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

Already At What She Might Hear.

'You Know What She Has Come To Ask Of You?' Resumed Jory Cheerfully.

'What,  Don't You Remember? You Promised That She Might Pose For

Something. And She'll Do So If You Like.'

'Of Course I Will,' Said Irma.

'The Fact Is,' Replied Claude,  In An Embarrassed Tone,  'My Picture

Here Will Take Up All My Time Till The Salon. I Have A Figure In It

That Gives Me A Deal Of Trouble. It's Impossible To Perfect It With

Those Confounded Models.'

Irma Had Stationed Herself In Front Of The Picture,  And Looked At It

With A Knowing Air. 'Oh! I See,' She Said,  'That Woman In The Grass,

Eh? Do You Think I Could Be Of Any Use To You?'

Jory Flared Up In A Moment,  Warmly Approving The Idea,  But Claude With

The Greatest Energy Replied,  'No,  No Madame Wouldn't Suit. She Is Not

At All What I Want For This Picture; Not At All.'

Then He Went On Stammering Excuses. He Would Be Only Too Pleased Later

On,  But Just Now He Was Afraid That Another Model Would Quite Complete

His Confusion Over That Picture; And Irma Responded By Shrugging Her

Shoulders,  And Looking At Him With An Air Of Smiling Contempt.

Jory,  However,  Now Began To Chat About Their Friends. Why Had Not

Claude Come To Sandoz's On The Previous Thursday? One Never Saw Him

Now. Dubuche Asserted All Sorts Of Things About Him. There Had Been A

Row Between Fagerolles And Mahoudeau On The Subject Whether Evening

Dress Was A Thing To Be Reproduced In Sculpture. Then On The Previous

Sunday Gagniere Had Returned Home From A Wagner Concert With A Black

Eye. He,  Jory,  Had Nearly Had A Duel At The Cafe Baudequin On Account

Of One Of His Last Articles In 'The Drummer.' The Fact Was He Was

Giving It Hot To The Twopenny-Halfpenny Painters,  The Men With The

Usurped Reputations! The Campaign Against The Hanging Committee Of The

Salon Was Making A Deuce Of A Row; Not A Shred Would Be Left Of Those

Guardians Of The Ideal,  Who Wanted To Prevent Nature From Entering

Their Show.

Claude Listened To Him With Impatient Irritation. He Had Taken Up His

Palette And Was Shuffling About In Front Of His Picture. The Other One

Understood At Last.

'You Want To Work,  I See; All Right,  We'll Leave You.'

Irma,  However,  Still Stared At The Painter,  With Her Vague Smile,

Astonished At The Stupidity Of This Simpleton,  Who Did Not Seem To

Appreciate Her,  And Seized Despite Herself With A Whim To Please Him.

His Studio Was Ugly,  And He Himself Wasn't Handsome; But Why Should He

Put On Such Bugbear Airs? She Chaffed Him For A Moment,  And On Going

Off Again Offered To Sit For Him,  Emphasising Her Offer By Warmly

Pressing His Hand.

'Whenever You Like,' Were Her Parting Words.

They Had Gone At Last,  And Claude Was Obliged To Pull The Screen

Aside,  For Christine,  Looking Very White,  Remained Seated Behind It,

As If She Lacked The Strength To Rise. She Did Not Say A Word About

The Girl,  But Simply Declared That She Had Felt Very Frightened; And

--Trembling Lest There Should Come Another Knock--She Wanted To Go At

Once,  Carrying Away With Her,  As Her Startled Looks Testified,  The

Disturbing Thought Of Many Things Which She Did Not Mention.

In Fact,  For A Long Time That Sphere Of Brutal Art,  That Studio Full

Of Glaring Pictures,  Had Caused Her A Feeling Of Discomfort. Wounded

In All Her Feelings,  Full Of Repugnance,  She Could Not Get Used To It

All. She Had Grown Up Full Of Affectionate Admiration For A Very

Different Style Of Art--Her Mother's Fine Water-Colours,  Those Fans Of

Dreamy Delicacy,  In Which Lilac-Tinted Couples Floated About In Bluish

Gardens--And She Quite Failed To Understand Claude's Work. Even Now

She Often Amused Herself By Painting Tiny Girlish Landscapes,  Two Or

Three Subjects Repeated Over And Over Again--A Lake With A Ruin,  A

Water-Mill Beating A Stream,  A Chalet And Some Pine Trees,  White With

Snow. And She Felt Surprised That An Intelligent Young Fellow Should

Paint In Such An Unreasonable Manner,  So Ugly And So Untruthful

Besides. For She Not Only Thought Claude's Realism Monstrously Ugly,

But Considered It Beyond Every Permissible Truth. In Fact,  She Thought

At Times That He Must Be Mad.

One Day Claude Absolutely Insisted Upon Seeing A Small Sketch-Book

Which She Had Brought Away From Clermont,  And Which She Had Spoken

About. After Objecting For A Long While,  She Brought It With Her,

Flattered At Heart And Feeling Very Curious To Know What He Would Say.

He Turned Over The Leaves,  Smiling All The While,  And As He Did Not

Speak,  She Was The First To Ask:

'You Think It Very Bad,  Don't You?'

'Not At All,' He Replied. 'It's Innocent.'

The Reply Hurt Her,  Despite Claude's Indulgent Tone,  Which Aimed At

Making It Amiable.

'Well,  You See I Had So Few Lessons From Mamma. I Like Painting To Be

Well Done,  And Pleasing.'

Thereupon He Burst Into Frank Laughter.

