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

Without Knowing How,  Claude Found Himself Seated At Their Old Table,

Opposite Gagniere,  Who Was Silent. The Cafe Had Not Changed. The

Friends Still Met There Of A Sunday,  Showing A Deal Of Fervour,  In

Fact,  Since Sandoz Had Lived In The Neighbourhood; But The Band Was

Now Lost Amid A Flood Of New-Comers; It Was Slowly Being Submerged By

The Increasing Triteness Of The Young Disciples Of The 'Open Air.' At

That Hour Of Night,  However,  The Establishment Was Getting Empty.

Three Young Painters,  Whom Claude Did Not Know,  Came To Shake Hands

With Him As They Went Off; And Then There Merely Remained A Petty

Retired Tradesman Of The Neighbourhood,  Asleep In Front Of A Saucer.

Gagniere,  Quite At His Ease,  As If He Had Been At Home,  Absolutely

Indifferent To The Yawns Of The Solitary Waiter,  Who Was Stretching

His Arms,  Glanced Towards Claude,  But Without Seeing Him,  For His Eyes

Were Dim.

'By The Way,' Said The Latter,  'What Were You Explaining To Mahoudeau

This Evening? Yes,  About The Red Of A Flag Turning Yellowish Amid The

Blue Of The Sky. That Was It,  Eh? You Are Studying The Theory Of

Complementary Colours.'

But The Other Did Not Answer. He Took Up His Glass Of Beer,  Set It

Down Again Without Tasting Its Contents,  And With An Ecstatic Smile

Ended By Muttering:

'Haydn Has All The Gracefulness Of A Rhetorician--His Is A Gentle

Music,  Quivering Like The Voice Of A Great-Grandmother In Powdered

Hair. Mozart,  He's The Precursory Genius--The First Who Endowed An

Orchestra With An Individual Voice; And Those Two Will Live Mostly

Because They Created Beethoven. Ah,  Beethoven! Power And Strength

Amidst Serene Suffering,  Michael Angelo At The Tomb Of The Medici! A

Heroic Logician,  A Kneader Of Human Brains; For The Symphony,  With

Choral Accompaniments,  Was The Starting-Point Of All The Great Ones Of

To-Day!'

The Waiter,  Tired Of Waiting,  Began To Turn Off The Gas,  Wearily

Dragging His Feet Along As He Did So. Mournfulness Pervaded The

Deserted Room,  Dirty With Saliva And Cigar Ends,  And Reeking Of Spilt

Drink; While From The Hushed Boulevard The Only Sound That Came Was

The Distant Blubbering Of Some Drunkard.

Gagniere,  Still In The Clouds,  However,  Continued To Ride His

Hobby-Horse.

'Weber Passes By Us Amid A Romantic Landscape,  Conducting The Ballads

Of The Dead Amidst Weeping Willows And Oaks With Twisted Branches.

Schumann Follows Him,  Beneath The Pale Moonlight,  Along The Shores Of

Silvery Lakes. And Behold,  Here Comes Rossini,  Incarnation Of The

Musical Gift,  So Gay,  So Natural,  Without The Least Concern For

Expression,  Caring Nothing For The Public,  And Who Isn't My Man By A

Long Way--Ah! Certainly Not--But Then,  All The Same,  He Astonishes One

By His Wealth Of Production,  And The Huge Effects He Derives From An

Accumulation Of Voices And An Ever-Swelling Repetition Of The Same

Strain. These Three Led To Meyerbeer,  A Cunning Fellow Who Profited By

Everything,  Introducing Symphony Into Opera After Weber,  And Giving

Dramatic Expression To The Unconscious Formulas Of Rossini. Oh! The

Superb Bursts Of Sound,  The Feudal Pomp,  The Martial Mysticism,  The

Quivering Of Fantastic Legends,  The Cry Of Passion Ringing Out Through

History! And Such Finds!--Each Instrument Endowed With A Personality,

The Dramatic _Recitatives_ Accompanied Symphoniously By The Orchestra

--The Typical Musical Phrase On Which An Entire Work Is Built! Ah! He

Was A Great Fellow--A Very Great Fellow Indeed!'

'I Am Going To Shut Up,  Sir,' Said The Waiter,  Drawing Near.

And,  Seeing That Gagniere Did Not As Much As Look Round,  He Went To

Awaken The Petty Retired Tradesman,  Who Was Still Dozing In Front Of

His Saucer.

'I Am Going To Shut Up,  Sir.'

The Belated Customer Rose Up,  Shivering,  Fumbled In The Dark Corner

Where He Was Seated For His Walking-Stick,  And When The Waiter Had

Picked It Up For Him From Under The Seats He Went Away.

And Gagniere Rambled On:

'Berlioz Has Mingled Literature With His Work. He Is The Musical

Illustrator Of Shakespeare,  Virgil,  And Goethe. But What A Painter!

--The Delacroix Of Music,  Who Makes Sound Blaze Forth Amidst Effulgent

Contrasts Of Colour. And Withal He Has Romanticism In His Brain,  A

Religious Mysticism That Carries Him Away,  An Ecstasy That Soars

Higher Than Mountain Summits. A Bad Builder Of Operas,  But Marvellous

In Detached Pieces,  Asking Too Much At Times Of The Orchestra Which He

Tortures,  Having Pushed The Personality Of Instruments To Its Furthest

Limits; For Each Instrument Represents A Character To Him. Ah! That

Remark Of His About Clarionets: "They Typify Beloved Women." Ah! It

Has Always Made A Shiver Run Down My Back. And Chopin,  So Dandified In

His Byronism; The Dreamy Poet Of Those Who Suffer From Neurosis! And

Mendelssohn,  That Faultless Chiseller! A Shakespeare In Dancing Pumps,

Whose "Songs Without Words" Are Gems For Women Of Intellect! And After

That--After That--A Man Should Go Down On His Knees.'

