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

The Same Passionate Love Of Art.

'Next Thursday? No,  I Think Not,' Answered Dubuche.

'I Am Obliged To Go To A Dance At A Family's I Know.'

'Where You Expect To Get Hold Of A Dowry,  I Suppose?'

'Well,  It Wouldn't Be Such A Bad Spec.'

He Shook The Ashes From His Pipe On To His Left Palm,  And Then,

Suddenly Raising His Voice--'I Almost Forgot. I Have Had A Letter From

Pouillaud.'

'You,  Too!--Well,  I Think He's Pretty Well Done For,  Pouillaud.

Another Good Fellow Gone Wrong.'

'Why Gone Wrong? He'll Succeed His Father; He'll Spend His Money

Quietly Down There. He Writes Rationally Enough. I Always Said He'd

Show Us A Thing Or Two,  In Spite Of All His Practical Jokes. Ah! That

Beast Of A Pouillaud.'

Sandoz,  Furious,  Was About To Reply,  When A Despairing Oath From

Claude Stopped Him. The Latter Had Not Opened His Lips Since He Had So

Obstinately Resumed His Work. To All Appearance He Had Not Even

Listened.

'Curse It--I Have Failed Again. Decidedly,  I'm A Brute,  I Shall Never

Do Anything.' And In A Fit Of Mad Rage He Wanted To Rush At His

Picture And Dash His Fist Through It. His Friends Had To Hold Him

Back. Why,  It Was Simply Childish To Get Into Such A Passion. Would

Matters Be Improved When,  To His Mortal Regret,  He Had Destroyed His

Work? Still Shaking,  He Relapsed Into Silence,  And Stared At The

Canvas With An Ardent Fixed Gaze That Blazed With All The Horrible

Agony Born Of His Powerlessness. He Could No Longer Produce Anything

Clear Or Life-Like; The Woman's Breast Was Growing Pasty With Heavy

Colouring; That Flesh Which,  In His Fancy,  Ought To Have Glowed,  Was

Simply Becoming Grimy; He Could Not Even Succeed In Getting A Correct

Focus. What On Earth Was The Matter With His Brain That He Heard It

Bursting Asunder,  As It Were,  Amidst His Vain Efforts? Was He Losing

His Sight That He Was No Longer Able To See Correctly? Were His Hands

No Longer His Own That They Refused To Obey Him? And Thus He Went On

Winding Himself Up,  Irritated By The Strange Hereditary Lesion Which

Sometimes So Greatly Assisted His Creative Powers,  But At Others

Reduced Him To A State Of Sterile Despair,  Such As To Make Him Forget

The First Elements Of Drawing. Ah,  To Feel Giddy With Vertiginous

Nausea,  And Yet To Remain There Full Of A Furious Passion To Create,

When The Power To Do So Fled With Everything Else,  When Everything

Seemed To Founder Around Him--The Pride Of Work,  The Dreamt-Of Glory,

The Whole Of His Existence!

'Look Here,  Old Boy,' Said Sandoz At Last,  'We Don't Want To Worry

You,  But It's Half-Past Six,  And We Are Starving. Be Reasonable,  And

Come Down With Us.'

Claude Was Cleaning A Corner Of His Palette. Then He Emptied Some More

Tubes On It,  And,  In A Voice Like Thunder,  Replied With One Single

Word,  'No.'

For The Next Ten Minutes Nobody Spoke; The Painter,  Beside Himself,

Wrestled With His Picture,  Whilst His Friends Remained Anxious At This

Attack,  Which They Did Not Know How To Allay. Then,  As There Came A

Knock At The Door,  The Architect Went To Open It.

'Hallo,  It's Papa Malgras.'

Malgras,  The Picture-Dealer,  Was A Thick-Set Individual,  With

Close-Cropped,  Brush-Like,  White Hair,  And A Red Splotchy Face. He Was

Wrapped In A Very Dirty Old Green Coat,  That Made Him Look Like An

Untidy Cabman. In A Husky Voice,  He Exclaimed: 'I Happened To Pass

Along The Quay,  On The Other Side Of The Way,  And I Saw That Gentleman

At The Window. So I Came Up.'

