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

One Who Had His Share In Inventing Landscape Painting! Have You Seen

His "Pond Of Gagny" At The Luxembourg?'

'A Marvel!' Exclaimed Claude. 'It Was Painted Thirty Years Ago,  And

Nothing More Substantial Has Been Turned Out Since. Why Is It Left At

The Luxembourg? It Ought To Be In The Louvre.'

'But Courajod Isn't Dead,' Said Fagerolles.

'What! Courajod Isn't Dead! No One Ever Sees Him Or Speaks Of Him

Now.'

There Was General Stupefaction When Fagerolles Assured Them That The

Great Landscape Painter,  Now Seventy Years Of Age,  Lived Somewhere In

The Neighbourhood Of Montmartre,  In A Little House Among His Fowls,

Ducks,  And Dogs. So One Might Outlive One's Own Glory! To Think That

There Were Such Melancholy Instances Of Old Artists Disappearing

Before Their Death! Silence Fell Upon Them All; They Began To Shiver

When They Perceived Bongrand Pass By On A Friend's Arm,  With A

Congestive Face And A Nervous Air As He Waved His Hand To Them; While

Almost Immediately Behind Him,  Surrounded By His Disciples,  Came

Chambouvard,  Laughing Very Loudly,  And Tapping His Heels On The

Pavement With The Air Of Absolute Mastery That Comes From Confidence

In Immortality.

'What! Are You Going?' Said Mahoudeau To Chaine,  Who Was Rising From

His Chair.

The Other Mumbled Some Indistinct Words In His Beard,  And Went Off

After Distributing Handshakes Among The Party.

'I Know,' Said Jory To Mahoudeau. 'I Believe He Has A Weakness For

Your Neighbour,  The Herbalist Woman. I Saw His Eyes Flash All At Once;

It Comes Upon Him Like Toothache. Look How He's Running Over There.'

The Sculptor Shrugged His Shoulders Amidst The General Laughter.

But Claude Did Not Hear. He Was Now Discussing Architecture With

Dubuche. No Doubt,  That Plan Of A Museum Gallery Which He Exhibited

Wasn't Bad; Only There Was Nothing New In It. It Was All So Much

Patient Marquetry Of The School Formulas. Ought Not All The Arts To

Advance In One Line Of Battle? Ought Not The Evolution That Was

Transforming Literature,  Painting,  Even Music Itself,  To Renovate

Architecture As Well? If Ever The Architecture Of A Period Was To Have

A Style Of Its Own,  It Was Assuredly The Architecture Of The Period

They Would Soon Be Entering,  A New Period When They Would Find The

Ground Freshly Swept,  Ready For The Rebuilding Of Everything. Down

With The Greek Temples! There Was No Reason Why They Should Continue

To Exist Under Our Sky,  Amid Our Society! Down With The Gothic

Cathedrals,  Since Faith In Legend Was Dead! Down With The Delicate

Colonnades,  The Lace-Like Work Of The Renaissance--That Revival Of The

Antique Grafted On Mediaevalism--Precious Art-Jewellery,  No Doubt,  But

In Which Democracy Could Not Dwell. And He Demanded,  He Called With

Violent Gestures For An Architectural Formula Suited To Democracy;

Such Work In Stone As Would Express Its Tenets; Edifices Where It

Would Really Be At Home; Something Vast And Strong,  Great And Simple

At The Same Time; The Something That Was Already Being Indicated In

The New Railway Stations And Markets,  Whose Ironwork Displayed Such

Solid Elegance,  But Purified And Raised To A Standard Of Beauty,

Proclaiming The Grandeur Of The Intellectual Conquests Of The Age.

'Ah! Yes,  Ah! Yes,' Repeated Dubuche,  Catching Claude's Enthusiasm;

'That's What I Want To Accomplish,  You'll See Some Day. Give Me Time

To Succeed,  And When I'm My Own Master--Ah! When I'm My Own Master.'

Night Was Coming On Apace,  And Claude Was Growing More And More

Animated And Passionate,  Displaying A Fluency,  An Eloquence Which His

Comrades Had Not Known Him To Possess. They All Grew Excited In

Listening To Him,  And Ended By Becoming Noisily Gay Over The

Extraordinary Witticisms He Launched Forth. He Himself,  Having

Returned To The Subject Of His Picture,  Again Discussed It With A Deal

Of Gaiety,  Caricaturing The Crowd He Had Seen Looking At It,  And

Imitating The Imbecile Laughter. Along The Avenue,  Now Of An Ashy Hue,

One Only Saw The Shadows Of Infrequent Vehicles Dart By. The Side-Walk

Was Quite Black; An Icy Chill Fell From The Trees. Nothing Broke The

Stillness But The Sound Of Song Coming From A Clump Of Verdure Behind

The Cafe; There Was Some Rehearsal At The Concert De L'horloge,  For

One Heard The Sentimental Voice Of A Girl Trying A Love-Song.

'Ah! How They Amused Me,  The Idiots!' Exclaimed Claude,  In A Last

Burst. 'Do You Know,  I Wouldn't Take A Hundred Thousand Francs For My

Day's Pleasure!'

Then He Relapsed Into Silence,  Thoroughly Exhausted. Nobody Had Any

Saliva Left; Silence Reigned; They All Shivered In The Icy Gust That

Swept By. And They Separated In A Sort Of Bewilderment,  Shaking Hands

In A Tired Fashion. Dubuche Was Going To Dine Out; Fagerolles Had An

Appointment; In Vain Did Jory,  Mahoudeau,  And Gagniere Try To Drag

Claude To Foucart's,  A Twenty-Five Sous' Restaurant; Sandoz Was

Already Taking Him Away On His Arm,  Feeling Anxious At Seeing Him So

Excited.

