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

Split With Hatred Of Literature!'

Then He Became Silent,  Having Grown Sad.

'Never Mind,' Said Claude,  After An Interval,  'You Are Happy,  You At

Least Work,  You Produce--'

Sandoz Had Risen From His Seat With A Gesture Of Sudden Pain.

'True,  I Work. I Work Out My Books To Their Last Pages--But If You

Only Knew,  If I Told You Amidst What Discouragement,  Amidst What

Torture! Won't Those Idiots Take It Into Their Heads To Accuse Me Of

Pride! I,  Whom The Imperfection Of My Work Pursues Even In My Sleep

--I,  Who Never Look Over The Pages Of The Day Before,  Lest I Should

Find Them So Execrable That I Might Afterwards Lack The Courage To

Continue. Oh,  I Work,  No Doubt,  I Work! I Go On Working,  As I Go On

Living,  Because I Am Born To It,  But I Am None The Gayer On Account Of

It. I Am Never Satisfied; There Is Always A Great Collapse At The

End.'

He Was Interrupted By A Loud Exclamation Outside,  And Jory Appeared,

Delighted With Life,  And Relating That He Had Just Touched Up An Old

Article In Order To Have The Evening To Himself. Almost Immediately

Afterwards Gagniere And Mahoudeau,  Who Had Met At The Door,  Came In

Conversing Together. The Former,  Who Had Been Absorbed For Some Months

In A Theory Of Colours,  Was Explaining His System To The Other.

'I Paint My Shade In,' He Continued,  As If In A Dream. 'The Red Of The

Flag Loses Its Brightness And Becomes Yellowish Because It Stands Out

Against The Blue Of The Sky,  The Complementary Shade Of Which--Orange

--Blends With Red--'

Claude,  Interested At Once,  Was Already Questioning Him When The

Servant Brought In A Telegram.

'All Right,' Said Sandoz,  'It's From Dubuche,  Who Apologises; He

Promises To Come And Surprise Us At About Eleven O'clock.'

At This Moment Henriette Threw The Door Wide Open,  And Personally

Announced That Dinner Was Ready. She Had Doffed Her White Apron,  And

Cordially Shook Hands,  As Hostess,  With All Of Them. 'Take Your Seats!

Take Your Seats!' Was Her Cry. It Was Half-Past Seven Already,  The

_Bouillabaisse_ Could Not Wait. Jory,  Having Observed That Fagerolles

Had Sworn To Him That He Would Come,  They Would Not Believe It.

Fagerolles Was Getting Ridiculous With His Habit Of Aping The Great

Artist Overwhelmed With Work!

The Dining-Room Into Which They Passed Was So Small That,  In Order To

Make Room For A Piano,  A Kind Of Alcove Had Been Made Out Of A Dark

Closet Which Had Formerly Served For The Accommodation Of Crockery.

However,  On Grand Occasions Half A Score Of People Still Gathered

Round The Table,  Under The White Porcelain Hanging Lamp,  But This Was

Only Accomplished By Blocking Up The Sideboard,  So That The Servant

Could Not Even Pass To Take A Plate From It. However,  It Was The

Mistress Of The House Who Carved,  While The Master Took His Place

Facing Her,  Against The Blockaded Sideboard,  In Order To Hand Round

Whatever Things Might Be Required.

Henriette Had Placed Claude On Her Right Hand,  Mahoudeau On Her Left,

While Gagniere And Jory Were Seated Next To Sandoz.

'Francoise,' She Called,  'Give Me The Slices Of Toast. They Are On The

Range.'

And The Girl Having Brought The Toast,  She Distributed Two Slices To

Each Of Them,  And Was Beginning To Ladle The _Bouillabaisse_ Into The

Plates,  When The Door Opened Once More.

'Fagerolles At Last!' She Said. 'I Have Given Your Seat To Mahoudeau.

Sit Down There,  Next To Claude.'

