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

Twitching Mouth,  Eager To Indulge In Vituperation?

'But Remember,  My Dear,  This Sort Of Thing Cracks Your Titianesque

"Make-Up,"' He Added.

She Began To Laugh,  Mollified At Once.

Claude,  Basking In Physical Comfort,  Kept On Sipping Small Glasses Of

Cognac One After Another,  Without Noticing It. During The Two Hours

They Had Been There A Kind Of Intoxication Had Stolen Over Them,  The

Hallucinatory Intoxication Produced By Liqueurs And Tobacco Smoke.

They Changed The Conversation; The High Prices That Pictures Were

Fetching Came Into Question. Irma,  Who No Longer Spoke,  Kept A Bit Of

Extinguished Cigarette Between Her Lips,  And Fixed Her Eyes On The

Painter. At Last She Abruptly Began To Question Him About His Wife.

Her Questions Did Not Appear To Surprise Him; His Ideas Were Going

Astray: 'She Had Just Come From The Provinces,' He Said. 'She Was In A

Situation With A Lady,  And Was A Very Good And Honest Girl.'

'Pretty?'

'Why,  Yes,  Pretty.'

For A Moment Irma Relapsed Into Her Reverie,  Then She Said,  Smiling:

'Dash It All! How Lucky You Are!'

Then She Shook Herself,  And Exclaimed,  Rising From The Table: 'Nearly

Three O'clock! Ah! My Children,  I Must Turn You Out Of The House. Yes,

I Have An Appointment With An Architect; I Am Going To See Some Ground

Near The Parc Monceau,  You Know,  In The New Quarter Which Is Being

Built. I Have Scented A Stroke Of Business In That Direction.'

They Had Returned To The Drawing-Room. She Stopped Before A

Looking-Glass,  Annoyed At Seeing Herself So Flushed.

'It's About That House,  Isn't It?' Asked Jory. 'You Have Found The

Money,  Then?'

She Brought Her Hair Down Over Her Brow Again,  Then With Her Hands

Seemed To Efface The Flush On Her Cheeks; Elongated The Oval Of Her

Face,  And Rearranged Her Tawny Head,  Which Had All The Charm Of A Work

Of Art; And Finally,  Turning Round,  She Merely Threw Jory These Words

By Way Of Reply: Look! There's My Titianesque Effect Back Again.'

She Was Already,  Amidst Their Laughter,  Edging Them Towards The Hall,

Where Once More,  Without Speaking,  She Took Claude's Hands In Her Own,

Her Glance Yet Again Diving Into The Depths Of His Eyes. When He

Reached The Street He Felt Uncomfortable. The Cold Air Dissipated His

Intoxication; He Remorsefully Reproached Himself For Having Spoken Of

Christine In That House,  And Swore To Himself That He Would Never Set

Foot There Again.

Indeed,  A Kind Of Shame Deterred Claude From Going Home,  And When His

Companion,  Excited By The Luncheon And Feeling Inclined To Loaf About,

Spoke Of Going To Shake Hands With Bongrand,  He Was Delighted With The

Idea,  And Both Made Their Way To The Boulevard De Clichy.

For The Last Twenty Years Bongrand Had There Occupied A Very Large

Studio,  In Which He Had In No Wise Sacrificed To The Tastes Of The

Day,  To That Magnificence Of Hangings And Nick-Nacks With Which Young

Painters Were Then Beginning To Surround Themselves. It Was The Bare,

Greyish Studio Of The Old Style,  Exclusively Ornamented With Sketches

By The Master,  Which Hung There Unframed,  And In Close Array Like The

Votive Offerings In A Chapel. The Only Tokens Of Elegance Consisted Of

A Cheval Glass,  Of The First Empire Style,  A Large Norman Wardrobe,

And Two Arm-Chairs Upholstered In Utrecht Velvet,  And Threadbare With

Usage. In One Corner,  Too,  A Bearskin Which Had Lost Nearly All Its

Hair Covered A Large Couch. However,  The Artist Had Retained Since His

Youthful Days,  Which Had Been Spent In The Camp Of The Romanticists,

The Habit Of Wearing A Special Costume,  And It Was In Flowing

Trousers,  In A Dressing-Gown Secured At The Waist By A Silken Cord,

And With His Head Covered With A Priest's Skull-Cap,  That He Received

His Visitors.

He Came To Open The Door Himself,  Holding His Palette And Brushes.

'So Here You Are! It Was A Good Idea Of Yours To Come! I Was Thinking

About You,  My Dear Fellow. Yes,  I Don't Know Who It Was That Told Me

Of Your Return,  But I Said To Myself That It Wouldn't Be Long Before I

Saw You.'

The Hand That He Had Free Grasped Claude's In A Burst Of Sincere

Affection. He Then Shook Jory's,  Adding:

'And You,  Young Pontiff; I Read Your Last Article,  And Thank You For

Your Kind Mention Of Myself. Come In,  Come In,  Both Of You! You Don't

Disturb Me; I'm Taking Advantage Of The Daylight To The Very Last

Minute,  For There's Hardly Time To Do Anything In This Confounded

Month Of November.'

He Had Resumed His Work,  Standing Before His Easel,  On Which There Was

A Small Canvas,  Which Showed Two Women,  Mother And Daughter,  Sitting

Sewing In The Embrasure Of A Sunlit Window. The Young Fellows Stood

Looking Behind Him.

'Exquisite,' Murmured Claude,  At Last.

Bongrand Shrugged His Shoulders Without Turning Round.

'Pooh! A Mere Nothing At All. A Fellow Must Occupy His Time,  Eh? I Did

This From Life At A Friend's House,  And I Am Cleaning It A Bit.'

