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

The Kitchen She Ended By Plucking A Rose,  A Last Rose,  Which The Cold

Was Turning Brown. And Then She Slowly Closed The Gate Upon The

Deserted Garden.

When Claude Found Himself Once More On The Pavement Of Paris He Was

Seized With A Feverish Longing For Hubbub And Motion,  A Desire To Gad

About,  Scour The Whole City,  And See His Chums. He Was Off The Moment

He Awoke,  Leaving Christine To Get Things Shipshape By Herself In The

Studio Which They Had Taken In The Rue De Douai,  Near The Boulevard De

Clichy. In This Way,  On The Second Day Of His Arrival,  He Dropped In

At Mahoudeau's At Eight O'clock In The Morning,  In The Chill,  Grey

November Dawn Which Had Barely Risen.

However,  The Shop In The Rue Du Cherche-Midi,  Which The Sculptor Still

Occupied,  Was Open,  And Mahoudeau Himself,  Half Asleep,  With A White

Face,  Was Shivering As He Took Down The Shutters.

Ah! It's You. The Devil! You've Got Into Early Habits In The Country.

So It's Settled--You Are Back For Good?'

'Yes; Since The Day Before Yesterday.'

'That's All Right. Then We Shall See Something Of Each Other. Come In;

It's Sharp This Morning.'

But Claude Felt Colder In The Shop Than Outside. He Kept The Collar Of

His Coat Turned Up,  And Plunged His Hands Deep Into His Pockets;

Shivering Before The Dripping Moisture Of The Bare Walls,  The Muddy

Heaps Of Clay,  And The Pools Of Water Soddening The Floor. A Blast Of

Poverty Had Swept Into The Place,  Emptying The Shelves Of The Casts

From The Antique,  And Smashing Stands And Buckets,  Which Were Now Held

Together With Bits Of Rope. It Was An Abode Of Dirt And Disorder,  A

Mason's Cellar Going To Rack And Ruin. On The Window Of The Door,

Besmeared With Whitewash,  There Appeared In Mockery,  As It Were,  A

Large Beaming Sun,  Roughly Drawn With Thumb-Strokes,  And Ornamented In

The Centre With A Face,  The Mouth Of Which,  Describing A Semicircle,

Seemed Likely To Burst With Laughter.

'Just Wait,' Said Mahoudeau,  'A Fire's Being Lighted. These Confounded

Workshops Get Chilly Directly,  With The Water From The Covering

Cloths.'

At That Moment,  Claude,  On Turning Round,  Noticed Chaine On His Knees

Near The Stove,  Pulling The Straw From The Seat Of An Old Stool To

Light The Coals With. He Bade Him Good-Morning,  But Only Elicited A

Muttered Growl,  Without Succeeding In Making Him Look Up.

'And What Are You Doing Just Now,  Old Man?' He Asked The Sculptor.

'Oh! Nothing Of Much Account. It's Been A Bad Year--Worse Than The

Last One,  Which Wasn't Worth A Rap. There's A Crisis In The

Church-Statue Business. Yes,  The Market For Holy Wares Is Bad,  And,

Dash It,  I've Had To Tighten My Belt! Look,  In The Meanwhile,  I'm

Reduced To This.'

He Thereupon Took The Linen Wraps Off A Bust,  Showing A Long Face

Still Further Elongated By Whiskers,  A Face Full Of Conceit And

Infinite Imbecility.

'It's An Advocate Who Lives Near By. Doesn't He Look Repugnant,  Eh?

And The Way He Worries Me About Being Very Careful With His Mouth.

However,  A Fellow Must Eat,  Mustn't He?'

He Certainly Had An Idea For The Salon; An Upright Figure,  A Girl

About To Bathe,  Dipping Her Foot In The Water,  And Shivering At Its

Freshness With That Slight Shiver That Renders A Woman So Adorable. He

Showed Claude A Little Model Of It,  Which Was Already Cracking,  And

The Painter Looked At It In Silence,  Surprised And Displeased At

Certain Concessions He Noticed In It: A Sprouting Of Prettiness From

Beneath A Persistent Exaggeration Of Form,  A Natural Desire To Please,

Blended With A Lingering Tendency To The Colossal. However,  Mahoudeau

Began Lamenting; An Upright Figure Was No End Of A Job. He Would Want

Iron Braces That Cost Money,  And A Modelling Frame,  Which He Had Not

Got; In Fact,  A Lot Of Appliances. So He Would,  No Doubt,  Decide To

Model The Figure In A Recumbent Attitude Beside The Water.

'Well,  What Do You Say--What Do You Think Of It?' He Asked.

'Not Bad,' Answered The Painter At Last. 'A Little Bit Sentimental,  In

Spite Of The Strapping Limbs; But It'll All Depend Upon The Execution.

And Put Her Upright,  Old Man; Upright,  For There Would Be Nothing In

It Otherwise.'

The Stove Was Roaring,  And Chaine,  Still Mute,  Rose Up. He Prowled

About For A Minute,  Entered The Dark Back Shop,  Where Stood The Bed

That He Shared With Mahoudeau,  And Then Reappeared,  His Hat On His

Head,  But More Silent,  It Seemed,  Than Ever. With His Awkward Peasant

Fingers He Leisurely Took Up A Stick Of Charcoal And Then Wrote On The

Wall: 'I Am Going To Buy Some Tobacco; Put Some More Coals In The

Stove.' And Forthwith He Went Out.

Claude,  Who Had Watched Him Writing,  Turned To The Other In Amazement.

