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

Mire.

Claude Approached And Felt Full Of Compassion At The Sight Of That

Painting,  And Though He Was As A Rule So Harsh Towards Bad Painters,

His Compassion Prompted Him To Say A Word Of Praise.

'Ah! One Can't Say That You Are A Trickster; You Paint,  At Any Rate,

As You Feel. Very Good,  Indeed.'

However,  The Door Of The Shop Had Opened,  And A Good-Looking,  Fair

Fellow,  With A Big Pink Nose,  And Large,  Blue,  Short-Sighted Eyes,

Entered Shouting:

'I Say,  Why Does That Herbalist Woman Next Door Always Stand On Her

Doorstep? What An Ugly Mug She's Got!'

They All Laughed,  Except Mahoudeau,  Who Seemed Very Much Embarrassed.

'Jory,  The King Of Blunderers,' Declared Sandoz,  Shaking Hands With

The New Comer.

'Why? What? Is Mahoudeau Interested In Her? I Didn't Know,' Resumed

Jory,  When He Had At Length Grasped The Situation. 'Well,  Well,  What

Does It Matter? When Everything's Said,  They Are All Irresistible.'

'As For You,' The Sculptor Rejoined,  'I Can See You Have Tumbled On

Your Lady-Love's Finger-Nails Again. She Has Dug A Bit Out Of Your

Cheek!'

They All Burst Out Laughing Anew,  While Jory,  In His Turn,  Reddened.

In Fact,  His Face Was Scratched: There Were Even Two Deep Gashes

Across It. The Son Of A Magistrate Of Plassans,  Whom He Had Driven

Half-Crazy By His Dissolute Conduct,  He Had Crowned Everything By

Running Away With A Music-Hall Singer Under The Pretext Of Going To

Paris To Follow The Literary Profession. During The Six Months That

They Had Been Camping Together In A Shady Hotel Of The Quartier Latin,

The Girl Had Almost Flayed Him Alive Each Time She Caught Him Paying

Attention To Anybody Else Of Her Sex. And,  As This Often Happened,  He

Always Had Some Fresh Scar To Show--A Bloody Nose,  A Torn Ear,  Or A

Damaged Eye,  Swollen And Blackened.

At Last They All Began To Talk,  With The Exception Of Chaine,  Who Went

On Painting With The Determined Expression Of An Ox At The Plough.

Jory Had At Once Gone Into Ecstasies Over The Roughly Indicated Figure

Of The Vintaging Girl. He Worshipped A Massive Style Of Beauty. His

First Writings In His Native Town Had Been Some Parnassian Sonnets

Celebrating The Copious Charms Of A Handsome Pork-Butcheress. In

Paris--Where He Had Fallen In With The Whole Band Of Plassans--He Had

Taken To Art Criticism,  And,  For A Livelihood,  He Wrote Articles For

Twenty Francs Apiece In A Small,  Slashing Paper Called 'The Drummer.'

Indeed,  One Of These Articles,  A Study On A Picture By Claude

Exhibited At Papa Malgras's,  Had Just Caused A Tremendous Scandal; For

Jory Had Therein Run Down All The Painters Whom The Public Appreciated

To Extol His Friend,  Whom He Set Up As The Leader Of A New School,  The

School Of The 'Open Air.' Very Practical At Heart,  He Did Not Care In

Reality A Rap About Anything That Did Not Conduce To His Own

Pleasures; He Simply Repeated The Theories He Heard Enunciated By His

Friends. 'I Say,  Mahoudeau,' He Now Exclaimed,  'You Shall Have An

Article; I'll Launch That Woman Of Yours. What Limbs,  My Boys! She's

Magnificent!'

Then Suddenly Changing The Conversation: 'By The Way,' He Said,  'My

Miserly Father Has Apologised. He Is Afraid I Shall Drag His Name

Through The Mud,  So He Sends Me A Hundred Francs A Month Now. I Am

Paying My Debts.'

'Debts! You Are Too Careful To Have Any,' Muttered Sandoz,  With A

Smile.