He Apologised With An Air Of Courtly Politeness,  By Alleging A

Business Appointment. Very Elegantly Dressed,  Tightly Buttoned Up In

Clothes Of An English Cut,  He Had The Carriage Of A Man About Town,

Relieved By The Retention Of A Touch Of Artistic Free-And-Easiness.

Immediately On Sitting Down He Grasped His Neighbour's Hand,  Affecting

Great Delight.

'Ah,  My Old Claude! I Have For Such A Long Time Wanted To See You. A

Score Of Times I Intended Going After You Into The Country; But Then,

You Know,  Circumstances--'

Claude,  Feeling Uncomfortable At These Protestations,  Endeavoured To

Meet Them With A Like Cordiality. But Henriette,  Who Was Still

Serving,  Saved The Situation By Growing Impatient.

'Come,  Fagerolles,  Just Answer Me. Do You Wish Two Slices Of Toast?'

'Certainly,  Madame,  Two,  If You Please. I Am Very Fond Of

_Bouillabaisse_. Besides,  Yours Is Delicious,  A Marvel!'

In Fact,  They All Went Into Raptures Over It,  Especially Jory And

Mahoudeau,  Who Declared They Had Never Tasted Anything Better At

Marseilles; So Much So,  That The Young Wife,  Delighted And Still

Flushed With The Heat Of The Kitchen,  Her Ladle In Her Hand,  Had All

She Could Do To Refill The Plates Held Out To Her; And,  Indeed,  She

Rose Up And Ran In Person To The Kitchen To Fetch The Remains Of The

Soup,  For The Servant-Girl Was Losing Her Wits.

'Come,  Eat Something,' Said Sandoz To Her. 'We'll Wait Well Enough

Till You Have Done.'

But She Was Obstinate And Remained Standing.

'Never Mind Me. You Had Better Pass The Bread--Yes,  There,  Behind You

On The Sideboard. Jory Prefers Crumb,  Which He Can Soak In The Soup.'

Sandoz Rose In His Turn And Assisted His Wife,  While The Others

Chaffed Jory On His Love For Sops. And Claude,  Moved By The Pleasant

Cordiality Of His Hosts,  And Awaking,  As It Were,  From A Long Sleep,

Looked At Them All,  Asking Himself Whether He Had Only Left Them On

The Previous Night,  Or Whether Four Years Had Really Elapsed Since He

Had Dined With Them One Thursday. They Were Different,  However; He

Felt Them To Be Changed: Mahoudeau Soured By Misery,  Jory Wrapt Up In

His Own Pleasures,  Gagniere More Distant,  With His Thoughts Elsewhere.

And It Especially Seemed To Him That Fagerolles Was Chilly,  In Spite

Of His Exaggerated Cordiality Of Manner. No Doubt Their Features Had

Aged Somewhat Amid The Wear And Tear Of Life; But It Was Not Only That

Which He Noticed,  It Seemed To Him Also As If There Was A Void Between

Them; He Beheld Them Isolated And Estranged From Each Other,  Although

They Were Seated Elbow To Elbow In Close Array Round The Table. Then

The Surroundings Were Different; Nowadays,  A Woman Brought Her Charm

To Bear On Them,  And Calmed Them By Her Presence. Then Why Did He,

Face To Face With The Irrevocable Current Of Things,  Which Die And Are

Renewed,  Experience That Sensation Of Beginning Something Over Again

--Why Was It That He Could Have Sworn That He Had Been Seated At That

Same Place Only Last Thursday? At Last He Thought He Understood. It

Was Sandoz Who Had Not Changed,  Who Remained As Obstinate As Regards

His Habits Of Friendship,  As Regards His Habits Of Work,  As Radiant At

Being Able To Receive His Friends At The Board Of His New Home As He

Had Formerly Been,  When Sharing His Frugal Bachelor Fare With Them. A

Dream Of Eternal Friendship Made Him Changeless. Thursdays Similar One

To Another Followed And Followed On Until The Furthest Stages Of Their

Lives. All Of Them Were Eternally Together,  All Started At The

Self-Same Hour,  And Participated In The Same Triumph!

