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

'Very Pleased--Feel Flattered,  Indeed,  Dear Master. And You Only Spoke

Well Of Me,  I'm Sure Of It.'

'Not At All,  Naudet,  Not At All,' Said Bongrand,  In A Quiet Tone. 'We

Were Saying That Your Manner Of Trading Was Giving Us A Nice

Generation Of Artists--Tricksters Crossed With Dishonest Business

Men.'

Naudet Smiled,  Without Losing His Composure.

'The Remark Is Harsh,  But So Charming! Never Mind,  Never Mind,  Dear

Master,  Nothing That You Say Offends Me.'

And,  Dropping Into Ecstasy Before The Picture Of The Two Little Women

At Needlework:

'Ah! Good Heavens,  I Didn't Know This,  It's A Little Marvel! Ah! That

Light,  That Broad Substantial Treatment! One Has To Go Back To

Rembrandt For Anything Like It; Yes,  To Rembrandt! Look Here,  I Only

Came In To Pay My Respects,  But I Thank My Lucky Star For Having

Brought Me Here. Let Us Do A Little Bit Of Business. Let Me Have This

Gem. Anything You Like To Ask For It--I'll Cover It With Gold.'

One Could See Bongrand's Back Shake,  As If His Irritation Were

Increasing At Each Sentence. He Curtly Interrupted The Dealer.

'Too Late; It's Sold.'

'Sold,  You Say. And You Cannot Annul Your Bargain? Tell Me,  At Any

Rate,  To Whom It's Sold? I'll Do Everything,  I'll Give Anything. Ah!

What A Horrible Blow! Sold,  Are You Quite Sure Of It? Suppose You Were

Offered Double The Sum?'

'It's Sold,  Naudet. That's Enough,  Isn't It?'

However,  The Dealer Went On Lamenting. He Remained For A Few Minutes

Longer,  Going Into Raptures Before Other Sketches,  While Making The

Tour Of The Studio With The Keen Glances Of A Speculator In Search Of

Luck. When He Realised That His Time Was Badly Chosen,  And That He

Would Be Able To Take Nothing Away With Him,  He Went Off,  Bowing With

An Air Of Gratitude,  And Repeating Remarks Of Admiration As Far As The

Landing.

As Soon As He Had Gone,  Jory,  Who Had Listened To The Conversation

With Surprise,  Ventured To Ask A Question:

'But You Told Us,  I Thought--It Isn't Sold,  Is It?'

Without Immediately Answering,  Bongrand Went Back To His Picture.

Then,  In His Thundering Voice,  Resuming In One Cry All His Hidden

Suffering,  The Whole Of The Nascent Struggle Within Him Which He Dared

Not Avow,  He Said:

'He Plagues Me. He Shall Never Have Anything Of Mine! Let Him Go And

Buy Of Fagerolles!'

A Quarter Of An Hour Later,  Claude And Jory Also Said Good-Bye,

Leaving Bongrand Struggling With His Work In The Waning Daylight. Once

Outside,  When The Young Painter Had Left His Companion,  He Did Not At

Once Return Home To The Rue De Douai,  In Spite Of His Long Absence. He

Still Felt The Want Of Walking About,  Of Surrendering Himself Up To

That Great City Of Paris,  Where The Meetings Of One Single Day

Sufficed To Fill His Brain; And This Need Of Motion Made Him Wander

About Till The Black Night Had Fallen,  Through The Frozen Mud Of The

Streets,  Beneath The Gas-Lamps,  Which,  Lighted Up One By One,  Showed

Like Nebulous Stars Amidst The Fog.

Claude Impatiently Awaited The Thursday When He Was To Dine At

Sandoz's,  For The Latter,  Immutable In His Habits,  Still Invited His

Cronies To Dinner Once A Week. All Those Who Chose Could Come,  Their

Covers Were Laid. His Marriage,  His Change Of Life,  The Ardent

Literary Struggle Into Which He Had Thrown Himself,  Made No

Difference; He Kept To His Day 'At Home,' That Thursday Which Dated

From The Time He Had Left College,  From The Time They Had All Smoked

Their First Pipes. As He Himself Expressed It,  Alluding To His Wife,

There Was Only One Chum More.

'I Say,  Old Man,' He Had Frankly Said To Claude,  'I'm Greatly

Worried--'

'What About?'

'Why,  About Inviting Madame Christine. There Are A Lot Of Idiots,  A

Lot Of Philistines Watching Me,  Who Would Say All Manner Of Things--'

'You Are Quite Right,  Old Man. But Christine Herself Would Decline To

Come. Oh! We Understand The Position Very Well. I'll Come Alone,

Depend Upon It.'

At Six O'clock,  Claude Started For Sandoz's Place In The Rue Nollet,

In The Depths Of Batignolles,  And He Had No End Of Trouble In Finding

The Small Pavilion Which His Friend Had Rented. First Of All He

Entered A Large House Facing The Street,  And Applied To The

Doorkeeper,  Who Made Him Cross Three Successive Courtyards; Then He

Went Down A Passage,  Between Two Other Buildings,  Descended Some

Steps,  And Tumbled Upon The Iron Gate Of A Small Garden. That Was The

Spot,  The Pavilion Was There At The End Of A Path. But It Was So Dark,

And He Had Nearly Broken His Legs Coming Down The Steps,  That He Dared

Not Venture Any Further,  The More So As A Huge Dog Was Barking

Furiously. At Last He Heard The Voice Of Sandoz,  Who Was Coming

Forward And Trying To Quiet The Dog.

