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

A Fainting Fit,  And When,  On Being Called In By The Woman,  They Had

Taken To Rubbing Him With So Much Vigour That He Had Remained Dead In

Their Hands.

And If Christine Failed To Look Amused At All This,  Claude Rose Up

And Said,  In A Churlish Voice: 'Oh,  You; Nothing Will Make You Laugh

--Let's Go To Bed.'

He Still Adored Her,  But She No Longer Sufficed. Another Torment Had

Invincibly Seized Hold Of Him--The Passion For Art,  The Thirst For

Fame.

In The Spring,  Claude,  Who,  With An Affectation Of Disdain,  Had Sworn

He Would Never Again Exhibit,  Began To Worry A Great Deal About The

Salon. Whenever He Saw Sandoz He Questioned Him About What The

Comrades Were Going To Send. On The Opening Day He Went To Paris And

Came Back The Same Evening,  Stern And Trembling. There Was Only A Bust

By Mahoudeau,  Said He,  Good Enough,  But Of No Importance. A Small

Landscape By Gagniere,  Admitted Among The Ruck,  Was Also Of A Pretty

Sunny Tone. Then There Was Nothing Else,  Nothing But Fagerolles'

Picture--An Actress In Front Of Her Looking-Glass Painting Her Face.

He Had Not Mentioned It At First; But He Now Spoke Of It With

Indignant Laughter. What A Trickster That Fagerolles Was! Now That He

Had Missed His Prize He Was No Longer Afraid To Exhibit--He Threw The

School Overboard; But You Should Have Seen How Skilfully He Managed

It,  What Compromises He Effected,  Painting In A Style Which Aped The

Audacity Of Truth Without Possessing One Original Merit. And It Would

Be Sure To Meet With Success,  The Bourgeois Were Only Too Fond Of

Being Titillated While The Artist Pretended To Hustle Them. Ah! It Was

Time Indeed For A True Artist To Appear In That Mournful Desert Of A

Salon,  Amid All The Knaves And The Fools. And,  By Heavens,  What A

Place Might Be Taken There!

Christine,  Who Listened While He Grew Angry,  Ended By Faltering:

'If You Liked,  We Might Go Back To Paris.'

'Who Was Talking Of That?' He Shouted. 'One Can Never Say A Word To

You But You At Once Jump To False Conclusions.'

Six Weeks Afterwards He Heard Some News That Occupied His Mind For A

Week. His Friend Dubuche Was Going To Marry Mademoiselle Regine

Margaillan,  The Daughter Of The Owner Of La Richaudiere. It Was An

Intricate Story,  The Details Of Which Surprised And Amused Him

Exceedingly. First Of All,  That Cur Dubuche Had Managed To Hook A

Medal For A Design Of A Villa In A Park,  Which He Had Exhibited; That

Of Itself Was Already Sufficiently Amusing,  As It Was Said That The

Drawing Had Been Set On Its Legs By His Master,  Dequersonniere,  Who

Had Quietly Obtained This Medal For Him From The Jury Over Which He

Presided. Then The Best Of It Was That This Long-Awaited Reward Had

Decided The Marriage. Ah! It Would Be Nice Trafficking If Medals Were

Now Awarded To Settle Needy Pupils In Rich Families! Old Margaillan,

Like All Parvenus,  Had Set His Heart Upon Having A Son-In-Law Who

Could Help Him,  By Bringing Authentic Diplomas And Fashionable Clothes

Into The Business; And For Some Time Past He Had Had His Eyes On That

Young Man,  That Pupil Of The School Of Arts,  Whose Notes Were

Excellent,  Who Was So Persevering,  And So Highly Recommended By His

Masters. The Medal Aroused His Enthusiasm; He At Once Gave The Young

Fellow His Daughter And Took Him As A Partner,  Who Would Soon Increase

His Millions Now Lying Idle,  Since He Knew All That Was Needful In

Order To Build Properly. Besides,  By This Arrangement Poor Regine,

Always Low-Spirited And Ailing,  Would At Least Have A Husband In

Perfect Health.

'Well,  A Man Must Be Fond Of Money To Marry That Wretched Flayed

Kitten,' Repeated Claude.

And As Christine Compassionately Took The Girl's Part,  He Added:

'But I Am Not Down Upon Her. So Much The Better If The Marriage Does

Not Finish Her Off. She Is Certainly Not To Be Blamed,  If Her Father,

The Ex-Stonemason,  Had The Stupid Ambition To Marry A Girl Of The

Middle-Classes. Her Father,  You Know,  Has The Vitiated Blood Of

Generations Of Drunkards In His Veins,  And Her Mother Comes Of A Stock

In The Last Stages Of Degeneracy. Ah! They May Coin Money,  But That

Doesn't Prevent Them From Being Excrescences On The Face Of The

Earth!'

He Was Growing Ferocious,  And Christine Had To Clasp Him In Her Arms

And Kiss Him,  And Laugh,  To Make Him Once More The Good-Natured Fellow

Of Earlier Days. Then,  Having Calmed Down,  He Professed To Understand

Things,  Saying That He Approved Of The Marriages Of His Old Chums. It

Was True Enough,  All Three Had Taken Wives Unto Themselves. How Funny

Life Was!

