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

Sentence That Reads Anyhow,  And Which Has Worried Me All Through My

Lunch.'

The Painter Made A Gesture Of Despair,  And The Other,  Seeing Him So

Gloomy,  At Once Understood Matters.

'You Don't Get On Either,  Eh? Well,  Let's Go Out. A Sharp Walk Will

Take A Little Of The Rust Off Us. Shall We Go?'

As He Was Passing The Kitchen,  However,  An Old Woman Stopped Him. It

Was His Charwoman,  Who,  As A Rule,  Came Only For Two Hours In The

Morning And Two Hours In The Evening. On Thursdays,  However,  She

Remained The Whole Afternoon In Order To Look After The Dinner.

'Then It's Decided,  Monsieur?' She Asked. 'It's To Be A Piece Of Skate

And A Leg Of Mutton,  With Potatoes.'

'Yes,  If You Like.'

'For How Many Am I To Lay The Cloth?'

'Oh! As For That,  One Never Knows. Lay For Five,  At Any Rate; We'll

See Afterwards. Dinner At Seven,  Eh? We'll Try To Be Home By Then.'

When They Were On The Landing,  Sandoz,  Leaving Claude To Wait For Him,

Stole Into His Mother's Room. When He Came Out Again,  In The Same

Discreet Affectionate Manner,  They Both Went Downstairs In Silence.

Outside,  Having Sniffed To Right And Left,  As If To See Which Way The

Wind Blew,  They Ended By Going Up The Street,  Reached The Place De

L'observatoire,  And Turned Down The Boulevard Du Montparnasse. This

Was Their Ordinary Promenade; They Reached The Spot Instinctively,

Being Fond Of The Wide Expanse Of The Outer Boulevards,  Where They

Could Roam And Lounge At Ease. They Continued Silent,  For Their Heads

Were Heavy Still,  But The Comfort Of Being Together Gradually Made

Them More Serene. Still It Was Only When They Were Opposite The

Western Railway Station That Sandoz Spoke.

'I Say,  Suppose We Go To Mahoudeau's,  To See How He's Getting On With

His Big Machine. I Know That He Has Given "His Gods And Saints" The

Slip To-Day.'

'All Right,' Answered Claude. 'Let's Go To Mahoudeau's.'

They At Once Turned Into The Rue Du Cherche-Midi. There,  At A Few

Steps From The Boulevard,  Mahoudeau,  A Sculptor,  Had Rented The Shop

Of A Fruiterer Who Had Failed In Business,  And He Had Installed His

Studio Therein,  Contenting Himself With Covering The Windows With A

Layer Of Whitening. At This Point,  The Street,  Wide And Deserted,  Has

A Quiet,  Provincial Aspect,  With A Somewhat Ecclesiastical Touch.

Large Gateways Stand Wide Open Showing A Succession Of Deep Roomy

Yards; From A Cowkeeper's Establishment Comes A Tepid,  Pungent Smell

Of Litter; And The Dead Wall Of A Convent Stretches Away For A Goodly

Length. It Was Between This Convent And A Herbalist's That The Shop

Transformed Into A Studio Was Situated. It Still Bore On Its

Sign-Board The Inscription,  'Fruit And Vegetables,' In Large Yellow

Letters.

Claude And Sandoz Narrowly Missed Being Blinded By Some Little Girls

Who Were Skipping In The Street. On The Foot Pavement Sat Several

Families Whose Barricades Of Chairs Compelled The Friends To Step Down

On To The Roadway. However,  They Were Drawing Nigh,  When The Sight Of

The Herbalist's Shop Delayed Them For A Moment. Between Its Windows,

Decked With Enemas,  Bandages,  And Similar Things,  Beneath The Dried

Herbs Hanging Above The Doorway,  Whence Came A Constant Aromatic

Smell,  A Thin,  Dark Woman Stood Taking Stock Of Them,  While,  Behind

Her,  In The Gloom Of The Shop,  One Saw The Vague Silhouette Of A

Little Sickly-Looking Man,  Who Was Coughing And Expectorating. The

Friends Nudged Each Other,  Their Eyes Lighted Up With Bantering Mirth;

And Then They Turned The Handle Of Mahoudeau's Door.

The Shop,  Though Tolerably Roomy,  Was Almost Filled By A Mass Of Clay:

A Colossal Bacchante,  Falling Back Upon A Rock. The Wooden Stays Bent

Beneath The Weight Of That Almost Shapeless Pile,  Of Which Nothing But

Some Huge Limbs Could As Yet Be Distinguished. Some Water Had Been

Spilt On The Floor,  Several Muddy Buckets Straggled Here And There,

While A Heap Of Moistened Plaster Was Lying In A Corner. On The

Shelves,  Formerly Occupied By Fruit And Vegetables,  Were Scattered

Some Casts From The Antique,  Covered With A Tracery Of Cinder-Like

Dust Which Had Gradually Collected There. A Wash-House Kind Of

Dampness,  A Stale Smell Of Moist Clay,  Rose From The Floor. And The

Wretchedness Of This Sculptor's Studio And The Dirt Attendant Upon The

Profession Were Made Still More Conspicuous By The Wan Light That

Filtered Through The Shop Windows Besmeared With Whitening.

'What! Is It You?' Shouted Mahoudeau,  Who Sat Before His Female

Figure,  Smoking A Pipe.