Claude's Continued Silence Made Him Pause. The Painter Had Turned To

His Picture Again With An Impatient Gesture. Not That This Silence In

Any Way Embarrassed The New Comer,  Who,  Standing Erect On His Sturdy

Legs And Feeling Quite At Home,  Carefully Examined The New Picture

With His Bloodshot Eyes. Without Any Ceremony,  He Passed Judgment Upon

It In One Phrase--Half Ironic,  Half Affectionate: 'Well,  Well,  There's

A Machine.'

Then,  Seeing That Nobody Said Anything,  He Began To Stroll Round The

Studio,  Looking At The Paintings On The Walls.

Papa Malgras,  Beneath His Thick Layer Of Grease And Grime,  Was Really

A Very Cute Customer,  With Taste And Scent For Good Painting. He Never

Wasted His Time Or Lost His Way Among Mere Daubers; He Went Straight,

As If From Instinct,  To Individualists,  Whose Talent Was Contested

Still,  But Whose Future Fame His Flaming,  Drunkard's Nose Sniffed From

Afar. Added To This He Was A Ferocious Hand At Bargaining,  And

Displayed All The Cunning Of A Savage In His Efforts To Secure,  For A

Song,  The Pictures That He Coveted. True,  He Himself Was Satisfied

With Very Honest Profits,  Twenty Per Cent.,  Thirty At The Most. He

Based His Calculations On Quickly Turning Over His Small Capital,

Never Purchasing In The Morning Without Knowing Where To Dispose Of

His Purchase At Night. As A Superb Liar,  Moreover,  He Had No Equal.

Pausing Near The Door,  Before The Studies From The Nude,  Painted At

The Boutin Studio,  He Contemplated Them In Silence For A Few Moments,

His Eyes Glistening The While With The Enjoyment Of A Connoisseur,

Which His Heavy Eyelids Tried To Hide. Assuredly,  He Thought,  There

Was A Great Deal Of Talent And Sentiment Of Life About That Big Crazy

Fellow Claude,  Who Wasted His Time In Painting Huge Stretches Of

Canvas Which No One Would Buy. The Girl's Pretty Legs,  The Admirably

Painted Woman's Trunk,  Filled The Dealer With Delight. But There Was

No Sale For That Kind Of Stuff,  And He Had Already Made His Choice--A

Tiny Sketch,  A Nook Of The Country Round Plassans,  At Once Delicate

And Violent--Which He Pretended Not To Notice. At Last He Drew Near,

And Said,  In An Off-Hand Way:

'What's This? Ah! Yes,  I Know,  One Of The Things You Brought Back With

You From The South. It's Too Crude. I Still Have The Two I Bought Of

You.'

And He Went On In Mellow,  Long-Winded Phrases. 'You'll Perhaps Not

Believe Me,  Monsieur Lantier,  But That Sort Of Thing Doesn't Sell At

All--Not At All. I've A Set Of Rooms Full Of Them. I'm Always Afraid

Of Smashing Something When I Turn Round. I Can't Go On Like That,

Honour Bright; I Shall Have To Go Into Liquidation,  And I Shall End My

Days In The Hospital. You Know Me,  Eh? My Heart Is Bigger Than My

Pocket,  And There's Nothing I Like Better Than To Oblige Young Men Of

Talent Like Yourself. Oh,  For The Matter Of That,  You've Got Talent,

And I Keep On Telling Them So--Nay,  Shouting It To Them--But What's

The Good? They Won't Nibble,  They Won't Nibble!'

He Was Trying The Emotional Dodge; Then,  With The Spirit Of A Man

About To Do Something Rash: 'Well,  It Sha'n't Be Said That I Came In

To Waste Your Time. What Do You Want For That Rough Sketch?'

Claude,  Still Irritated,  Was Painting Nervously. He Dryly Answered,

Without Even Turning His Head: 'Twenty Francs.'