'Ah,  It's You! We Are Quite In The Country,  Aren't We? We Are Going To

Set Up A Lantern,  So That Our Company May Not Break Their Necks. Come

In,  Come In! Will You Hold Your Noise,  You Brute Of A Bertrand? Don't

You See That It's A Friend,  Fool?'

Thereupon The Dog Accompanied Them As Far As The Pavilion,  Wagging His

Tail And Barking Joyously. A Young Servant-Girl Had Come Out With A

Lantern,  Which She Fastened To The Gate,  In Order To Light Up The

Breakneck Steps. In The Garden There Was Simply A Small Central Lawn,

On Which There Stood A Large Plum Tree,  Diffusing A Shade Around That

Rotted The Grass; And Just In Front Of The Low House,  Which Showed

Only Three Windows,  There Stretched An Arbour Of Virginia Creeper,

With A Brand-New Seat Shining There As An Ornament Amid The Winter

Showers,  Pending The Advent Of The Summer Sun.

'Come In,' Repeated Sandoz.

On The Right-Hand Side Of The Hall He Ushered Claude Into The Parlour,

Which He Had Turned Into A Study. The Dining-Room And Kitchen Were On

The Left. Upstairs,  His Mother,  Who Was Now Altogether Bedridden,

Occupied The Larger Room,  While He And His Wife Contented Themselves

With The Other One,  And A Dressing-Room That Parted The Two. That Was

The Whole Place,  A Real Cardboard Box,  With Rooms Like Little Drawers

Separated By Partitions As Thin As Paper. Withal,  It Was The Abode Of

Work And Hope,  Vast In Comparison With The Ordinary Garrets Of Youth,

And Already Made Bright By A Beginning Of Comfort And Luxury.

'There's Room Here,  Eh?' He Exclaimed. 'Ah! It's A Jolly Sight More

Comfortable Than The Rue D'enfer. You See That I've A Room To Myself.

And I Have Bought Myself An Oaken Writing-Table,  And My Wife Made Me A

Present Of That Dwarf Palm In That Pot Of Old Rouen Ware. Isn't It

Swell,  Eh?'

His Wife Came In At That Very Moment. Tall,  With A Pleasant,  Tranquil

Face And Beautiful Brown Hair,  She Wore A Large White Apron Over Her

Plainly Made Dress Of Black Poplin; For Although They Had A Regular

Servant,  She Saw To The Cooking,  For She Was Proud Of Certain Of Her

Dishes,  And She Put The Household On A Footing Of Middle-Class

Cleanliness And Love Of Cheer.

She And Claude Became Old Chums At Once.

'Call Him Claude,  My Darling. And You,  Old Man,  Call Her Henriette. No

Madame Nor Monsieur,  Or I Shall Fine You Five Sous Each Time.'

They Laughed,  And She Scampered Away,  Being Wanted In The Kitchen To

Look After A Southern Dish,  A _Bouillabaisse_,  With Which She Wished

To Surprise The Plassans Friend. She Had Obtained The Recipe From Her

Husband Himself,  And Had Become Marvellously Deft At It,  So He Said.

'Your Wife Is Charming,' Said Claude,  'And I See She Spoils You.'

But Sandoz,  Seated At His Table,  With His Elbows Among Such Pages Of

The Book He Was Working At As He Had Written That Morning,  Began To

Talk Of The First Novel Of His Series,  Which He Had Published In

October. Ah! They Had Treated His Poor Book Nicely! It Had Been A

Throttling,  A Butchering,  All The Critics Yelling At His Heels,  A

Broadside Of Imprecations,  As If He Had Murdered People In A Wood. He

Himself Laughed At It,  Excited Rather Than Otherwise,  For He Had

Sturdy Shoulders And The Quiet Bearing Of A Toiler Who Knows What He's

After. Mere Surprise Remained To Him At The Profound Lack Of

Intelligence Shown By Those Fellows The Critics,  Whose Articles,

Knocked Off On The Corner Of Some Table,  Bespattered Him With Mud,

Without Appearing As Much As To Guess At The Least Of His Intentions.

Everything Was Flung Into The Same Slop-Pail Of Abuse: His Studies Of

Physiological Man; The Important Part He Assigned To Circumstances And

Surroundings; His Allusions To Nature,  Ever And Ever Creating; In

Short,  Life--Entire,  Universal Life--Existent Through All The Animal

World Without There Really Being Either High Or Low,  Beauty Or

Ugliness; He Was Insulted,  Too,  For His Boldness Of Language For The

Conviction He Expressed That All Things Ought To Be Said,  That There

Are Abominable Expressions Which Become Necessary,  Like Branding

Irons,  And That A Language Emerges Enriched From Such Strength-Giving

Baths. He Easily Granted Their Anger,  But He Would At Least Have Liked

Them To Do Him The Honour Of Understanding Him And Getting Angry At

His Audacity,  Not At The Idiotic,  Filthy Designs Of Which He Was

Accused.

'Really,' He Continued,  'I Believe That The World Still Contains More

Idiots Than Downright Spiteful People. They Are Enraged With Me On

Account Of The Form I Give To My Productions,  The Written Sentences,

The Similes,  The Very Life Of My Style.