Sandoz Must Have Guessed The Thought That Kept Claude Mute,  For He

Said To Him Across The Table,  With His Frank,  Youthful Smile:

'Well,  Old Man,  Here You Are Again! Ah,  Confound It! We Missed You

Sorely. But,  You See,  Nothing Is Changed; We Are All The Same--Aren't

We,  All Of You?'

They Answered By Nodding Their Heads--No Doubt,  No Doubt!

'With This Difference,' He Went On,  Beaming--'With This Difference,

That The Cookery Is Somewhat Better Than In The Rue D'enfer! What A

Lot Of Messes I Did Make You Swallow!'

After The _Bouillabaisse_ There Came A _Civet_ Of Hare; And A Roast

Fowl And Salad Terminated The Dinner. But They Sat For A Long Time At

Table,  And The Dessert Proved A Protracted Affair,  Although The

Conversation Lacked The Fever And Violence Of Yore. Every One Spoke Of

Himself And Ended By Relapsing Into Silence On Perceiving That The

Others Did Not Listen To Him. With The Cheese,  However,  When They Had

Tasted Some Burgundy,  A Sharp Little Growth,  Of Which The Young Couple

Had Ordered A Cask Out Of The Profits Of Sandoz's First Novel,  Their

Voices Rose To A Higher Key,  And They All Grew Animated.

'So You Have Made An Arrangement With Naudet,  Eh?' Asked Mahoudeau,

Whose Bony Cheeks Seemed To Have Grown Yet More Hollow. 'Is It True

That He Guarantees You Fifty Thousand Francs For The First Year?'

Fagerolles Replied,  With Affected Carelessness,  'Yes,  Fifty Thousand

Francs. But Nothing Is Settled; I'm Thinking It Over. It Is Hard To

Engage Oneself Like That. I Am Not Going To Do Anything

Precipitately.'

'The Deuce!' Muttered The Sculptor; 'You Are Hard To Please. For

Twenty Francs A Day I'd Sign Whatever You Like.'

They All Now Listened To Fagerolles,  Who Posed As Being Wearied By His

Budding Success. He Still Had The Same Good-Looking,  Disturbing

Hussy-Like Face,  But The Fashion In Which He Wore His Hair And The Cut

Of His Beard Lent Him An Appearance Of Gravity. Although He Still Came

At Long Intervals To Sandoz's,  He Was Separating From The Band; He

Showed Himself On The Boulevards,  Frequented The Cafes And Newspaper

Offices--All The Places Where A Man Can Advertise Himself And Make

Useful Acquaintances. These Were Tactics Of His Own,  A Determination

To Carve His Own Victory Apart From The Others; The Smart Idea That If

He Wished To Triumph He Ought To Have Nothing More In Common With

Those Revolutionists,  Neither Dealer,  Nor Connections,  Nor Habits. It

Was Even Said That He Had Interested The Female Element Of Two Or

Three Drawing-Rooms In His Success,  Not In Jory's Style,  But Like A

Vicious Fellow Who Rises Superior To His Passions,  And Is Content To

Adulate Superannuated Baronesses.

Just Then Jory,  In View Of Lending Importance To Himself,  Called

Fagerolles' Attention To A Recently Published Article; He Pretended

That He Had Made Fagerolles Just As He Pretended That He Had Made

Claude. 'I Say,  Have You Read That Article Of Vernier's About

Yourself? There's Another Fellow Who Repeats My Ideas!'

'Ah,  He Does Get Articles,  And No Mistake!' Sighed Mahoudeau.

Fagerolles Made A Careless Gesture,  But He Smiled With Secret Contempt

For All Those Poor Beggars Who Were So Utterly Deficient In Shrewdness

That They Clung,  Like Simpletons,  To Their Crude Style,  When It Was So

Easy To Conquer The Crowd. Had It Not Sufficed For Him To Break With

Them,  After