There Was Now Only One Gas-Lamp Alight Just Above His Head,  And The

Waiter Standing Behind Him Stood Waiting Amid The Gloomy,  Chilly Void

Of The Room. Gagniere's Voice Had Come To A Reverential _Tremolo_. He

Was Reaching Devotional Fervour As He Approached The Inner Tabernacle,

The Holy Of Holies.

'Oh! Schumann,  Typical Of Despair,  The Voluptuousness Of Despair! Yes,

The End Of Everything,  The Last Song Of Saddened Purity Hovering Above

The Ruins Of The World! Oh! Wagner,  The God In Whom Centuries Of Music

Are Incarnated! His Work Is The Immense Ark,  All The Arts Blended In

One; The Real Humanity Of The Personages At Last Expressed,  The

Orchestra Itself Living Apart The Life Of The Drama. And What A

Massacre Of Conventionality,  Of Inept Formulas! What A Revolutionary

Emancipation Amid The Infinite! The Overture Of "Tannhauser," Ah!

That's The Sublime Hallelujah Of The New Era. First Of All Comes The

Chant Of The Pilgrims,  The Religious Strain,  Calm,  Deep And Slowly

Throbbing; Then The Voices Of The Sirens Gradually Drown It; The

Voluptuous Pleasures Of Venus,  Full Of Enervating Delight And Languor,

Grow More And More Imperious And Disorderly; And Soon The Sacred Air

Gradually Returns,  Like The Aspiring Voice Of Space,  And Seizes Hold

Of All Other Strains And Blends Them In One Supreme Harmony,  To Waft

Them Away On The Wings Of A Triumphal Hymn!'

'I Am Going To Shut Up,  Sir,' Repeated The Waiter.

Claude,  Who No Longer Listened,  He Also Being Absorbed In His Own

Passion,  Emptied His Glass Of Beer And Cried: 'Eh,  Old Man,  They Are

Going To Shut Up.'

Then Gagniere Trembled. A Painful Twitch Came Over His Ecstatic Face,

And He Shivered As If He Had Dropped From The Stars. He Gulped Down

His Beer,  And Once On The Pavement Outside,  After Pressing His

Companion's Hand In Silence,  He Walked Off Into The Gloom.

It Was Nearly Two O'clock In The Morning When Claude Returned To The

Rue De Douai. During The Week That He Had Been Scouring Paris Anew,  He

Had Each Time Brought Back With Him The Feverish Excitement Of The

Day. But He Had Never Before Returned So Late,  With His Brain So Hot

And Smoky. Christine,  Overcome With Fatigue,  Was Asleep Under The

Lamp,  Which Had Gone Out,  Her Brow Resting On The Edge Of The Table.

At Last Christine Gave A Final Stroke With Her Feather-Broom,  And They

Were Settled. The Studio In The Rue De Douai,  Small And Inconvenient,

Had Only One Little Room,  And A Kitchen,  As Big As A Cupboard,

Attached To It. They Were Obliged To Take Their Meals In The Studio;

They Had To Live In It,  With The Child Always Tumbling About Their

Legs. And Christine Had A Deal Of Trouble In Making Their Few Sticks

Suffice,  As She Wished To Do,  In Order To Save Expense. After All,  She

Was Obliged To Buy A Second-Hand Bedstead; And Yielded To The

Temptation Of Having Some White Muslin Curtains,  Which Cost Her Seven

Sous The Metre. The Den Then Seemed Charming To Her,  And She Began To

Keep It Scrupulously Clean,  Resolving To Do Everything Herself,  And To

Dispense With A Servant,  As Living Would Be A Difficult Matter.

During The First Months Claude Lived In Ever-Increasing Excitement.

His Peregrinations Through The Noisy Streets; His Feverish Discussions

On The Occasion Of His Visits To Friends; All The Rage And All The

Burning Ideas He Thus Brought Home From Out Of Doors,  Made Him Hold

Forth Aloud Even In His Sleep. Paris Had Seized Hold Of Him Again; And

In The Full Blaze Of That Furnace,  A Second Youth,  Enthusiastic

Ambition To See,  Do,  And Conquer,  Had Come Upon Him. Never Had He Felt

Such A Passion For Work,  Such Hope,  As If It Sufficed For Him To

Stretch Out His Hand In Order To Create Masterpieces That Should Set

Him In The Right Rank,  Which Was The First. While Crossing Paris He

Discovered Subjects For Pictures Everywhere; The Whole City,  With Its

Streets,  Squares,  Bridges,  And Panoramas Of Life,  Suggested Immense

Frescoes,  Which He,  However,  Always Found Too Small,  For He Was

Intoxicated With The Thought Of Doing Something Colossal. Thus He

Returned Home Quivering,  His Brain Seething With Projects; And Of An

Evening Threw Off Sketches On Bits Of Paper,  In The Lamp-Light,

Without Being Able To Decide By What He Ought To Begin The Series Of

Grand Productions That He Dreamt About.

One Serious Obstacle Was The Smallness Of His Studio. If He Had

Only Had The Old Garret Of The Quai De Bourbon,  Or Even The Huge