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

While Waiting For The Train To Arrive,  They Went On Chatting. Sandoz

Explained His Ideas On Marriage,  Which,  In Middle-Class Fashion,  He

Considered An Indispensable Condition For Good Work,  Substantial

Orderly Labour,  Among Great Modern Producers. The Theory Of Woman

Being A Destructive Creature--One Who Killed An Artist,  Pounded His

Heart,  And Fed Upon His Brain--Was A Romantic Idea Against Which Facts

Protested. Besides,  As For Himself,  He Needed An Affection That Would

Prove The Guardian Of His Tranquillity,  A Loving Home,  Where He Might

Shut Himself Up,  So As To Devote His Whole Life To The Huge Work Which

He Ever Dreamt Of. And He Added That Everything Depended Upon A Man's

Choice--That He Believed He Had Found What He Had Been Looking For,  An

Orphan,  The Daughter Of Petty Tradespeople,  Without A Penny,  But

Handsome And Intelligent. For The Last Six Months,  After Resigning His

Clerkship,  He Had Embraced Journalism,  By Which He Gained A Larger

Income. He Had Just Moved His Mother To A Small House At Batignolles,

Where The Three Would Live Together--Two Women To Love Him,  And He

Strong Enough To Provide For The Household.

'Get Married,  Old Man,' Said Claude. 'One Should Act According To

One's Feelings. And Good-Bye,  For Here's Your Train. Don't Forget Your

Promise To Come And See Us Again.'

Sandoz Returned Very Often. He Dropped In At Odd Times Whenever His

Newspaper Work Allowed Him,  For He Was Still Free,  As He Was Not To Be

Married Till The Autumn. Those Were Happy Days,  Whole Afternoons Of

Mutual Confidences When All Their Old Determination To Secure Fame

Revived.

One Day,  While Sandoz Was Alone With Claude On An Island Of The Seine,

Both Of Them Lying There With Their Eyes Fixed On The Sky,  He Told The

Painter Of His Vast Ambition,  Confessed Himself Aloud.

'Journalism,  Let Me Tell You,  Is Only A Battle-Ground. A Man Must

Live,  And He Has To Fight To Do So. Then,  Again,  That Wanton,  The

Press,  Despite The Unpleasant Phases Of The Profession,  Is After All A

Tremendous Power,  A Resistless Weapon In The Hands Of A Fellow With

Convictions. But If I Am Obliged To Avail Myself Of Journalism,  I

Don't Mean To Grow Grey In It! Oh,  Dear No! And,  Besides,  I've Found

What I Wanted,  A Machine That'll Crush One With Work,  Something I'm

Going To Plunge Into,  Perhaps Never To Come Out Of It.'

Silence Reigned Amid The Foliage,  Motionless In The Dense Heat. He

Resumed Speaking More Slowly And In Jerky Phrases:

'To Study Man As He Is,  Not Man The Metaphysical Puppet But

Physiological Man,  Whose Nature Is Determined By His Surroundings,  And

To Show All His Organism In Full Play. That's My Idea! Is It Not

Farcical That Some Should Constantly And Exclusively Study The

Functions Of The Brain On The Pretext That The Brain Alone Is The

Noble Part Of Our Organism? Thought,  Thought,  Confound It All! Thought

Is The Product Of The Whole Body. Let Them Try To Make A Brain Think

By Itself Alone; See What Becomes Of The Nobleness Of The Brain When

The Stomach Is Ailing! No,  No,  It's Idiotic; There Is No Philosophy

Nor Science In It! We Are Positivists,  Evolutionists,  And Yet We Are

To Stick To The Literary Lay-Figures Of Classic Times,  And Continue

Disentangling The Tangled Locks Of Pure Reason! He Who Says

Psychologist Says Traitor To Truth. Besides,  Psychology,  Physiology

It All Signifies Nothing. The One Has Become Blended With The Other,

And Both Are But One Nowadays,  The Mechanism Of Man Leading To The Sum

Total Of His Functions. Ah,  The Formula Is There,  Our Modern

Revolution Has No Other Basis; It Means The Certain Death Of Old

Society,  The Birth Of A New One,  And Necessarily The Upspringing Of A

New Art In A New Soil. Yes,  People Will See What Literature Will

Sprout Forth For The Coming Century Of Science And Democracy.'

His Cry Uprose And Was Lost In The Immense Vault Of Heaven. Not A

Breath Stirred; There Was Nought But The Silent Ripple Of The River

Past The Willows. And Sandoz Turned Abruptly Towards His Companion,

And Said To Him,  Face To Face:

'So I Have Found What I Wanted For Myself. Oh,  It Isn't Much,  A Little

Corner Of Study Only,  But One That Should Be Sufficient For A Man's

Life,  Even When His Ambition Is Over-Vast. I Am Going To Take A

Family,  And I Shall Study Its Members,  One By One,  Whence They Come,

Whither They Go,  How They Re-Act One Upon Another--In Short,  I Shall

Have Mankind In A Small Compass,  The Way In Which Mankind Grows And

Behaves. On The Other Hand,  I Shall Set My Men And Women In Some Given

Period Of History,  Which Will Provide Me With The Necessary

Surroundings And Circumstances,--You Understand,  Eh? A Series Of

Books,  Fifteen,  Twenty Books,  Episodes That Will Cling Together,

Although Each Will Have A Separate Framework,  A Series Of Novels With

Which I Shall Be Able To Build Myself A House For My Old Days,  If They

Don't Crush Me!'

He Fell On His Back Again,  Spread Out His Arms On The Grass,  As If He

Wanted To Sink Into The Earth,  Laughing And Joking All The While.