He Was Small And Thin,  With A Bony Face,  Already Wrinkled At

Twenty-Seven. His Black Mane-Like Hair Lay Entangled Over His Very Low

Forehead,  And His Sallow Mask,  Ugly Almost To Ferociousness,  Was

Lighted Up By A Pair Of Childish Eyes,  Bright And Empty,  Which Smiled

With Winning Simplicity. The Son Of A Stonemason Of Plassans,  He Had

Achieved Great Success At The Local Art Competitions,  And Had

Afterwards Come To Paris As The Town Laureate,  With An Allowance Of

Eight Hundred Francs Per Annum,  For A Period Of Four Years. In The

Capital,  However,  He Had Found Himself At Sea,  Defenceless,  Failing In

His Competitions At The School Of Arts,  And Spending His Allowance To

No Purpose; So That,  At The End Of His Term,  He Had Been Obliged For A

Livelihood To Enter The Employment Of A Dealer In Church Statues,  At

Whose Establishment,  For Ten Hours A Day,  He Scraped Away At St.

Josephs,  St. Rochs,  Mary Magdalens,  And,  In Fact,  All The Saints Of

The Calendar. For The Last Six Months,  However,  He Had Experienced A

Revival Of Ambition,  On Finding Himself Once More Among His Comrades

Of Provence,  The Eldest Of Whom He Was--Fellows Whom He Had Known At

Geraud's Boarding-School For Little Boys,  And Who Had Since Grown Into

Savage Revolutionaries. At Present,  Through His Constant Intercourse

With Impassioned Artists,  Who Troubled His Brain With All Sorts Of

Wild Theories,  His Ambition Aimed At The Gigantic.

'The Devil!' Said Claude,  'There's A Lump.'

The Sculptor,  Delighted,  Gave A Long Pull At His Pipe,  And Blew A

Cloud Of Smoke.

'Eh,  Isn't It? I Am Going To Give Them Some Flesh,  And Living Flesh,

Too; Not The Bladders Of Lard That They Turn Out.'

'It's A Woman Bathing,  Isn't It?' Asked Sandoz.

'No; I Shall Put Some Vine Leaves Around Her Head. A Bacchante,  You

Understand.'

At This Claude Flew Into A Violent Passion.

'A Bacchante? Do You Want To Make Fools Of People? Does Such A Thing

As A Bacchante Exist? A Vintaging Girl,  Eh? And Quite Modern,  Dash It

All. I Know She's Nude,  So Let Her Be A Peasant Woman Who Has

Undressed. And That Must Be Properly Conveyed,  Mind; People Must

Realise That She Lives.'

Mahoudeau,  Taken Aback,  Listened,  Trembling. He Was Afraid Of Claude,

And Bowed To His Ideal Of Strength And Truth. So He Even Improved Upon

The Painter's Idea.

'Yes,  Yes,  That's What I Meant To Say--A Vintaging Girl. And You'll

See Whether There Isn't A Real Touch Of Woman About Her.'

At That Moment Sandoz,  Who Had Been Making The Tour Of The Huge Block

Of Clay,  Exclaimed: 'Why,  Here's That Sneak Of A Chaine.'

Behind The Pile,  Indeed,  Sat Chaine,  A Burly Fellow Who Was Quietly

Painting Away,  Copying The Fireless Rusty Stove On A Small Canvas. It

Could Be Told That He Was A Peasant By His Heavy,  Deliberate Manner

And His Bull-Neck,  Tanned And Hardened Like Leather. His Only

Noticeable Feature Was His Forehead,  Displaying All The Bumps Of

Obstinacy; For His Nose Was So Small As To Be Lost Between His Red

Cheeks,  While A Stiff Beard Hid His Powerful Jaws. He Came From Saint

Firmin,  A Village About Six Miles From Plassans,  Where He Had Been A

Cow-Boy,  Until He Drew For The Conscription; And His Misfortunes Dated

From The Enthusiasm That A Gentleman Of The Neighbourhood Had Shown

For The Walking-Stick Handles Which He Carved Out Of Roots With His

Knife. From That Moment,  Having Become A Rustic Genius,  An Embryo

Great Man For This Local Connoisseur,  Who Happened To Be A Member Of

The Museum Committee,  He Had Been Helped By Him,  Adulated And Driven

Crazy With Hopes; But He Had Successively Failed In Everything--His

Studies And Competitions--Thus Missing The Town's Purse. Nevertheless,

He Had Started For Paris,  After Worrying His Father,  A Wretched

Peasant,  Into Premature Payment Of His Heritage,  A Thousand Francs,  On

Which He Reckoned To Live For A Twelvemonth While Awaiting The

Promised Victory. The Thousand Francs Had Lasted Eighteen Months.

Then,  As He Had Only Twenty Francs Left,  He Had Taken Up His Quarters

With His Friend,  Mahoudeau. They Both Slept In The Same Bed,  In The

Dark Back Shop; They Both In Turn Cut Slices From The Same Loaves Of

Bread--Of Which They Bought Sufficient For A Fortnight At A Time,  So

That It Might Get Very Hard,  And That They Might Thus Be Able To Eat

But Little Of It.

'I Say,  Chaine,' Continued Sandoz,  'Your Stove Is Really Very Exact.'

Chaine,  Without Answering,  Gave A Chuckle Of Triumph Which Lighted Up

His Face Like A Sunbeam. By A Crowning Stroke Of Imbecility,  And To

Make His Misfortunes Perfect,  His Protector's Advice Had Thrown Him

Into Painting,  In Spite Of The Real Taste That He Showed For Wood

Carving. And He Painted Like A Whitewasher,  Mixing His Colours As A

Hodman Mixes His Mortar,  And Managing To Make The Clearest And

Brightest Of Them Quite Muddy. His Triumph Consisted,  However,  In

Combining Exactness With Awkwardness; He Displayed All The Naive

Minuteness Of The Primitive Painters; In Fact,  His Mind,  Barely Raised

From The Clods,  Delighted In Petty Details. The Stove,  With Its

Perspective All Awry,  Was