'But It's Perfect--It Is A Little Gem Of Truth And Light,' Replied

Claude,  Warming Up. 'And Do You Know,  What Overcomes Me Is Its

Simplicity,  Its Very Simplicity.'

On Hearing This The Painter Stepped Back And Blinked His Eyes,  Looking

Very Much Surprised.

'You Think So? It Really Pleases You? Well,  When You Came In I Was

Just Thinking It Was A Foul Bit Of Work. I Give You My Word,  I Was In

The Dumps,  And Felt Convinced That I Hadn't A Scrap Of Talent Left.'

His Hands Shook,  His Stalwart Frame Trembled As With The Agony Of

Travail. He Rid Himself Of His Palette,  And Came Back Towards Them,

His Arms Sawing The Air,  As It Were; And This Artist,  Who Had Grown

Old Amidst Success,  Who Was Assured Of Ranking In The French School,

Cried To Them:

'It Surprises You,  Eh? But There Are Days When I Ask Myself Whether I

Shall Be Able To Draw A Nose Correctly. Yes,  With Every One Of My

Pictures I Still Feel The Emotion Of A Beginner; My Heart Beats,

Anguish Parches My Mouth--In Fact,  I Funk Abominably. Ah! You

Youngsters,  You Think You Know What Funk Means; But You Haven't As

Much As A Notion Of It,  For If You Fail With One Work,  You Get Quits

By Trying To Do Something Better. Nobody Is Down Upon You; Whereas We,

The Veterans,  Who Have Given Our Measure,  Who Are Obliged To Keep Up

To The Level Previously Attained,  If Not To Surpass It,  We Mustn't

Weaken Under Penalty Of Rolling Down Into The Common Grave. And So,

Mr. Celebrity,  Mr. Great Artist,  Wear Out Your Brains,  Consume

Yourself In Striving To Climb Higher,  Still Higher,  Ever Higher,  And

If You Happen To Kick Your Heels On The Summit,  Think Yourself Lucky!

Wear Your Heels Out In Kicking Them Up As Long As Possible,  And If You

Feel That You Are Declining,  Why,  Make An End Of Yourself By Rolling

Down Amid The Death Rattle Of Your Talent,  Which Is No Longer Suited

To The Period; Roll Down Forgetful Of Such Of Your Works As Are

Destined To Immortality,  And In Despair At Your Powerless Efforts To

Create Still Further!'

His Full Voice Had Risen To A Final Outburst Like Thunder,  And His

Broad Flushed Face Wore An Expression Of Anguish. He Strode About,  And

Continued,  As If Carried Away,  In Spite Of Himself,  By A Violent

Whirlwind:

'I Have Told You A Score Of Times That One Was For Ever Beginning

One's Career Afresh,  That Joy Did Not Consist In Having Reached The

Summit,  But In The Climbing,  In The Gaiety Of Scaling The Heights.

Only,  You Don't Understand,  You Cannot Understand; A Man Must Have

Passed Through It. Just Remember! You Hope For Everything,  You Dream

Of Everything; It Is The Hour Of Boundless Illusions,  And Your Legs

Are So Strong That The Most Fatiguing Roads Seem Short; You Are

Consumed With Such An Appetite For Glory,  That The First Petty

Successes Fill Your Mouth With A Delicious Taste. What A Feast It Will

Be When You Are Able To Gratify Ambition To Satiety! You Have Nearly

Reached That Point,  And You Look Right Cheerfully On Your Scratches!

Well,  The Thing Is Accomplished; The Summit Has Been Gained; It Is Now

A Question Of Remaining There. Then A Life Of Abomination Begins; You

Have Exhausted Intoxication,  And You Have Discovered That It Does Not

Last Long Enough,  That It Is Not Worth The Struggle It Has Cost,  And

That The Dregs Of The Cup Taste Bitter. There Is Nothing Left To Be

Learnt,  No New Sensation To Be Felt; Pride Has Had Its Allowance Of

Fame; You Know That You Have Produced Your Greatest Works; And You Are

Surprised That They Did Not Bring Keener Enjoyment With Them. From

That Moment The Horizon Becomes Void; No Fresh Hope Inflames You;

There Is Nothing Left But To Die. And Yet You Still Cling On,  You

Won't Admit That It's All Up With You,  You Obstinately Persist In

Trying To Produce--Just As Old Men Cling To Love With Painful,  Ignoble

Efforts. Ah! A Man Ought To Have The Courage And The Pride To Strangle

Himself Before His Last Masterpiece!'

While He Spoke He Seemed To Have Increased In Stature,  Reaching To The

Elevated Ceiling Of The Studio,  And Shaken By Such Keen Emotion That

The Tears Started To His Eyes. And He Dropped Into A Chair Before His

Picture,  Asking With The Anxious Look Of A Beginner Who Has Need Of

Encouragement:

'Then This Really Seems To You All Right? I Myself No Longer Dare To

Believe Anything. My Unhappiness Springs From The Possession Of Both

Too Much And Not Enough Critical Acumen. The Moment I Begin A Sketch I

Exalt It,  Then,  If It's Not Successful,  I Torture Myself. It Would Be

Better Not To Know Anything At All About It,  Like That Brute

Chambouvard,  Or Else To See Very Clearly Into The Business And Then

Give Up Painting. . . . Really Now,  You Like This Little Canvas?'

Claude And Jory Remained Motionless,  Astonished And Embarrassed By

Those Tokens Of The Intense Anguish Of Art In Its Travail. Had They

Come At A Moment Of Crisis,  That This Master Thus Groaned With Pain,

And