'Come Along,  I Promised My Mother To Be Back For Dinner. You'll Take A

Bit With Us. It Will Be Nice; We'll Finish The Day Together.'

They Both Went Down The Quay,  Past The Tuileries,  Walking Side By Side

In Fraternal Fashion. But At The Pont Des Saints-Peres The Painter

Stopped Short.

'What,  Are You Going To Leave Me?' Exclaimed Sandoz.

'Why,  I Thought You Were Going To Dine With Me?'

'No,  Thanks; I've Too Bad A Headache--I'm Going Home To Bed.'

And He Obstinately Clung To This Excuse.

'All Right,  Old Man,' Said Sandoz At Last,  With A Smile. 'One Doesn't

See Much Of You Nowadays. You Live In Mystery. Go On,  Old Boy,  I Don't

Want To Be In Your Way.'

Claude Restrained A Gesture Of Impatience; And,  Letting His Friend

Cross The Bridge,  He Went His Way Along The Quays By Himself. He

Walked On With His Arms Hanging Beside Him,  With His Face Turned

Towards The Ground,  Seeing Nothing,  But Taking Long Strides Like A

Somnambulist Who Is Guided By Instinct. On The Quai De Bourbon,  In

Front Of His Door,  He Looked Up,  Full Of Surprise On Seeing A Cab

Waiting At The Edge Of The Foot Pavement,  And Barring His Way. And It

Was With The Same Automatical Step That He Entered The Doorkeeper's

Room To Take His Key.

'I Have Given It To That Lady,' Called Madame Joseph From The Back Of

The Room. 'She Is Upstairs.'

'What Lady?' He Asked In Bewilderment.

'That Young Person. Come,  You Know Very Well,  The One Who Always

Comes.'

He Had Not The Remotest Idea Whom She Meant. Still,  In His Utter

Confusion Of Mind,  He Decided To Go Upstairs. The Key Was In The Door,

Which He Slowly Opened And Closed Again.

For A Moment Claude Stood Stock Still. Darkness Had Invaded The

Studio; A Violet Dimness,  A Melancholy Gloom Fell From The Large

Window,  Enveloping Everything. He Could No Longer Plainly Distinguish

Either The Floor,  Or The Furniture,  Or The Sketches; Everything That

Was Lying About Seemed To Be Melting In The Stagnant Waters Of A Pool.

But On The Edge Of The Couch There Loomed A Dark Figure,  Stiff With

Waiting,  Anxious And Despairing Amid The Last Gasp Of Daylight. It Was

Christine; He Recognised Her.

She Held Out Her Hands,  And Murmured In A Low,  Halting Voice:

'I Have Been Here For Three Hours; Yes,  For Three Hours,  All Alone,

And Listening. I Took A Cab On Leaving There,  And I Only Wanted To

Stay A Minute,  And Get Back As Soon As Possible. But I Should Have

Stayed All Night; I Could Not Go Away Without Shaking Hands With You.'

She Continued,  And Told Him Of Her Mad Desire To See The Picture; Her

Prank Of Going To The Salon,  And How She Had Tumbled Into It Amidst

The Storm Of Laughter,  Amidst The Jeers Of All Those People. It Was

She Whom They Had Hissed Like That; It Was On Herself That They Had

Spat. And Seized With Wild Terror,  Distracted With Grief And Shame,

She Had Fled,  As If She Could Feel That Laughter Lashing Her Like A

Whip,  Until The Blood Flowed. But She Now Forgot About Herself In Her

Concern For Him,  Upset By The Thought Of The Grief He Must Feel,  For

Her Womanly Sensibility Magnified The Bitterness Of The Repulse,  And

She Was Eager To Console.

'Oh,  Friend,  Don't Grieve! I Wished To See And Tell You That They Are

Jealous Of It All,  That I Found The Picture Very Nice,  And That I Feel

Very Proud And Happy At Having Helped You--At Being,  If Ever So

Little,  A Part Of It.'

Still,  Motionless,  He Listened To Her As She Stammered Those Tender

Words In An Ardent Voice,  And Suddenly He Sank Down At Her Feet,

Letting His Head Fall Upon Her Knees,  And Bursting Into Tears. All His

Excitement Of The Afternoon,  All The Bravery He Had Shown Amidst The

Jeering,  All His Gaiety And Violence Now Collapsed,  In A Fit Of Sobs

Which Well Nigh Choked Him. From The Gallery Where The Laughter Had

Buffeted Him,  He Heard It Pursuing Him Through The Champs Elysees,

Then Along The Banks Of The Seine,  And Now In His Very Studio. His

Strength Was Utterly Spent; He Felt Weaker Than A Child; And Rolling

His Head From One Side To Another He Repeated In A Stifled Voice:

'My God! How I Do Suffer!'

Then She,  With Both Hands,  Raised His Face To Her Lips In A Transport

Of Passion. She Kissed Him,  And With Her Warm Breath She Blew To His

Very Heart The Words: 'Be Quiet,  Be Quiet,  I Love You!'

They Adored Each Other; It Was Inevitable. Near Them,  On The Centre Of

The Table,  The Lilac She Had Sent Him That Morning Embalmed The Night

Air,  And,  Alone Shiny With Lingering Light,  The Scattered Particles Of

Gold Leaf,  Wafted From The Frame Of The Big Picture,  Twinkled Like A

Swarming Of Stars.