In Fact,  Jory Displayed A Hereditary Tightness Of Fist Which Much

Amused His Friends. He Managed To Lead A Profligate Life Without Money

And Without Incurring Debts; And With The Skill He Thus Displayed Was

Allied Constant Duplicity,  A Habit Of Incessantly Lying,  Which He Had

Contracted In The Devout Sphere Of His Family,  Where His Anxiety To

Hide His Vices Had Made Him Lie About Everything At All Hours,  And

Even Without Occasion. But He Now Gave A Superb Reply,  The Cry Of A

Sage Of Deep Experience.

'Oh,  You Fellows,  You Don't Know The Worth Of Money!'

This Time He Was Hooted. What A Philistine! And The Invectives

Continued,  When Some Light Taps On One Of The Window-Panes Suddenly

Made The Din Cease.

'She Is Really Becoming A Nuisance,' Said Mahoudeau,  With A Gesture Of

Annoyance.

'Eh? Who Is It? The Herbalist Woman?' Asked Jory. 'Let Her Come In; It

Will Be Great Fun.'

The Door Indeed Had Already Been Opened,  And Mahoudeau's Neighbour,

Madame Jabouille,  Or Mathilde,  As She Was Familiarly Called,  Appeared

On The Threshold. She Was About Thirty,  With A Flat Face Horribly

Emaciated,  And Passionate Eyes,  The Lids Of Which Had A Bluish Tinge

As If They Were Bruised. It Was Said That Some Members Of The Clergy

Had Brought About Her Marriage With Little Jabouille,  At A Time When

The Latter's Business Was Still Flourishing,  Thanks To The Custom Of

All The Pious Folk Of The Neighbourhood. The Truth Was,  That One

Sometimes Espied Black Cassocks Stealthily Crossing That Mysterious

Shop,  Where All The Aromatic Herbs Set A Perfume Of Incense. A Kind Of

Cloistral Quietude Pervaded The Place; The Devotees Who Came In Spoke

In Low Voices,  As If In A Confessional,  Slipped Their Purchases Into

Their Bags Furtively,  And Went Off With Downcast Eyes. Unfortunately,

Some Very Horrid Rumours Had Got Abroad--Slander Invented By The

Wine-Shop Keeper Opposite,  Said Pious Folks. At Any Rate,  Since The

Widower Had Re-Married,  The Business Had Been Going To The Dogs. The

Glass Jars Seemed To Have Lost All Their Brightness,  And The Dried

Herbs,  Suspended From The Ceiling,  Were Tumbling To Dust. Jabouille

Himself Was Coughing His Life Out,  Reduced To A Very Skeleton. And

Although Mathilde Professed To Be Religious,  The Pious Customers

Gradually Deserted Her,  Being Of Opinion That She Made Herself Too

Conspicuous With Young Fellows Of The Neighbourhood Now That Jabouille

Was Almost Eaten Out Of House And Home.

For A Moment Mathilde Remained Motionless,  Blinking Her Eyes. A

Pungent Smell Had Spread Through The Shop,  A Smell Of Simples,  Which

She Brought With Her In Her Clothes And Greasy,  Tumbled Hair; The

Sickly Sweetness Of Mallow,  The Sharp Odour Of Elderseed,  The Bitter

Effluvia Of Rhubarb,  But,  Above All,  The Hot Whiff Of Peppermint,

Which Seemed Like Her Very Breath.

She Made A Gesture Of Feigned Surprise. 'Oh,  Dear Me! You Have

Company--I Did Not Know; I'll Drop In Again.'

'Yes,  Do,' Said Mahoudeau,  Looking Very Vexed. 'Besides,  I Am Going

Out; You Can Give Me A Sitting On Sunday.'

At This Claude,  Stupefied,  Fairly Stared At The Emaciated Mathilde,

And Then At The Huge Vintaging Woman.

'What?' He Cried,  'Is It Madame Who Poses For That Figure? The

Dickens,  You Exaggerate!'

Then The Laughter Began Again,  While The Sculptor Stammered His

Explanations. 'Oh! She Only Poses For The Head And The Hands,  And

Merely Just To Give Me A Few Indications.'

