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

Were Crossed Amidst A Torrential Crash,  And The Street Was Invaded,

Flooded By The Howling Throng.

Claude,  Nevertheless,  Had Set Up Running By The Side Of Dubuche,  Who

Came At The Fag-End,  Very Vexed At Not Having Had Another Quarter Of

An Hour To Finish A Tinted Drawing More Carefully.

'What Are You Going To Do Afterwards?' Asked Claude.

'Oh! I've Errands Which Will Take Up My Whole Day.'

The Painter Was Grieved To See That Even This Friend Escaped Him. 'All

Right,  Then,' Said He; 'In That Case I Leave You. Shall We See You At

Sandoz's To-Night?'

'Yes,  I Think So; Unless I'm Kept To Dinner Elsewhere.'

Both Were Getting Out Of Breath. The Band Of Embryo Architects,

Without Slackening Their Pace,  Had Purposely Taken The Longest Way

Round For The Pleasure Of Prolonging Their Uproar. After Rushing Down

The Rue Du Four,  They Dashed Across The Place Gozlin And Swept Into

The Rue De L'echaude. Heading The Procession Was The Truck,  Drawn And

Pushed Along More And More Vigorously,  And Constantly Rebounding Over

The Rough Paving-Stones,  Amid The Jolting Of The Frames With Which It

Was Laden. Its Escort Galloped Along Madly,  Compelling The Passers-By

To Draw Back Close To The Houses In Order To Save Themselves From

Being Knocked Down; While The Shop-Keepers,  Standing Open-Mouthed On

Their Doorsteps,  Believed In A Revolution. The Whole Neighbourhood

Seemed Topsy-Turvy. In The Rue Jacob,  Such Was The Rush,  So Frightful

Were The Yells,  That Several House Shutters Were Hastily Closed. As

The Rue Bonaparte Was,  At Last,  Being Reached,  One Tall,  Fair Fellow

Thought It A Good Joke To Catch Hold Of A Little Servant Girl Who

Stood Bewildered On The Pavement,  And Drag Her Along With Them,  Like A

Wisp Of Straw Caught In A Torrent.

'Well,' Said Claude,  'Good-Bye,  Then; I'll See You To-Night.'

'Yes,  To-Night.'

The Painter,  Out Of Breath,  Had Stopped At The Corner Of The Rue Des

Beaux Arts. The Court Gates Of The Art School Stood Wide Open In Front

Of Him,  And The Procession Plunged Into The Yard.

After Drawing Breath,  Claude Retraced His Steps To The Rue De Seine.

His Bad Luck Was Increasing; It Seemed Ordained That He Should Not Be

Able To Beguile A Chum From Work That Morning. So He Went Up The

Street,  And Slowly Walked On As Far As The Place Du Pantheon,  Without

Any Definite Aim. Then It Occurred To Him That He Might Just Look Into

The Municipal Offices,  If Only To Shake Hands With Sandoz. That Would,

At Any Rate,  Mean Ten Minutes Well Spent. But He Positively Gasped

When He Was Told By An Attendant That M. Sandoz Had Asked For A Day

Off To Attend A Funeral. However,  He Knew The Trick Of Old. His Friend

Always Found The Same Pretext Whenever He Wanted To Do A Good Day's

Work At Home. He Had Already Made Up His Mind To Join Him There,  When

A Feeling Of Artistic Brotherliness,  The Scruple Of An Honest Worker,

Made Him Pause; Yes,  It Would Be A Crime To Go And Disturb That Good

Fellow,  And Infect Him With The Discouragement Born Of A Difficult

Task,  At The Very Moment When He Was,  No Doubt,  Manfully Accomplishing

His Own Work.

