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

Paid Fifteen Hundred Thousand Francs For It,  And Had Just Spent More

Than A Million In Improvements.

'That Part Of The Country Won't See Much Of Us In Future,' Said

Claude,  As They Returned To Bennecourt. 'Those Monsters Spoil The

Landscape.'

Towards The End Of The Summer,  An Important Event Changed The Current

Of Their Lives. Christine Was _Enceinte_. At First,  Both She And

Claude Felt Amazed And Worried. Now For The First Time They Seemed To

Dread Some Terrible Complications In Their Life. Later On,  However,

They Gradually Grew Accustomed To The Thought Of What Lay Before Them

And Made All Necessary Preparations. But The Winter Proved A Terribly

Inclement One,  And Christine Was Compelled To Remain Indoors,  Whilst

Claude Went Walking All Alone Over The Frost-Bound,  Clanking Roads.

And He,  Finding Himself In Solitude During These Walks,  After Months

Of Constant Companionship,  Wondered At The Way His Life Had Turned,

Against His Own Will,  As It Were. He Had Never Wished For Home Life

Even With Her; Had He Been Consulted,  He Would Have Expressed His

Horror Of It; It Had Come About,  However,  And Could Not Be Undone,

For--Without Mentioning The Child--He Was One Of Those Who Lack The

Courage To Break Off. This Fate Had Evidently Been In Store For Him,

He Felt; He Had Been Destined To Succumb To The First Woman Who Did

Not Feel Ashamed Of Him. The Hard Ground Resounded Beneath His

Wooden-Soled Shoes,  And The Blast Froze The Current Of His Reverie,

Which Lingered On Vague Thoughts,  On His Luck Of Having,  At Any Rate,

Met With A Good And Honest Girl,  On How Cruelly He Would Have Suffered

Had It Been Otherwise. And Then His Love Came Back To Him; He Hurried

Home To Take Christine In His Trembling Arms As If He Had Been In

Danger Of Losing Her.

The Child,  A Boy,  Was Born About The Middle Of February,  And At Once

Began To Revolutionise The Home,  For Christine,  Who Had Shown Herself

Such An Active Housewife,  Proved To Be A Very Awkward Nurse. She

Failed To Become Motherly,  Despite Her Kind Heart And Her Distress At

The Sight Of The Slightest Pimple. She Soon Grew Weary,  Gave In,  And

Called For Melie,  Who Only Made Matters Worse By Her Gaping Stupidity.

The Father Had To Come To The Rescue,  And Proved Still More Awkward

Than The Two Women. The Discomfort Which Needlework Had Caused

Christine Of Old,  Her Want Of Aptitude As Regards The Usual

Occupations Of Her Sex,  Revived Amid The Cares That The Baby Required.

The Child Was Ill-Kept,  And Grew Up Anyhow In The Garden,  Or In The

Large Rooms Left Untidy In Sheer Despair,  Amidst Broken Toys,

Uncleanliness And Destruction. And When Matters Became Too Bad

Altogether,  Christine Could Only Throw Herself Upon The Neck Of The

Man She Loved. She Was Pre-Eminently An Amorosa And Would Have

Sacrificed Her Son For His Father Twenty Times Over.

It Was At This Period,  However,  That Claude Resumed Work A Little. The

Winter Was Drawing To A Close; He Did Not Know How To Spend The Bright

Sunny Mornings,  Since Christine Could No Longer Go Out Before Mid-Day

On Account Of Jacques,  Whom They Had Named Thus After His Maternal

Grandfather,  Though They Neglected To Have Him Christened. Claude

Worked In The Garden,  At First,  In A Random Way: Made A Rough Sketch

Of The Lines Of Apricot Trees,  Roughed Out The Giant Rose-Bushes,

Composed Some Bits Of 'Still Life,' Out Of Four Apples,  A Bottle,  And

A Stoneware Jar,  Disposed On A Table-Napkin. This Was Only To Pass His

Time. But Afterwards He Warmed To His Work; The Idea Of Painting A

Figure In The Full Sunlight Ended By Haunting Him; And From That

Moment His Wife Became His Victim,  She Herself Agreeable Enough,

Offering Herself,  Feeling Happy At Affording Him Pleasure,  Without As

Yet Understanding What A Terrible Rival She Was Giving Herself In Art.

He Painted Her A Score Of Times,  Dressed In White,  In Red,  Amidst The

Verdure,  Standing,  Walking,  Or Reclining On The Grass,  Wearing A

Wide-Brimmed Straw Hat,  Or Bare-Headed,  Under A Parasol,  The

Cherry-Tinted Silk Of Which Steeped Her Features In A Pinky Glow. He

Never Felt Wholly Satisfied; He Scratched Out The Canvases After Two

Or Three Sittings,  And At Once Began Them Afresh,  Obstinately Sticking

To The Same Subject. Only A Few Studies,  Incomplete,  But Charmingly

Indicated In A Vigorous Style,  Were Saved From The Palette-Knife,  And

Hung Against The Walls Of The Dining-Room.

