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

Even Dubuche Added,  'You'll See More Clearly Into It To-Morrow. Come

And Dine.'

For A Moment Claude Refused To Surrender. He Stood Rooted To The Spot,

Deaf To Their Friendly Voices,  And Fiercely Obstinate.

What Did He Want To Do Then,  Since His Tired Fingers Were No Longer

Able To Grasp The Brush? He Did Not Know,  But,  However Powerless He

Might Be,  He Was Gnawed By A Mad Craving To Go On Working Still And To

Create In Spite Of Everything. Even If He Did Nothing,  He Would At

Least Stay There,  He Would Not Vacate The Spot. All At Once,  However,

He Made Up His Mind,  Shaken The While As By A Big Sob. He Clutched

Firmly Hold Of His Broadest Palette-Knife,  And,  With One Deep,  Slow

Sweep,  He Obliterated The Woman's Head And Bosom. It Was Veritable

Murder,  A Pounding Away Of Human Flesh; The Whole Disappeared In A

Murky,  Muddy Mash. By The Side Of The Gentleman In The Dark Jacket,

Amidst The Bright Verdure,  Where The Two Little Wrestlers So Lightly

Tinted Were Disporting Themselves,  There Remained Naught Of The Nude,

Headless,  Breastless Woman But A Mutilated Trunk,  A Vague Cadaverous

Stump,  An Indistinct,  Lifeless Patch Of Visionary Flesh.

Sandoz And Dubuche Were Already Descending The Stairs With A Great

Clatter,  And Claude Followed Them,  Fleeing His Work,  In Agony At

Having To Leave It Thus Scarred With A Gaping Gash.

The Beginning Of The Week Proved Disastrous To Claude. He Had Relapsed

Into One Of Those Periods Of Self-Doubt That Made Him Hate Painting,

With The Hatred Of A Lover Betrayed,  Who Overwhelms The Faithless One

With Insults Although Tortured By An Uncontrollable Desire To Worship

Her Yet Again. So On The Thursday,  After Three Frightful Days Of

Fruitless And Solitary Battling,  He Left Home As Early As Eight In The

Morning,  Banging His Door Violently,  And Feeling So Disgusted With

Himself That He Swore He Would Never Take Up A Brush Again. When He

Was Unhinged By One Of These Attacks There Was But One Remedy,  He Had

To Forget Himself,  And,  To Do So,  It Was Needful That He Should Look

Up Some Comrades With Whom To Quarrel,  And,  Above All,  Walk About And

Trudge Across Paris,  Until The Heat And Odour Of Battle Rising From

Her Paving-Stones Put Heart Into Him Again.

That Day,  Like Every Other Thursday,  He Was To Dine At Sandoz's,  In

Company With Their Friends. But What Was He To Do Until The Evening?

The Idea Of Remaining By Himself,  Of Eating His Heart Out,  Disgusted

Him. He Would Have Gone Straight To His Friend,  Only He Knew That The

Latter Must Be At His Office. Then The Thought Of Dubuche Occurred To

Him,  But He Hesitated,  For Their Old Friendship Had Lately Been

Cooling Down. He Felt That The Fraternity Of The Earlier Times Of

Effort No Longer Existed Between Them. He Guessed That Dubuche Lacked

Intelligence,  Had Become Covertly Hostile,  And Was Occupied With

Ambitions Different From His Own. However,  He,  Claude,  Must Go

Somewhere. So He Made Up His Mind,  And Repaired To The Rue Jacob,

Where The Architect Rented A Small Room On The Sixth Floor Of A Big

Frigid-Looking House.

Claude Was Already On The Landing Of The Second Floor,  When The

Doorkeeper,  Calling Him Back,  Snappishly Told Him That M. Dubuche Was

Not At Home,  And Had,  In Fact,  Stayed Out All Night. The Young Man

Slowly Descended The Stairs And Found Himself In The Street,

Stupefied,  As It Were,  By So Prodigious An Event As An Escapade On The

Part Of Dubuche. It Was A Piece Of Inconceivable Bad Luck. For A

Moment He Strolled Along Aimlessly; But,  As He Paused At The Corner Of

The Rue De Seine,  Not Knowing Which Way To Go,  He Suddenly Recollected

What His Friend Had Told Him About A Certain Night Spent At The

Dequersonniere Studio--A Night Of Terrible Hard Work,  The Eve Of The

Day On Which The Pupils' Designs Had To Be Deposited At The School Of

Arts. At Once He Walked Towards The Rue Du Four,  Where The Studio Was

Situated. Hitherto He Had Carefully Abstained From Calling There For

Dubuche,  From Fear Of The Yells With Which Outsiders Were Greeted. But

Now He Made Straight For The Place Without Flinching,  His Timidity

Disappearing So Thoroughly Before The Anguish Of Loneliness That He

Felt Ready To Undergo Any Amount Of Insult Could He But Secure A

Companion In Misfortune.

The Studio Was Situated In The Narrowest Part Of The Rue Du Four,  At

The Far End Of A Decrepit,  Tumble-Down Building. Claude Had To Cross

Two Evil-Smelling Courtyards To Reach A Third,  Across Which Ran A Sort

Of Big Closed Shed,  A Huge Out-House Of Board And Plaster Work,  Which

Had Once Served As A Packing-Case Maker's Workshop. From Outside,

Through The Four Large Windows,  Whose Panes Were Daubed With A Coating

Of White Lead,  Nothing Could Be Seen But The Bare Whitewashed Ceiling.

