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

Upside Down In Order To Clear A Chair.

'Pray Be Seated,  Mademoiselle. This Is Really A Surprise. You Are Too

Kind.'

Once Seated,  Christine Recovered Her Equanimity. He Looked So Droll

With His Wild Sweeping Gestures,  And She Felt So Conscious Of His

Shyness That She Began To Smile,  And Bravely Held Out The Bunch Of

Roses.

'Look Here; I Wished To Show You That I Am Not Ungrateful.'

At First He Said Nothing,  But Stood Staring At Her,  Thunderstruck.

When He Saw,  Though,  That She Was Not Making Fun Of Him,  He Shook Both

Her Hands,  With Almost Sufficient Energy To Dislocate Them. Then He At

Once Put The Flowers In His Water-Jug,  Repeating:

'Ah! Now You Are A Good Fellow,  You Really Are. This Is The First Time

I Pay That Compliment To A Woman,  Honour Bright.'

He Came Back To Her,  And,  Looking Straight Into Her Eyes,  He Asked:

'Then You Have Not Altogether Forgotten Me?'

'You See That I Have Not,' She Replied,  Laughing.

'Why,  Then,  Did You Wait Two Months Before Coming To See Me?'

Again She Blushed. The Falsehood She Was About To Tell Revived Her

Embarrassment For A Moment.

'But You Know That I Am Not My Own Mistress,' She Said. 'Oh,  Madame

Vanzade Is Very Kind To Me,  Only She Is A Great Invalid,  And Never

Leaves The House. But She Grew Anxious As To My Health And Compelled

Me To Go Out To Breathe A Little Fresh Air.'

She Did Not Allude To The Shame Which She Had Felt During The First

Few Days After Her Adventure On The Quai De Bourbon. Finding Herself

In Safety,  Beneath The Old Lady's Roof,  The Recollection Of The Night

She Had Spent In Claude's Room Had Filled Her With Remorse; But She

Fancied At Last That She Had Succeeded In Dismissing The Matter From

Her Mind. It Was No Longer Anything But A Bad Dream,  Which Grew More

Indistinct Each Day. Then,  How It Was She Could Not Tell,  But Amidst

The Profound Quietude Of Her Existence,  The Image Of That Young Man

Who Had Befriended Her Had Returned To Her Once More,  Becoming More

And More Precise,  Till At Last It Occupied Her Daily Thoughts. Why

Should She Forget Him? She Had Nothing To Reproach Him With; On The

Contrary,  She Felt She Was His Debtor. The Thought Of Seeing Him

Again,  Dismissed At First,  Struggled Against Later On,  At Last Became

An All-Absorbing Craving. Each Evening The Temptation To Go And See

Him Came Strong Upon Her In The Solitude Of Her Own Room. She

Experienced An Uncomfortable Irritating Feeling,  A Vague Desire Which

She Could Not Define,  And Only Calmed Down Somewhat On Ascribing This

Troubled State Of Mind To A Wish To Evince Her Gratitude. She Was So

Utterly Alone,  She Felt So Stifled In That Sleepy Abode,  The

Exuberance Of Youth Seethed So Strongly Within Her,  Her Heart Craved

So Desperately For Friendship!

'So I Took Advantage Of My First Day Out,' She Continued. 'And

Besides,  The Weather Was So Nice This Morning After All The Dull

Rain.'

Claude,  Feeling Very Happy And Standing Before Her,  Also Confessed

Himself,  But _He_ Had Nothing To Hide.

'For My Part,' Said He,  'I Dared Not Think Of You Any More. You Are

Like One Of The Fairies Of The Story-Books,  Who Spring From The Floor

And Disappear Into The Walls At The Very Moment One Least Expects It;

Aren't You Now? I Said To Myself,  "It's All Over: It Was Perhaps Only

In My Fancy That I Saw Her Come To This Studio." Yet Here You Are.

Well,  I Am Pleased At It,  Very Pleased Indeed.'

Smiling,  But Embarrassed,  Christine Averted Her Head,  Pretending To

Look Around Her. But Her Smile Soon Died Away. The Ferocious-Looking

Paintings Which She Again Beheld,  The Glaring Sketches Of The South,

The Terrible Anatomical Accuracy Of The Studies From The Nude,  All

Chilled Her As On The First Occasion. She Became Really Afraid Again,

And She Said Gravely,  In An Altered Voice:

'I Am Disturbing You; I Am Going.'

'Oh! Not At All,  Not At All,' Exclaimed Claude,  Preventing Her From

Rising. 'It Does Me Good To Have A Talk With You,  For I Was Working

Myself To Death. Oh! That Confounded Picture; It's Killing Me As It

Is.'

Thereupon Christine,  Lifting Her Eyes,  Looked At The Large Picture,

The Canvas That Had Been Turned To The Wall On The Previous Occasion,

And Which She Had Vainly Wished To See.

The Background--The Dark Glade Pierced By A Flood Of Sunlight--Was

Still Only Broadly Brushed In. But The Two Little Wrestlers--The Fair

One And The Dark--Almost Finished By Now,  Showed Clearly In The Light.