'Confess Now That My Painting Makes You Feel Ill! I Have Noticed It.

You Purse Your Lips And Open Your Eyes Wide With Fright. Certainly It

Is Not The Style Of Painting For Ladies,  Least Of All For Young Girls.

But You'll Get Used To It; It's Only A Question Of Educating Your Eyes

And You'll End By Seeing That What I Am Doing Is Very Honest And

Healthy.'

Indeed,  Christine Slowly Became Used To It. But,  At First,  Artistic

Conviction Had Nothing To Do With The Change,  Especially As Claude,

With His Contempt For Female Opinion,  Did Not Take The Trouble To

Indoctrinate Her. On The Contrary,  In Her Company He Avoided

Conversing About Art,  As If He Wished To Retain For Himself That

Passion Of His Life,  Apart From The New Passion Which Was Gradually

Taking Possession Of Him. Still,  Christine Glided Into The Habit Of

The Thing,  And Became Familiarised With It; She Began To Feel

Interested In Those Abominable Pictures,  On Noticing The Important

Place They Held In The Artist's Existence. This Was The First Stage On

The Road To Conversion; She Felt Greatly Moved By His Rageful

Eagerness To Be Up And Doing,  The Whole-Heartedness With Which He

Devoted Himself To His Work. Was It Not Very Touching? Was There Not

Something Very Creditable In It? Then,  On Noticing His Joy Or

Suffering,  According To The Success Or The Failure Of The Day's Work,

She Began To Associate Herself With His Efforts. She Felt Saddened

When She Found Him Sad,  She Grew Cheerful When He Received Her

Cheerfully; And From That Moment Her Worry Was--Had He Done A Lot Of

Work? Was He Satisfied With What He Had Done Since They Had Last Seen

Each Other? At The End Of The Second Month She Had Been Gained Over;

She Stationed Herself Before His Pictures To Judge Whether They Were

Progressing Or Not. She No Longer Felt Afraid Of Them. She Still Did

Not Approve Particularly Of That Style Of Painting,  But She Began To

Repeat The Artistic Expressions Which She Had Heard Him Use; Declared

This Bit To Be 'Vigorous In Tone,' 'Well Built Up,' Or 'Just In The

Light It Should Be.' He Seemed To Her So Good-Natured,  And She Was So

Fond Of Him,  That After Finding Excuses For Him For Daubing Those

Horrors,  She Ended By Discovering Qualities In Them In Order That She

Might Like Them A Little Also.

Nevertheless,  There Was One Picture,  The Large One,  The One Intended

For The Salon,  To Which For A Long While She Was Quite Unable To

Reconcile Herself. She Already Looked Without Dislike At The Studies

Made At The Boutin Studio And The Sketches Of Plassans,  But She Was

Still Irritated By The Sight Of The Woman Lying In The Grass. It Was

Like A Personal Grudge,  The Shame Of Having Momentarily Thought That

She Could Detect In It A Likeness Of Herself,  And Silent

Embarrassment,  Too,  For That Big Figure Continued To Wound Her

Feelings,  Although She Now Found Less And Less Of A Resemblance In It.

At First She Had Protested By Averting Her Eyes. Now She Remained For

Several Minutes Looking At It Fixedly,  In Mute Contemplation. How Was

It That The Likeness To Herself Had Disappeared? The More Vigorously

That Claude Struggled On,  Never Satisfied,  Touching Up The Same Bit A

Hundred Times Over,  The More Did That Likeness To Herself Gradually

Fade Away. And,  Without Being Able To Account For It,  Without Daring

To Admit As Much To Herself,  She,  Whom The Painting Had So Greatly

Offended When She Had First Seen It,  Now Felt A Growing Sorrow At

Noticing That Nothing Of Herself Remained.

Indeed It Seemed To Her As If Their Friendship Suffered From This

Obliteration; She Felt Herself Further Away From Him As Trait After

Trait Vanished. Didn't He Care For Her That He Thus Allowed Her To Be

Effaced From His Work? And Who Was The New Woman,  Whose Was The

Unknown Indistinct Face That Appeared From Beneath Hers?

Claude,  In Despair At Having Spoilt The Figure's Head,  Did Not Know

Exactly How To Ask Her For A Few Hours' Sitting. She Would Merely Have

Had To Sit Down,  And He Would Only Have Taken Some Hints. But He Had

Previously Seen Her So Pained That He Felt Afraid Of Irritating Her

Again. Moreover,  After Resolving In His Own Mind To Ask Her This

Favour In A Gay,  Off-Hand Way,  He Had Been At A Loss For Words,

Feeling All At Once Ashamed At The Notion.

One Afternoon He Quite Upset Her By One Of Those Bursts Of Anger Which

He Found It Impossible To Control,  Even In Her Presence. Everything

Had Gone Wrong That Week; He Talked Of Scraping His Canvas Again,  And

He Paced Up And Down,  Beside Himself,  And Kicking The Furniture About.

Then All Of A Sudden He Caught Her By The Shoulders,  And Made Her Sit

Down On The Couch.

'I Beg Of You,  Do Me This Favour,  Or It'll Kill Me,  I Swear It Will.'

She Did Not Understand Him.

'What--What Is It You Want?'

Then As Soon As She Saw Him Take Up His Brushes,  She Added,  Without

Heeding What She Said,  'Ah,  Yes! Why Did Not You Ask Me Before?'

And Of Her Own Accord She Threw Herself Back On A Cushion And Slipped

Her Arm Under Her Neck. But Surprise And Confusion At Having Yielded

So Quickly Made Her