'Oh,  Beneficent Earth,  Take Me Unto Thee,  Thou Who Art Our Common

Mother,  Our Only Source Of Life! Thou The Eternal,  The Immortal One,

In Whom Circulates The Soul Of The World,  The Sap That Spreads Even

Into The Stones,  And Makes The Trees Themselves Our Big,  Motionless

Brothers! Yes,  I Wish To Lose Myself In Thee; It Is Thou That I Feel

Beneath My Limbs,  Clasping And Inflaming Me; Thou Alone Shalt Appear

In My Work As The Primary Force,  The Means And The End,  The Immense

Ark In Which Everything Becomes Animated With The Breath Of Every

Being!'

Though Begun As Mere Pleasantry,  With All The Bombast Of Lyrical

Emphasis,  The Invocation Terminated In A Cry Of Ardent Conviction,

Quivering With Profound Poetical Emotion,  And Sandoz's Eyes Grew

Moist; And,  To Hide How Much He Felt Moved,  Be Added,  Roughly,  With A

Sweeping Gesture That Took In The Whole Scene Around:

'How Idiotic It Is! A Soul For Every One Of Us,  When There Is That Big

Soul There!'

Claude,  Who Had Disappeared Amid The Grass,  Had Not Stirred. After A

Fresh Spell Of Silence He Summed Up Everything:

'That's It,  Old Boy! Run Them Through,  All Of Them. Only You'll Get

Trounced.'

'Oh,' Said Sandoz,  Rising Up And Stretching Himself,  'My Bones Are Too

Hard. They'll Smash Their Own Wrists. Let's Go Back; I Don't Want To

Miss The Train.'

Christine Had Taken A Great Liking To Him,  Seeing Him So Robust And

Upright In His Doings,  And She Plucked Up Courage At Last To Ask A

Favour Of Him: That Of Standing Godfather To Jacques. True,  She Never

Set Foot In Church Now,  But Why Shouldn't The Lad Be Treated According

To Custom? What Influenced Her Above All Was The Idea Of Giving The

Boy A Protector In This Godfather,  Whom She Found So Serious And

Sensible,  Even Amidst The Exuberance Of His Strength. Claude Expressed

Surprise,  But Gave His Consent With A Shrug Of The Shoulders. And The

Christening Took Place; They Found A Godmother,  The Daughter Of A

Neighbour,  And They Made A Feast Of It,  Eating A Lobster,  Which Was

Brought From Paris.

That Very Day,  As They Were Saying Good-Bye,  Christine Took Sandoz

Aside,  And Said,  In An Imploring Voice:

'Do Come Again Soon,  Won't You? He Is Bored.'

In Fact,  Claude Had Fits Of Profound Melancholy. He Abandoned His

Work,  Went Out Alone,  And Prowled In Spite Of Himself About Faucheur's

Inn,  At The Spot Where The Ferry-Boat Landed Its Passengers,  As If

Ever Expecting To See All Paris Come Ashore There. He Had Paris On The

Brain; He Went There Every Month And Returned Desolate,  Unable To

Work. Autumn Came,  Then Winter,  A Very Wet And Muddy Winter,  And He

Spent It In A State Of Morose Torpidity,  Bitter Even Against Sandoz,

Who,  Having Married In October,  Could No Longer Come To Bennecourt So

Often. Claude Only Seemed To Wake Up At Each Of The Other's Visits;

Deriving A Week's Excitement From Them,  And Never Ceasing To Comment

Feverishly About The News Brought From Yonder. He,  Who Formerly Had

Hidden His Regret Of Paris,  Nowadays Bewildered Christine With The Way

In Which He Chatted To Her From Morn Till Night About Things She Was

Quite Ignorant Of,  And People She Had Never Seen. When Jacques Fell

Asleep,  There Were Endless Comments Between The Parents As They Sat By

The Fireside. Claude Grew Passionate,  And Christine Had To Give Her

Opinion And To Pronounce Judgment On All Sorts Of Matters.

Was Not Gagniere An Idiot For Stultifying His Brain With Music,  He Who

Might Have Developed So Conscientious A Talent As A Landscape Painter?

It Was Said That He Was Now Taking Lessons On The Piano From A Young

Lady--The Idea,  At His Age! What Did She,  Christine,  Think Of It? And

Jory Had Been Trying To Get Into The Good Graces Of Irma Becot Again,

Ever Since She Had Secured That Little House In The Rue De Moscou!

Christine Knew Those Two; Two Jades Who Well Went Together,  Weren't

They? But The Most Cunning Of The Whole Lot Was Fagerolles,  To Whom

He,  Claude,  Would Tell A Few Plain Truths And No Mistake,  When He Met

Him. What! The Turn-Coat Had Competed For The Prix De Rome,  Which,  Of

Course,  He Had Managed To Miss. To Think Of It. That Fellow Did

Nothing But Jeer At The School,  And Talked About Knocking Everything

Down,  Yet Took Part In Official Competitions! Ah,  There Was No Doubt

But That The Itching To Succeed,  The Wish To Pass Over One's Comrades

And Be Hailed By Idiots,  Impelled Some People To Very Dirty Tricks.

Surely Christine Did Not Mean To Stick Up For Him,  Eh? She Was Not

Sufficiently A Philistine To Defend Him. And When She Had Agreed With

Everything Claude Said,  He Always Came Back With Nervous Laughter To

The Same Story--Which He Thought Exceedingly Comical--The Story Of

Mahoudeau And Chaine,  Who,  Between Them,  Had Killed Little Jabouille,

The Husband Of Mathilde,  That Dreadful Herbalist Woman. Yes,  Killed

The Poor Consumptive Fellow With Kindness One Evening When He Had Had