So Claude Had To Resign Himself To His Fate. He Dragged His Black

Melancholy Along The Quays Until Mid-Day,  His Head So Heavy,  So Full

Of Thoughts Of His Lack Of Power,  That He Only Espied The Well-Loved

Horizons Of The Seine Through A Mist. Then He Found Himself Once More

In The Rue De La Femme-Sans-Tete,  Where He Breakfasted At Gomard's

Wine Shop,  Whose Sign 'The Dog Of Montargis,' Inspired Him With

Interest. Some Stonemasons,  In Their Working Blouses,  Bespattered With

Mortar,  Were There At Table,  And,  Like Them,  And With Them,  He Ate His

Eight Sous' 'Ordinary'--Some Beef Broth In A Bowl,  In Which He Soaked

Some Bread,  Followed By A Slice Of Boiled Soup-Beef,  Garnished With

Haricot Beans,  And Served Up On A Plate Damp With Dish-Water. However,

It Was Still Too Good,  He Thought,  For A Brute Unable To Earn His

Bread. Whenever His Work Miscarried,  He Undervalued Himself,  Ranked

Himself Lower Than A Common Labourer,  Whose Sinewy Arms Could At Least

Perform Their Appointed Task. For An Hour He Lingered In The Tavern

Brutifying Himself By Listening To The Conversation At The Tables

Around Him. Once Outside He Slowly Resumed His Walk In Haphazard

Fashion.

When He Got To The Place De L'hotel De Ville,  However,  A Fresh Idea

Made Him Quicken His Pace. Why Had He Not Thought Of Fagerolles?

Fagerolles Was A Nice Fellow,  Gay,  And By No Means A Fool,  Although He

Studied At The School Of Arts. One Could Talk With Him,  Even When He

Defended Bad Painting. If He Had Lunched At His Father's,  In The Rue

Vieille-Du-Temple,  He Must Certainly Still Be There.

On Entering The Narrow Street,  Claude Felt A Sensation Of Refreshing

Coolness Come Over Him. In The Sun It Had Grown Very Warm,  And

Moisture Rose From The Pavement,  Which,  However Bright The Sky,

Remained Damp And Greasy Beneath The Constant Tramping Of The

Pedestrians. Every Minute,  When A Push Obliged Claude To Leave The

Footwalk,  He Found Himself In Danger Of Being Knocked Down By Trucks

Or Vans. Still The Street Amused Him,  With Its Straggling Houses Out

Of Line,  Their Flat Frontages Chequered With Signboards Up To The Very

Eaves,  And Pierced With Small Windows,  Whence Came The Hum Of Every

Kind Of Handiwork That Can Be Carried On At Home. In One Of The

Narrowest Parts Of The Street A Small Newspaper Shop Made Him Stop. It

Was Betwixt A Hairdresser's And A Tripeseller's,  And Had An Outdoor

Display Of Idiotic Prints,  Romantic Balderdash Mixed With Filthy

Caricatures Fit For A Barrack-Room. In Front Of These 'Pictures,' A

Lank Hobbledehoy Stood Lost In Reverie,  While Two Young Girls Nudged

Each Other And Jeered. He Felt Inclined To Slap Their Faces,  But He

Hurried Across The Road,  For Fagerolles' House Happened To Be

Opposite. It Was A Dark Old Tenement,  Standing Forward From The

Others,  And Was Bespattered Like Them With The Mud From The Gutters.

As An Omnibus Came Up,  Claude Barely Had Time To Jump Upon The Foot

Pavement,  There Reduced To The Proportions Of A Simple Ledge; The

Wheels Brushed Against His Chest,  And He Was Drenched To His Knees.

M. Fagerolles,  Senior,  A Manufacturer Of Artistic Zinc-Work,  Had His

Workshops On The Ground Floor Of The Building,  And Having Converted

Two Large Front Rooms On The First Floor Into A Warehouse,  He

Personally Occupied A Small,  Dark,  Cellar-Like Apartment Overlooking

The Courtyard. It Was There That His Son Henri Had Grown Up,  Like A

True Specimen Of The Flora Of The Paris Streets,  At The Edge Of That

Narrow Pavement Constantly Struck By The Omnibus Wheels,  Always

Soddened By The Gutter Water,  And Opposite The Print And Newspaper

Shop,  Flanked By The Barber's And Tripeseller's. At First His Father

Had Made An Ornamental Draughtsman Of Him For Personal Use. But When

The Lad Had Developed Higher Ambition,  Taking To Painting Proper,  And

Talking About The School Of Arts,  There Had Been Quarrels,  Blows,  A

Series Of Separations And Reconciliations. Even Now,  Although Henri

Had Already Achieved Some Successes,  The Manufacturer Of Artistic

Zinc-Work,  While Letting Him Have His Will,  Treated Him Harshly,  Like

A Lad Who Was Spoiling His Career.