'What's Up?'

'We No Longer Speak To One Another; We Write,' Said The Sculptor,

Quietly.

'Since When?'

'Since Three Months Ago.'

'And You Sleep Together?'

'Yes.'

Claude Burst Out Laughing. Ah! Dash It All! They Must Have Hard Nuts.

But What Was The Reason Of This Falling-Out? Then Mahoudeau Vented His

Rage Against That Brute Of A Chaine! Hadn't He,  One Night On Coming

Home Unexpectedly,  Found Him Treating Mathilde,  The Herbalist Woman,

To A Pot Of Jam? No,  He Would Never Forgive Him For Treating Himself

In That Dirty Fashion To Delicacies On The Sly,  While He,  Mahoudeau,

Was Half Starving,  And Eating Dry Bread. The Deuce! One Ought To Share

And Share Alike.

And The Grudge Had Now Lasted For Nearly Three Months Without A Break,

Without An Explanation. They Had Arranged Their Lives Accordingly;

They Had Reduced Their Strictly Necessary Intercourse To A Series Of

Short Phrases Charcoaled On The Walls. As For The Rest,  They Lived As

Before,  Sharing The Same Bed In The Back Shop. After All,  There Was No

Need For So Much Talk In Life,  People Managed To Understand One

Another All The Same.

While Filling The Stove,  Mahoudeau Continued To Relieve His Mind.

'Well,  You May Believe Me If You Like,  But When A Fellow's Almost

Starving It Isn't Disagreeable To Keep Quiet. Yes,  One Gets Numb

Amidst Silence; It's Like An Inside Coating That Stills The Gnawing Of

The Stomach A Bit. Ah,  That Chaine! You Haven't A Notion Of His

Peasant Nature. When He Had Spent His Last Copper Without Earning The

Fortune He Expected By Painting,  He Went Into Trade,  A Petty Trade,

Which Was To Enable Him To Finish His Studies. Isn't The Fellow A

Sharp 'Un,  Eh? And Just Listen To His Plan. He Had Some Olive Oil Sent

To Him From Saint-Firmin,  His Village,  And Then He Tramped The Streets

And Found A Market For The Oil Among Well-To-Do Families From Provence

Living In Paris. Unfortunately,  It Did Not Last. He Is Such A

Clod-Hopper That They Showed Him The Door On All Sides. And As There

Was A Jar Of Oil Left Which Nobody Would Buy,  Well,  Old Man,  We Live

Upon It. Yes,  On The Days When We Happen To Have Some Bread We Dip Our

Bread Into It.'

Thereupon He Pointed To The Jar Standing In A Corner Of The Shop. Some

Of The Oil Having Been Spilt,  The Wall And The Floor Were Darkened By

Large Greasy Stains.

Claude Left Off Laughing. Ah! Misery,  How Discouraging It Was! How

Could He Show Himself Hard On Those Whom It Crushed? He Walked About

The Studio,  No Longer Vexed At Finding Models Weakened By Concessions

To Middle-Class Taste; He Even Felt Tolerant With Regard To That

Hideous Bust. But,  All At Once,  He Came Across A Copy That Chaine Had

Made At The Louvre,  A Mantegna,  Which Was Marvellously Exact In Its

Dryness.

'Oh,  The Brute,' He Muttered,  'It's Almost The Original; He's Never

Done Anything Better Than That. Perhaps His Only Fault Is That He Was

Born Four Centuries Too Late.'

Then,  As The Heat Became Too Great,  He Took Off His Over-Coat,  Adding:

'He's A Long While Fetching His Tobacco.'

'Oh! His Tobacco! I Know What That Means,' Said Mahoudeau,  Who Had Set

To Work At His Bust,  Finishing The Whiskers; 'He Has Simply Gone Next

Door.'

'Oh! So You Still See The Herbalist?'

'Yes,  She Comes In And Out.'

He Spoke Of Mathilde And Chaine Without The Least Show Of Anger,

Simply Saying That He Thought The Woman Crazy. Since Little

Jabouille's Death She Had Become Devout Again,  Though This Did Not

Prevent Her From Scandalising The Neighbourhood. Her Business Was

Going To Wreck,  And Bankruptcy Seemed Impending. One Night,  The Gas

Company Having Cut Off The Gas In Default Of Payment,  She Had Come To

Borrow Some Of Their Olive Oil,  Which,  After All,  Would Not Burn In

The Lamps. In Short,  It Was Quite A Disaster; That Mysterious Shop,

With Its Fleeting Shadows Of Priests' Gowns,  Its Discreet

Confessional-Like Whispers,  And Its Odour Of Sacristy Incense,  Was

Gliding To The Abandonment Of Ruin. And The Wretchedness Had Reached

Such A Point That The Dried Herbs Suspended From The Ceiling Swarmed

With Spiders,  While Defunct Leeches,  Which Had Already Turned Green,

Floated On The Tops Of The Glass Jars.

'Hallo,  Here He Comes!' Resumed The Sculptor. 'You'll See Her Arrive

At His Heels.'

In Fact,  Chaine Came In. He Made A Great Show Of Drawing A Screw Of

Tobacco From His Pocket,  Then Filled His Pipe,  And Began To Smoke In

Front Of The Stove,  Remaining Obstinately Silent,  As If There Were

Nobody Present. And Immediately Afterwards Mathilde Made Her

Appearance Like A Neighbour Who Comes In To Say 'Good Morning.' Claude

Thought That She Had Grown Still Thinner,  But Her Eyes Were All Afire,

And Her Mouth