche,  So He Gave Him A

Knowing Nod,  And They Then Began To Chaff. They Begged Claude's

Pardon; The Moment He Wanted To Keep The Young Person For His Personal

Use,  They Would Not Ask Him To Lend Her. Ha! Ha! The Scamp Went

Hunting About For Pretty Models. And Where Had He Picked Up That One?

More And More Embarrassed By These Remarks,  Claude Went On Fidgetting.

'What A Couple Of Idiots You Are!' He Exclaimed,  'If You Only Knew

What Fools You Are Making Of Yourselves. That'll Do. You Really Make

Me Sorry For Both Of You.'

His Voice Sounded So Stern That They Both Became Silent Immediately,

While He,  After Once More Scratching Out The Woman's Head,  Drew It

Anew And Began To Paint It In,  Following His Sketch Of Christine,  But

With A Feverish,  Unsteady Touch Which Went At Random.

'Just Give Me Another Ten Minutes,  Will You?' He Repeated. 'I Will

Rough In The Shoulders To Be Ready For To-Morrow,  And Then We'll Go

Down.'

Sandoz And Dubuche,  Knowing That It Was Of No Use To Prevent Him From

Killing Himself In This Fashion,  Resigned Themselves To The

Inevitable. The Latter Lighted His Pipe,  And Flung Himself On The

Couch. He Was The Only One Of The Three Who Smoked; The Others Had

Never Taken Kindly To Tobacco,  Always Feeling Qualmish After A Cigar.

And When Dubuche Was Stretched On His Back,  His Eyes Turned Towards

The Clouds Of Smoke He Raised,  He Began To Talk About Himself In An

Interminable Monotonous Fashion. Ah! That Confounded Paris,  How One

Had To Work One's Fingers To The Bone In Order To Get On. He Recalled

The Fifteen Months Of Apprenticeship He Had Spent With His Master,  The

Celebrated Dequersonniere,  A Former Grand-Prize Man,  Now Architect Of

The Civil Branch Of Public Works,  An Officer Of The Legion Of Honour

And A Member Of The Institute,  Whose Chief Architectural Performance,

The Church Of St. Mathieu,  Was A Cross Between A Pastry-Cook's Mould

And A Clock In The So-Called First Empire Style. A Good Sort Of

Fellow,  After All,  Was This Dequersonniere Whom Dubuche Chaffed,  While

Inwardly Sharing His Reverence For The Old Classical Formulas.

However,  But For His Fellow-Pupils,  The Young Man Would Not Have

Learnt Much At The Studio In The Rue Du Four,  For The Master Only Paid

A Running Visit To The Place Some Three Times A Week. A Set Of

Ferocious Brutes,  Were Those Comrades Of His,  Who Had Made His Life

Jolly Hard In The Beginning,  But Who,  At Least,  Had Taught Him How To

Prepare A Surface,  Outline,  And Wash In A Plan. And How Often Had He

Had To Content Himself With A Cup Of Chocolate And A Roll For Dejeuner

In Order To Pay The Necessary Five-And-Twenty Francs To The

Superintendent! And The Sheets Of Paper He Had Laboriously Smudged,

And The Hours He Had Spent In Poring Over Books Before He Had Dared To

Present Himself At The School! And He Had Narrowly Escaped Being

Plucked In Spite Of All His Assiduous Endeavours. He Lacked

Imagination,  And The Drawings He Submitted,  A Caryatide And A Summer

Dining-Room,  Both Extremely Mediocre Performances,  Had Classed Him At

The Bottom Of The List. Fortunately,  He Had Made Up For This In His

Oral Examination With His Logarithms,  Geometry,  And History Of

Architecture,  For He Was Very Strong In The Scientific Parts. Now That

He Was Attending The School As A Second-Class Student,  He Had To Toil

And Moil In Order To Secure A First-Class Diploma. It Was A Dog's

Life,  There Was No End To It,  Said He.

He Stretched His Legs Apart,  High Upon The Cushions,  And Smoked

Vigorously And Regularly.

'What With Their Courses Of Perspective,  Of Descriptive Geometry,  Of

Stereotomy,  Of Building,  And Of The History Of Art--Ah! Upon My Word,

They Do Make One Blacken Paper With Notes. And Every Month There Is A

Competitive Examination In Architecture,  Sometimes A Simple Sketch,  At

Others A Complete Design. There's No Time For Pleasure If A Fellow

Wishes To Pass His Examinations And Secure The Necessary Honourable

Mentions,  Especially If,  Besides All That,  He Has To Find Time To Earn

His Bread. As For Myself,  It's Almost Killing Me.'

One Of The Cushions Having Slipped Upon The Floor,  He Fished It Up

With His Feet. 'All The Same,  I'm Lucky. There Are So Many Of Us

Scouring The Town Every Day Without Getting The Smallest Job. The Day

Before Yesterday I Discovered An Architect Who Works For A Large

Contractor. You Can Have No Idea Of Such An Ignoramus Of An Architect

--A Downright Numskull,  Incapable Even Of Tracing A Plan. He Gives Me

Twenty-Five Sous An Hour,  And I Set His Houses Straight For Him. It

Came Just In Time,  Too,  For My Mother Sent Me Word That She Was Quite

Cleared Out. Poor Mother,  What A Lot Of Money I Have To Refund Her!'

As Dubuche Was Evidently Talking To Himself,  Chewing The Cud Of His

Everyday Thoughts--His Constant Thoughts Of Making A Rapid Fortune

--Sandoz Did Not Even Trouble To Listen To Him. He Had Opened The

Little Window,  And Seated Himself On A Level With The Roof,  For He

Felt Oppressed By The Heat In The Studio. But All At Once He

Interrupted The Architect.

'I Say,  Are You Coming To Dinner On Thursday? All The Other Fellows

Will Be There--Fagerolles,  Mahoudeau,  Jory,  Gagniere.'

Every Thursday,  Quite A Band Met At Sandoz's: Friends From Plassans

And Others Met In Paris--Revolutionaries To A Man,  And