'Nonsense; Twenty Francs! You Must Be Mad. You Sold Me The Others Ten

Francs A-Piece--And To-Day I Won't Give A Copper More Than Eight

Francs.'

As A Rule The Painter Closed With Him At Once,  Ashamed And Humbled At

This Miserable Chaffering,  Glad Also To Get A Little Money Now And

Then. But This Time He Was Obstinate,  And Took To Insulting The

Picture-Dealer,  Who,  Giving Tit For Tat,  All At Once Dropped The

Formal 'You' To Assume The Glib 'Thou,' Denied His Talent,  Overwhelmed

Him With Invective,  And Taxed Him With Ingratitude. Meanwhile,

However,  He Had Taken From His Pocket Three Successive Five-Franc

Pieces,  Which,  As If Playing At Chuck-Farthing,  He Flung From A

Distance Upon The Table,  Where They Rattled Among The Crockery.

'One,  Two,  Three--Not One More,  Dost Hear? For There Is Already One

Too Many,  And I'll Take Care To Get It Back; I'll Deduct It From

Something Else Of Thine,  As I Live. Fifteen Francs For That! Thou Art

Wrong,  My Lad,  And Thou'lt Be Sorry For This Dirty Trick.'

Quite Exhausted,  Claude Let Him Take Down The Little Canvas,  Which

Disappeared As If By Magic In His Capacious Green Coat. Had It Dropped

Into A Special Pocket,  Or Was It Reposing On Papa Malgras' Ample

Chest? Not The Slightest Protuberance Indicated Its Whereabouts.

Having Accomplished His Stroke Of Business,  Papa Malgras Abruptly

Calmed Down And Went Towards The Door. But He Suddenly Changed His

Mind And Came Back. 'Just Listen,  Lantier,' He Said,  In The Honeyest

Of Tones; 'I Want A Lobster Painted. You Really Owe Me That Much After

Fleecing Me. I'll Bring You The Lobster,  You'll Paint Me A Bit Of

Still Life From It,  And Keep It For Your Pains. You Can Eat It With

Your Friends. It's Settled,  Isn't It?'

At This Proposal Sandoz And Dubuche,  Who Had Hitherto Listened

Inquisitively,  Burst Into Such Loud Laughter That The Picture-Dealer

Himself Became Gay. Those Confounded Painters,  They Did Themselves No

Good,  They Simply Starved. What Would Have Become Of The Lazy Beggars

If He,  Papa Malgras,  Hadn't Brought A Leg Of Mutton Now And Then,  Or A

Nice Fresh Plaice,  Or A Lobster,  With Its Garnish Of Parsley?

'You'll Paint Me My Lobster,  Eh,  Lantier? Much Obliged.' And He

Stationed Himself Anew Before The Large Canvas,  With His Wonted Smile

Of Mingled Derision And Admiration. And At Last He Went Off,

Repeating,  'Well,  Well,  There's A Machine.'

Claude Wanted To Take Up His Palette And Brushes Once More. But His

Legs Refused Their Service; His Arms Fell To His Side,  Stiff,  As If

Pinioned There By Some Occult Force. In The Intense Melancholy Silence

That Had Followed The Din Of The Dispute He Staggered,  Distracted,

Bereft Of Sight Before His Shapeless Work.

'I'm Done For,  I'm Done For,' He Gasped. 'That Brute Has Finished Me

Off!'

The Clock Had Just Struck Seven; He Had Been At Work For Eight Mortal

Hours Without Tasting Anything But A Crust Of Bread,  Without Taking A

Moment's Rest,  Ever On His Legs,  Shaken By Feverish Excitement. And

Now The Sun Was Setting,  Shadows Began To Darken The Studio,  Which In

The Gloaming Assumed A Most Melancholy Aspect. When The Light Went

Down Like This On The Crisis Of A Bad Day's Work,  It Seemed To Claude

As If The Sun Would Never Rise Again,  But Had For Ever Carried Life

And All The Jubilant Gaiety Of Colour Away.

'Come,' Implored Sandoz,  With All The Gentleness Of Brotherly

Compassion. 'Come,