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

Mahoudeau To His Own Door. Claude And Christine,  On Reaching Home,

Took Jacques From The Doorkeeper,  And Found The Studio Quite Chilly,

Wrapped In Such Dense Gloom That They Had To Grope About For Several

Minutes Before They Were Able To Light The Lamp. They Also Had To

Light The Stove Again,  And It Struck Seven O'clock Before They Were

Able To Draw Breath At Their Ease. They Were Not Hungry,  So They

Merely Finished The Remains Of Some Boiled Beef,  Mainly By Way Of

Encouraging The Child To Eat His Soup; And When They Had Put Him To

Bed,  They Settled Themselves With The Lamp Betwixt Them,  As Was Their

Habit Every Evening.

However,  Christine Had Not Put Out Any Work,  She Felt Too Much Moved

To Sew. She Sat There With Her Hands Resting Idly On The Table,

Looking At Claude,  Who On His Side Had At Once Become Absorbed In A

Sketch,  A Bit Of His Picture,  Some Workmen Of The Port Saint Nicolas,

Unloading Plaster. Invincible Dreaminess Came Over The Young Woman,

All Sorts Of Recollections And Regrets Became Apparent In The Depths

Of Her Dim Eyes; And By Degrees Growing Sadness,  Great Mute Grief Took

Absolute Possession Of Her,  Amid The Indifference,  The Boundless

Solitude Into Which She Seemed To Be Drifting,  Although She Was So

Near To Claude. He Was,  Indeed,  On The Other Side Of The Table,  Yet

How Far Away She Felt Him To Be! He Was Yonder Before That Point Of

The Cite,  He Was Even Farther Still,  In The Infinite Inaccessible

Regions Of Art; So Far,  Indeed,  That She Would Now Never More Be Able

To Join Him! She Several Times Tried To Start A Conversation,  But

Without Eliciting Any Answer. The Hours Went By,  She Grew Weary And

Numb With Doing Nothing,  And She Ended By Taking Out Her Purse And

Counting Her Money.

'Do You Know How Much We Have To Begin Our Married Life With?'

Claude Did Not Even Raise His Head.

'We've Nine Sous. Ah! Talk Of Poverty--'

He Shrugged His Shoulders,  And Finally Growled: 'We Shall Be Rich Some

Day; Don't Fret.'

Then The Silence Fell Again,  And She Did Not Even Attempt To Break It,

But Gazed At Her Nine Coppers Laid In A Row Upon The Table. At Last,

As It Struck Midnight,  She Shivered,  Ill With Waiting And Chilled By

The Cold.

'Let's Go To Bed,  Dear,' She Murmured; 'I'm Dead Tired.'

He,  However,  Was Working Frantically,  And Did Not Even Hear Her.

'The Fire's Gone Out,' She Began Again,  'We Shall Make Ourselves Ill;

Let's Go To Bed.'

Her Imploring Voice Reached Him At Last,  And Made Him Start With

Sudden Exasperation.

'Oh! Go If You Like! You Can See Very Well That I Want To Finish

Something!'

She Remained There For Another Minute,  Amazed By His Sudden Anger,  Her

Face Expressive Of Deep Sorrow. Then,  Feeling That He Would Rather Be

Without Her,  That The Very Presence Of A Woman Doing Nothing Upset

Him,  She Rose From The Table And Went Off,  Leaving The Door Wide Open.

Half An Hour,  Three-Quarters Went By,  Nothing Stirred,  Not A Sound

Came From Her Room; But She Was Not Asleep,  Her Eyes Were Staring Into

The Gloom; And At Last She Timidly Ventured Upon A Final Appeal,  From

The Depths Of The Dark Alcove.

An Oath Was The Only Reply She Received. And Nothing Stirred After

That. She Perhaps Dozed Off. The Cold In The Studio Grew Keener,  And

The Wick Of The Lamp Began To Carbonise And Burn Red,  While Claude,

Still Bending Over His Sketch,  Did Not Seem Conscious Of The Passing

Minutes.

At Two O'clock,  However,  He Rose Up,  Furious To Find The Lamp Going

Out For Lack Of Oil. He Only Had Time To Take It Into The Other Room,

So That He Might Not Have To Undress In The Dark. But His Displeasure

Increased On Seeing That Christine's Eyes Were Wide Open. He Felt

Inclined To Complain Of It. However,  After Some Random Remarks,  He

Suddenly Exclaimed:

'The Most Surprising Thing Is That Her Trunk Wasn't Hurt!'

'What Do You Mean?' Asked Christine,  In Amazement.

'Why,  Mahoudeau's Girl,' He Answered.

At This She Shook Nervously,  Turned And Buried Her Face In The Pillow;

And He Was Quite Surprised On Hearing Her Burst Into Sobs.

'What! You Are Crying?' He Exclaimed.