And After Christine It Became Jacques' Turn To Pose. They Stripped Him

To The Skin,  Like A Little St. John The Baptist,  On Warm Days,  And

Stretched Him On A Blanket,  Where He Was Told Not To Stir. But Devil A

Bit Could They Make Him Keep Still. Getting Frisky,  In The Sunlight,

He Crowed And Kicked With His Tiny Pink Feet In The Air,  Rolling About

And Turning Somersaults. The Father,  After Laughing,  Became Angry,  And

Swore At The Tiresome Mite,  Who Would Not Keep Quiet For A Minute. Who

Ever Heard Of Trifling With Painting? Then The Mother Made Big Eyes At

The Little One,  And Held Him While The Painter Quickly Sketched An Arm

Or A Leg. Claude Obstinately Kept At It For Weeks,  Tempted As He Felt

By The Pretty Tones Of That Childish Skin. It Was Not As A Father,  But

As An Artist,  That He Gloated Over The Boy As The Subject For A

Masterpiece,  Blinking His Eyes The While,  And Dreaming Of Some

Wonderful Picture He Would Paint. And He Renewed The Experiment Again

And Again,  Watching The Lad For Days,  And Feeling Furious When The

Little Scamp Would Not Go To Sleep At Times When He,  Claude,  Might So

Well Have Painted Him.

One Day,  When Jacques Was Sobbing,  Refusing To Keep Still,  Christine

Gently Remarked:

'My Dear,  You Tire The Poor Pet.'

At This Claude Burst Forth,  Full Of Remorse:

'After All! You Are Right; I'm A Fool With This Painting Of Mine.

Children Are Not Intended For That Sort Of Thing.'

The Spring And Summer Sped By Amidst Great Quietude. They Went Out

Less Often; They Had Almost Given Up The Boat,  Which Finished Rotting

Against The Bank,  For It Was Quite A Job To Take The Little One With

Them Among The Islets. But They Often Strolled Along The Banks Of The

Seine,  Without,  However,  Going Farther Afield Than A Thousand Yards Or

So. Claude,  Tired Of The Everlasting Views In The Garden,  Now

Attempted Some Sketches By The River-Side,  And On Such Days Christine

Went To Fetch Him With The Child,  Sitting Down To Watch Him Paint,

Until They All Three Returned Home With Flagging Steps,  Beneath The

Ashen Dusk Of Waning Daylight. One Afternoon Claude Was Surprised To

See Christine Bring With Her The Old Album Which She Had Used As A

Young Girl. She Joked About It,  And Explained That To Sit Behind Him

Like That Had Roused In Her A Wish To Work Herself. Her Voice Was A

Little Unsteady As She Spoke; The Truth Was That She Felt A Longing To

Share His Labour,  Since This Labour Took Him Away From Her More And

More Each Day. She Drew And Ventured To Wash In Two Or Three

Water-Colours In The Careful Style Of A School-Girl. Then,  Discouraged

By His Smiles,  Feeling That No Community Of Ideas Would Be Arrived At

On That Ground,  She Once More Put Her Album Aside,  Making Him Promise

To Give Her Some Lessons In Painting Whenever He Should Have Time.

Besides,  She Thought His More Recent Pictures Very Pretty. After That

Year Of Rest In The Open Country,  In The Full Sunlight,  He Painted

With Fresh And Clearer Vision,  As It Were,  With A More Harmonious And

Brighter Colouring. He Had Never Before Been Able To Treat Reflections

So Skilfully,  Or Possessed A More Correct Perception Of Men And Things

Steeped In Diffuse Light. And Henceforth,  Won Over By That Feast Of

Colours,  She Would Have Declared It All Capital If He Would Only Have

Condescended To Finish His Work A Little More,  And If She Had Not

Remained Nonplussed Now And Then Before A Mauve Ground Or A Blue Tree,

Which Upset All Her Preconceived Notions Of Colour. One Day When She

Ventured Upon A Bit Of Criticism,  Precisely About An Azure-Tinted

Poplar,  He Made Her Go To Nature And Note For Herself The Delicate

Bluishness Of The Foliage. It Was True Enough,  The Tree Was Blue; But

In Her Inmost Heart She Did Not Surrender,  And Condemned Reality;

There Ought Not To Be Any Blue Trees In Nature.

She No Longer Spoke But Gravely Of The Studies Hanging In The

Dining-Room. Art Was Returning Into Their Lives,  And It Made Her Muse.

When She Saw Him Go Off With His Bag,  His Portable Easel,  And His

Sunshade,  It Often Happened That She Flung Herself Upon His Neck

Asking:

'You Love Me,  Say?'

'How Silly You Are! Why Shouldn't I Love You?'

'Then Kiss Me,  Since You Love Me,  Kiss Me A Great Deal,  A Great Deal.'

Then Accompanying Him As Far As The Road,  She Added:

'And Mind You Work; You Know That I Have Never Prevented You From

Working. Go,  Go; I Am Very Pleased When You Work.'

Anxiety Seemed To Seize Hold Of Claude,  When The Autumn Of The Second

Year Tinged The Leaves Yellow,  And Ushered In The Cold Weather. The

Season Happened To Be Abominable; A Fortnight Of Pouring Rain Kept Him

Idle At Home; And Then Fog Came At Every Moment,  Hindering His Work.

He Sat In Front Of The Fire,  Out Of Sorts; He Never Spoke Of Paris,

But The City Rose Up Over Yonder,  On The Horizon,  The Winter City,

With Its Gaslamps Flaring Already At Five O'clock,  Its Gatherings Of

Friends,  Spurring Each Other On To Emulation,  And Its Life Of Ardent

Production,  Which Even The Frosts Of December Could Not Slacken. He

Went There Thrice In One Month,  On The Pretext Of Seeing Malgras,  To

Whom He Had,  Again,  Sold A Few Small Pictures. He No Longer Avoided

Passing In Front Of Faucheur's Inn; He Even Allowed Himself To Be

Waylaid At Times By Old Porrette,  And To Accept A Glass Of White Wine

At The Inn,  And His Glance Scoured The Room As If,  Despite The Season,

He Had Been Looking For Some Comrades Of Yore,  Who Had Arrived There,

Perchance,  That Morning. He Lingered As If Awaiting Them; Then,  In

Despair At His