Once More The Summer Drew To An End; It Was The Fourth Spent At

Bennecourt. In Reality They Could Never Be Happier Than Now; Life Was

Peaceful And Cheap In The Depths Of That Village. Since They Had Been

There They Had Never Lacked Money. Claude's Thousand Francs A Year And

The Proceeds Of The Few Pictures He Had Sold Had Sufficed For Their

Wants; They Had Even Put Something By,  And Had Bought Some House

Linen. On The Other Hand,  Little Jacques,  By Now Two Years And A Half

Old,  Got On Admirably In The Country. From Morning Till Night He

Rolled About The Garden,  Ragged And Dirt-Begrimed,  But Growing As He

Listed In Robust Ruddy Health. His Mother Often Did Not Know Where To

Take Hold Of Him When She Wished To Wash Him A Bit. However,  When She

Saw Him Eat And Sleep Well She Did Not Trouble Much; She Reserved Her

Anxious Affection For Her Big Child Of An Artist,  Whose Despondency

Filled Her With Anguish. The Situation Grew Worse Each Day,  And

Although They Lived On Peacefully Without Any Cause For Grief,  They,

Nevertheless,  Drifted To Melancholy,  To A Discomfort That Showed

Itself In Constant Irritation.

It Was All Over With Their First Delights Of Country Life. Their

Rotten Boat,  Staved In,  Had Gone To The Bottom Of The Seine. Besides,

They Did Not Even Think Of Availing Themselves Of The Skiff That The

Faucheurs Had Placed At Their Disposal. The River Bored Them; They Had

Grown Too Lazy To Row. They Repeated Their Exclamations Of Former

Times Respecting Certain Delightful Nooks In The Islets,  But Without

Ever Being Tempted To Return And Gaze Upon Them. Even The Walks By The

River-Side Had Lost Their Charm--One Was Broiled There In Summer,  And

One Caught Cold There In Winter. And As For The Plateau,  The Vast

Stretch Of Land Planted With Apple Trees That Overlooked The Village,

It Became Like A Distant Country,  Something Too Far Off For One To Be

Silly Enough To Risk One's Legs There. Their House Also Annoyed Them

--That Barracks Where They Had To Take Their Meals Amid The Greasy

Refuse Of The Kitchen,  Where Their Room Seemed A Meeting-Place For The

Winds From Every Point Of The Compass. As A Finishing Stroke Of Bad

Luck,  The Apricots Had Failed That Year,  And The Finest Of The Giant

Rose-Bushes,  Which Were Very Old,  Had Been Smitten With Some Canker Or

Other And Died. How Sorely Time And Habit Wore Everything Away! How

Eternal Nature Herself Seemed To Age Amidst That Satiated Weariness.

But The Worst Was That The Painter Himself Was Getting Disgusted With

The Country,  No Longer Finding A Single Subject To Arouse His

Enthusiasm,  But Scouring The Fields With A Mournful Tramp,  As If The

Whole Place Were A Void,  Whose Life He Had Exhausted Without Leaving

As Much As An Overlooked Tree,  An Unforeseen Effect Of Light To

Interest Him. No,  It Was Over,  Frozen,  He Should Never Again Be Able

To Paint Anything Worth Looking At In That Confounded Country!

October Came With Its Rain-Laden Sky. On One Of The First Wet Evenings

Claude Flew Into A Passion Because Dinner Was Not Ready. He Turned

That Goose Of A Melie Out Of The House And Clouted Jacques,  Who Got

Between His Legs. Whereupon,  Christine,  Crying,  Kissed Him And Said:

'Let's Go,  Oh,  Let Us Go Back To Paris.'

He Disengaged Himself,  And Cried In An Angry Voice: 'What,  Again!

Never! Do You Hear Me?'

'Do It For My Sake,' She Said,  Warmly. 'It's I Who Ask It Of You,  It's

I That You'll Please.'

'Why,  Are You Tired Of Being Here,  Then?'

'Yes,  I Shall Die If We Stay Here Much Longer; And,  Besides I Want You

To Work. I Feel Quite Certain That Your Place Is There. It Would Be A

Crime For You To Bury Yourself Here Any Longer.'

'No,  Leave Me!'

He Was Quivering. On The Horizon Paris Was Calling Him,  The Paris Of

Winter-Tide Which Was Being Lighted Up Once More. He Thought He Could

Hear From Where He Stood The Great Efforts That His Comrades Were

Making,  And,  In Fancy,  He Returned Thither In Order That They Might

Not Triumph Without Him,  In Order That He Might Become Their Chief

Again,  Since Not One Of Them Had Strength Or Pride Enough To Be Such.

And Amid This Hallucination,  Amid The Desire He Felt To Hasten To

Paris,  He Yet Persisted In Refusing To Do So,  From A Spirit Of

Involuntary Contradiction,  Which Arose,  Though He Could Not Account

For It,  From His Very Entrails. Was It The Fear With Which The Bravest

Quivers,  The Mute Struggle Of Happiness Seeking To Resist The Fatality

Of Destiny?

'Listen,' Said Christine,  Excitedly. 'I Shall Get Our Boxes Ready,  And

Take You Away.'

Five Days Later,  After Packing And Sending Their Chattels To The

Railway,  They Started For Paris.

Claude Was Already On The Road With Little Jacques,  When Christine

Fancied That She Had Forgotten Something. She Returned Alone To The

House; And Finding It Quite Bare And Empty,  She Burst Out Crying. It

Seemed As If Something Were Being Torn From Her,  As If She Were

Leaving Something Of Herself Behind--What,  She Could Not Say. How

Willingly Would She Have Remained! How Ardent Was Her Wish To Live

There Always--She Who Had Just Insisted On That Departure,  That Return

To The City Of Passion Where She Scented The Presence Of A Rival.

However,  She Continued Searching For What She Lacked,