Mathilde,  However,  Laughed With The Others,  With A Sharp,  Brazen-Faced

Laughter,  Showing The While The Gaping Holes In Her Mouth,  Where

Several Teeth Were Wanting.

'Yes,' Resumed Mahoudeau. 'I Have To Go Out On Some Business Now.

Isn't It So,  You Fellows,  We Are Expected Over Yonder?'

He Had Winked At His Friends,  Feeling Eager For A Good Lounge. They

All Answered That They Were Expected,  And Helped Him To Cover The

Figure Of The Vintaging Girl With Some Strips Of Old Linen Which Were

Soaking In A Pail Of Water.

However,  Mathilde,  Looking Submissive But Sad,  Did Not Stir. She

Merely Shifted From One Place To Another,  When They Pushed Against

Her,  While Chaine,  Who Was No Longer Painting,  Glanced At Her Over His

Picture. So Far,  He Had Not Opened His Lips. But As Mahoudeau At Last

Went Off With His Three Friends,  He Made Up His Mind To Ask,  In His

Husky Voice:

'Shall You Come Home To-Night?'

'Very Late. Have Your Dinner And Go To Bed. Good-Bye.'

Then Chaine Remained Alone With Mathilde In The Damp Shop,  Amidst The

Heaps Of Clay And The Puddles Of Water,  While The Chalky Light From

The Whitened Windows Glared Crudely Over All The Wretched Untidiness.

Meantime The Four Others,  Claude And Mahoudeau,  Jory And Sandoz,

Strolled Along,  Seeming To Take Up The Whole Width Of The Boulevard

Des Invalides. It Was The Usual Thing,  The Band Was Gradually

Increased By The Accession Of Comrades Picked Up On The Way,  And Then

Came The Wild March Of A Horde Upon The War-Path. With The Bold

Assurance Of Their Twenty Summers,  These Young Fellows Took Possession

Of The Foot Pavement. The Moment They Were Together Trumpets Seemed To

Sound In Advance Of Them; They Seized Upon Paris And Quietly Dropped

It Into Their Pockets. There Was No Longer The Slightest Doubt About

Their Victory; They Freely Displayed Their Threadbare Coats And Old

Shoes,  Like Destined Conquerors Of To-Morrow Who Disdained Bagatelles,

And Had Only To Take The Trouble To Become The Masters Of All The

Luxury Surrounding Them. And All This Was Attended By Huge Contempt

For Everything That Was Not Art--Contempt For Fortune,  Contempt For

The World At Large,  And,  Above All,  Contempt For Politics. What Was

The Good Of All Such Rubbish? Only A Lot Of Incapables Meddled With

It. A Warped View Of Things,  Magnificent In Its Very Injustice,

Exalted Them; An Intentional Ignorance Of The Necessities Of Social

Life,  The Crazy Dream Of Having None But Artists Upon Earth. They

Seemed Very Stupid At Times,  But,  All The Same,  Their Passion Made

Them Strong And Brave.

Claude Became Excited. Faith In Himself Revived Amidst The Glow Of

Common Hopes. His Worry Of The Morning Had Only Left A Vague Numbness

Behind,  And He Now Once More Began To Discuss His Picture With Sandoz

And Mahoudeau,  Swearing,  It Is True,  That He Would Destroy It The Next

Day. Jory,  Who Was Very Short-Sighted,  Stared At All The Elderly

Ladies He Met,  And Aired His Theories On Artistic Work. A Man Ought To

Give His Full Measure At Once In The First Spurt Of Inspiration; As

For Himself,  He Never Corrected Anything. And,  Still Discussing,  The

Four Friends Went On Down The Boulevard,  Which,  With Its Comparative

Solitude,  And Its Endless Rows Of Fine Trees,  Seemed To Have Been

Expressly Designed As An Arena For Their Disputations. When They

Reached The Esplanade,  The Wrangling Became So Violent That They

Stopped In The Middle Of That Large Open Space. Beside Himself,  Claude

Called Jory A Numskull; Was It Not Better To Destroy One's Work Than

To Launch A Mediocre Performance Upon The World? Truckling To Trade

Was Really Disgusting. Mahoudeau And