In The Foreground,  The Gentleman In The Velveteen Jacket,  Three Times

Begun Afresh,  Had Now Been Left In Distress. The Painter Was More

Particularly Working At The Principal Figure,  The Woman Lying On The

Grass. He Had Not Touched The Head Again. He Was Battling With The

Body,  Changing His Model Every Week,  So Despondent At Being Unable To

Satisfy Himself That For A Couple Of Days He Had Been Trying To

Improve The Figure From Imagination,  Without Recourse To Nature,

Although He Boasted That He Never Invented.

Christine At Once Recognised Herself. Yes,  That Nude Girl Sprawling On

The Grass,  One Arm Behind Her Head,  Smiling With Lowered Eyelids,  Was

Herself,  For She Had Her Features. The Idea Absolutely Revolted Her,

And She Was Wounded Too By The Wildness Of The Painting,  So Brutal

Indeed That She Considered Herself Abominably Insulted. She Did Not

Understand That Kind Of Art; She Thought It Execrable,  And Felt A

Hatred Against It,  The Instinctive Hatred Of An Enemy. She Rose At

Last,  And Curtly Repeated,  'I Must Be Going.'

Claude Watched Her Attentively,  Both Grieved And Surprised By Her

Sudden Change Of Manner.

'Going Already?'

'Yes,  They Are Waiting For Me. Good-Bye.'

And She Had Already Reached The Door Before He Could Take Her Hand,

And Venture To Ask Her:

'When Shall I See You Again?'

She Allowed Her Hand To Remain In His. For A Moment She Seemed To

Hesitate.

'I Don't Know. I Am So Busy.'

Then She Withdrew Her Hand And Went Off,  Hastily,  Saying: 'One Of

These Days,  When I Can. Good-Bye.'

Claude Remained Stock-Still On The Threshold. He Wondered What Had

Come Over Her Again To Cause Her Sudden Coolness,  Her Covert

Irritation. He Closed The Door,  And Walked About,  With Dangling Arms,

And Without Understanding,  Seeking Vainly For The Phrase,  The Gesture

That Could Have Offended Her. And He In His Turn Became Angry,  And

Launched An Oath Into Space,  With A Terrific Shrug Of The Shoulders,

As If To Rid Himself Of This Silly Worry. Did A Man Ever Understand

Women? However,  The Sight Of The Roses,  Overlapping The Water-Jug,

Pacified Him; They Smelt So Sweet. Their Scent Pervaded The Whole

Studio,  And Silently He Resumed His Work Amidst The Perfume.

Two More Months Passed By. During The Earlier Days Claude,  At The

Slightest Stir Of A Morning,  When Madame Joseph Brought Him Up His

Breakfast Or His Letters,  Quickly Turned His Head,  And Could Not

Control A Gesture Of Disappointment. He No Longer Went Out Until After

Four,  And The Doorkeeper Having Told Him One Evening,  On His Return

Home,  That A Young Person Had Called To See Him At About Five,  He Had

Only Grown Calm On Ascertaining That The Visitor Was Merely A Model,

Zoe Piedefer. Then,  As The Days Went By,  He Was Seized With A Furious

Fit Of Work,  Becoming Unapproachable To Every One,  Indulging In Such

Violent Theories That Even His Friends Did Not Venture To Contradict

Him. He Swept The World From His Path With One Gesture; There Was No

Longer To Be Anything But Painting Left. One Might Murder One's

Parents,  Comrades,  And Women Especially,  And It Would All Be A Good

Riddance. After This Terrible Fever He Fell Into Abominable

Despondency,  Spending A Week Of Impotence And Doubt,  A Whole Week Of

Torture,  During Which He Fancied Himself Struck Silly. But He Was

Getting Over It,  He Had Resumed His Usual Life,  His Resigned Solitary

Struggle With His Great Picture,  When One Foggy Morning,  Towards The

End Of October,  He Started And Hastily Set His Palette Aside. There

Had Been No Knock,  But He Had Just Recognised The Footfall Coming Up

The Stairs. He Opened The Door And She Walked In. She Had Come At

Last.

Christine That Day Wore A Large Cloak Of Grey Material Which Enveloped

Her From Head To Foot. Her Little Velvet Hat Was Dark,  And The Fog

Outside Had Pearled Her Black Lace Veil. But He Thought Her Looking

Very Cheerful,  With The First Slight Shiver Of Winter Upon Her. She At

Once Began To Make Excuses For Having So Long Delayed Her Return. She

Smiled At Him In Her Pretty Candid Manner,  Confessed That She Had

Hesitated,  And That She Had Almost Made Up Her Mind To Come No More.

Yes,  She Had Her Own Opinions About Things,  Which She Felt Sure He

Understood. As It Happened,  He Did Not Understand At All--He Had No

Wish To Understand,  Seeing That She Was There. It Was Quite Sufficient

That She Was Not Vexed With Him,  That She Would Consent To Look In Now

And Then Like A Chum. There Were No Explanations; They Kept Their

Respective Torments And The Struggles Of Recent Times To Themselves.

For Nearly An Hour They Chatted Together Right Pleasantly,  With

Nothing Hidden Nor Antagonistic Remaining Between Them; It Was As If

An Understanding Had Been Arrived At,  Unknown To Themselves,  And While

They Were Far Apart. She Did Not Even Appear To Notice The Sketches

And Studies On The Walls. For A Moment She Looked Fixedly At The Large

Picture,  At The Figure Of The Woman Lying On The Grass Under The