After Shaking Off The Water,  Claude Went Up The Deep Archway Entrance,

To A Courtyard,  Where The Light Was Quite Greenish,  And Where There

Was A Dank,  Musty Smell,  Like That At The Bottom Of A Tank. There Was

An Overhanging Roofing Of Glass And Iron At The Foot Of The Staircase,

Which Was A Wide One,  With A Wrought-Iron Railing,  Eaten With Rust. As

The Painter Passed The Warehouse On The First Floor,  He Glanced

Through A Glass Door And Noticed M. Fagerolles Examining Some

Patterns. Wishing To Be Polite,  He Entered,  In Spite Of The Artistic

Disgust He Felt For All That Zinc,  Coloured To Imitate Bronze,  And

Having All The Repulsive Mendacious Prettiness Of Spurious Art.

'Good Morning,  Monsieur. Is Henri Still At Home?'

The Manufacturer,  A Stout,  Sallow-Looking Man,  Drew Himself Straight

Amidst All His Nosegay Vases And Cruets And Statuettes. He Had In His

Hand A New Model Of A Thermometer,  Formed Of A Juggling Girl Who

Crouched And Balanced The Glass Tube On Her Nose.

'Henri Did Not Come In To Lunch,' He Answered Drily.

This Cool Reception Upset Claude. 'Ah! He Did Not Come Back; I Beg

Pardon For Having Disturbed You,  Then. Good-Day,  Monsieur.'

'Good-Day.'

Once More Outside,  Claude Began To Swear To Himself. His Ill-Luck Was

Complete,  Fagerolles Escaped Him Also. He Even Felt Vexed With Himself

For Having Gone There,  And Having Taken An Interest In That

Picturesque Old Street; He Was Infuriated By The Romantic Gangrene

That Ever Sprouted Afresh Within Him,  Do What He Might. It Was His

Malady,  Perhaps,  The False Principle Which He Sometimes Felt Like A

Bar Across His Skull. And When He Had Reached The Quays Again,  He

Thought Of Going Home To See Whether His Picture Was Really So Very

Bad. But The Mere Idea Made Him Tremble All Over. His Studio Seemed A

Chamber Of Horrors,  Where He Could No More Continue To Live,  As If,

Indeed,  He Had Left The Corpse Of Some Beloved Being There. No,  No; To

Climb The Three Flights Of Stairs,  To Open The Door,  To Shut Himself

Up Face To Face With 'That,' Would Have Needed Strength Beyond His

Courage. So He Crossed The Seine And Went Along The Rue St. Jacques.

He Felt Too Wretched And Lonely; And,  Come What Might,  He Would Go To

The Rue D'enfer To Turn Sandoz From His Work.

Sandoz's Little Fourth-Floor Flat Consisted Of A Dining-Room,  A

Bedroom,  And A Strip Of Kitchen. It Was Tenanted By Himself Alone; His

Mother,  Disabled By Paralysis,  Occupied On The Other Side Of The

Landing A Single Room,  Where She Lived In Morose And Voluntary

Solitude. The Street Was A Deserted One; The Windows Of The Rooms

Overlooked The Gardens Of The Deaf And Dumb Asylum,  Above Which Rose

The Rounded Crest Of A Lofty Tree,  And The Square Tower Of St.

Jacques-Du-Haut-Pas.

Claude Found Sandoz In His Room,  Bending Over His Table,  Busy With A

Page Of 'Copy.'

'I Am Disturbing You?' Said Claude.

'Not At All. I Have Been Working Ever Since Morning,  And I've Had

Enough Of It. I've Been Killing Myself For The Last Hour Over