Having Pushed The Door Open,  Claude Remained Motionless On The

Threshold. The Place Stretched Out Before Him,  With Its Four Long

Tables Ranged Lengthwise To The Windows--Broad Double Tables They

Were,  Which Had Swarms Of Students On Either Side,  And Were Littered

With Moist Sponges,  Paint Saucers,  Iron Candlesticks,  Water Bowls,  And

Wooden Boxes,  In Which Each Pupil Kept His White Linen Blouse,  His

Compasses,  And Colours. In One Corner,  The Stove,  Neglected Since The

Previous Winter,  Stood Rusting By The Side Of A Pile Of Coke That Had

Not Been Swept Away; While At The Other End A Large Iron Cistern With

A Tap Was Suspended Between Two Towels. And Amidst The Bare Untidiness

Of This Shed,  The Eye Was Especially Attracted By The Walls Which,

Above,  Displayed A Litter Of Plaster Casts Ranged In Haphazard Fashion

On Shelves,  And Disappeared Lower Down Behind Forests Of T-Squares And

Bevels,  And Piles Of Drawing Boards,  Tied Together With Webbing

Straps. Bit By Bit,  Such Parts Of The Partitions As Had Remained

Unoccupied Had Become Covered With Inscriptions And Drawings,  A

Constantly Rising Flotsam And Jetsam Of Scrawls Traced There As On The

Margin Of An Ever-Open Book. There Were Caricatures Of The Students

Themselves,  Coarse Witticisms Fit To Make A Gendarme Turn Pale,

Epigrammatic Sentences,  Addition Sums,  Addresses,  And So Forth; While,

Above All Else,  Written In Big Letters,  And Occupying The Most

Prominent Place,  Appeared This Inscription: 'On The 7th Of June,  Gorfu

Declared That He Didn't Care A Hang For Rome.--Signed,  Godemard.'*

  * The Allusion Is To The French Art School At Rome,  And The

    Competitions Into Which Students Enter To Obtain Admission

    To It,  Or To Secure The Prizes Offered For The Best Exhibits

    Which,  During Their Term Of Residence,  They Send To Paris.--Ed.

Claude Was Greeted With A Growl Like That Of Wild Beasts Disturbed In

Their Lair. What Kept Him Motionless Was The Strange Aspect Of This

Place On The Morning Of The 'Truck Night,' As The Embryo Architects

Termed The Crucial Night Of Labour. Since The Previous Evening,  The

Whole Studio,  Some Sixty Pupils,  Had Been Shut Up There; Those Who Had

No Designs To Exhibit--'The Niggers,' As They Were Called Remaining To

Help The Others,  The Competitors Who,  Being Behind Time,  Had To Knock

Off The Work Of A Week In A Dozen Hours. Already,  At Midnight,  They

Had Stuffed Themselves With Brawn,  Saveloys,  And Similar Viands,

Washed Down With Cheap Wine. Towards One O'clock They Had Secured The

Company Of Some 'Ladies'; And,  Without The Work Abating,  The Feast Had

Turned Into A Roman Orgy,  Blended With A Smoking Competition. On The

Damp,  Stained Floor There Remained A Great Litter Of Greasy Paper And

Broken Bottles; While The Atmosphere Reeked Of Burnt Tallow,  Musk,

Highly Seasoned Sausages,  And Cheap Bluish Wine.

And Now Many Voices Savagely Yelled: 'Turn Him Out. Oh,  That Mug! What

Does He Want,  That Guy? Turn Him Out,  Turn Him Out.'

For A Moment Claude,  Quite Dazed,  Staggered Beneath The Violence Of

The Onslaught. But The Epithets Became Viler,  For The Acme Of

Elegance,  Even For The More Refined Among These Young Fellows,  Was To

Rival One's Friends In Beastly Language. He Was,  Nevertheless,

Recovering And Beginning To Answer,  When Dubuche Recognised Him. The

Latter Turned Crimson,  For He Detested That Kind Of Adventure. He Felt

Ashamed Of His Friend,  And Rushed Towards Him,  Amidst The Jeers,  Which

Were Now Levelled At Himself:

'What,  Is It You?' He Gasped. 'I Told You Never To Come In. Just Wait

For Me A Minute In The Yard.'

At That Moment,  Claude,  Who Was Stepping Back,  Narrowly Escaped Being

Knocked Down By A Little Hand-Truck Which Two Big Full-Bearded Fellows

Brought Up At A Gallop. It Was From This Truck That The Night Of Heavy

Toil Derived Its Name: And For The Last Week The Students Who Had Got

Behindhand With Their Work,  Through Taking Up Petty Paid Jobs Outside,

Had Been Repeating The Cry,  'Oh! I'm In The Truck And No Mistake.' The

Moment The Vehicle Appeared,  A Clamour Arose. It Was A Quarter To Nine

O'clock,  There Was Barely Time To Reach The School Of Arts. However,  A

Helter-Skelter Rush Emptied The Studio; Each Brought Out His Chases,

Amidst A General Jostling; Those Who Obstinately Wished To Give Their

Designs A Last Finishing Touch Were Knocked About And Carried Away

With Their Comrades. In Less Than Five Minutes Every Frame Was Piled

Upon The Truck,  And The Two Bearded Fellows,  The Most Recent Additions

To The Studio,  Harnessed Themselves To It Like Cattle And Drew It

Along With All Their Strength,  The Others Vociferating,  And Pushing

From Behind. It Was Like The Rush Of A Sluice; The