She Was Choking,  Sobbing With Heart-Rending Violence.

'Come,  What's The Matter With You?--I've Said Nothing To You. Come,

Darling,  What's The Matter?'

But,  While He Was Speaking,  The Cause Of Her Great Grief Dawned Upon

Him. No Doubt,  On A Day Like That,  He Ought To Have Shown More

Affection; But His Neglect Was Unintentional Enough; He Had Not Even

Given The Matter A Thought. She Surely Knew Him,  Said He; He Became A

Downright Brute When He Was At Work. Then He Bent Over And Embraced

Her. But It Was As If Something Irreparable Had Taken Place,  As If

Something Had For Ever Snapped,  Leaving A Void Between Them. The

Formality Of Marriage Seemed To Have Killed Love.

As Claude Could Not Paint His Huge Picture In The Small Studio Of The

Rue De Douai,  He Made Up His Mind To Rent Some Shed That Would Be

Spacious Enough,  Elsewhere; And Strolling One Day On The Heights Of

Montmartre,  He Found What He Wanted Half Way Down The Slope Of The Rue

Tourlaque,  A Street That Descends Abruptly Behind The Cemetery,  And

Whence One Overlooks Clichy As Far As The Marshes Of Gennevilliers. It

Had Been A Dyer's Drying Shed,  And Was Nearly Fifty Feet Long And More

Than Thirty Broad,  With Walls Of Board And Plaster Admitting The Wind

From Every Point Of The Compass. The Place Was Let To Him For Three

Hundred Francs. Summer Was At Hand; He Would Soon Work Off His Picture

And Then Quit.

This Settled,  Feverish With Hope,  Claude Decided To Go To All The

Necessary Expenses; As Fortune Was Certain To Come In The End,  Why

Trammel Its Advent By Unnecessary Scruples? Taking Advantage Of His

Right,  He Broke In Upon The Principal Of His Income,  And Soon Grew

Accustomed To Spend Money Without Counting. At First He Kept The

Matter From Christine,  For She Had Already Twice Stopped Him From

Doing So; And When He Was At Last Obliged To Tell Her,  She Also,  After

A Week Of Reproaches And Apprehension,  Fell In With It,  Happy At The

Comfort In Which She Lived,  And Yielding To The Pleasure Of Always

Having A Little Money In Her Purse. Thus There Came A Few Years Of

Easy Unconcern.

Claude Soon Became Altogether Absorbed In His Picture. He Had

Furnished The Huge Studio In A Very Summary Style: A Few Chairs,  The

Old Couch From The Quai De Bourbon,  And A Deal Table Bought

Second-Hand For Five Francs Sufficed Him. In The Practice Of His Art

He Was Entirely Devoid Of That Vanity Which Delights In Luxurious

Surroundings. The Only Real Expense To Which He Went Was That Of

Buying Some Steps On Castors,  With A Platform And A Movable Footboard.

Next He Busied Himself About His Canvas,  Which He Wished To Be Six And

Twenty Feet In Length And Sixteen In Height. He Insisted Upon

Preparing It Himself; Ordered A Framework And Bought The Necessary

Seamless Canvas,  Which He And A Couple Of Friends Had All The Work In

The World To Stretch Properly By The Aid Of Pincers. Then He Just

Coated The Canvas With Ceruse,  Laid On With A Palette-Knife,  Refusing

To Size It Previously,  In Order That It Might Remain Absorbent,  By

Which Method He Declared That The Painting Would Be Bright And Solid.

An Easel Was Not To Be Thought Of. It Would Not Have Been Possible To

Move A Canvas Of Such Dimensions On It. So He Invented A System Of

Ropes And Beams,  Which Held It Slightly Slanting Against The Wall In A

Cheerful Light. And Backwards And Forwards In Front Of The Big White

Surface Rolled The Steps,  Looking Like An Edifice,  Like The

Scaffolding By Means Of Which A Cathedral Is To Be Reared.

But When Everything Was Ready,  Claude Once More Experienced

Misgivings. An Idea That He Had Perhaps Not Chosen The Proper Light In

Which To Paint His Picture Fidgeted Him. Perhaps An Early Morning

Effect Would Have Been Better? Perhaps,  Too,  He Ought To Have Chosen A

Dull Day,  And So He Went Back To The Pont Des Saint-Peres,  And Lived

There For Another Three Months.

The Cite Rose Up Before Him,  Between The Two Arms Of The River,  At

All Hours And In All Weather. After A Late Fall Of Snow He Beheld It

Wrapped In Ermine,  Standing Above Mud-Coloured Water,  Against A Light

Slatey Sky. On The First Sunshiny Days He Saw It Cleanse Itself Of

Everything That Was Wintry And Put On An Aspect Of Youth,  When Verdure

Sprouted From The Lofty Trees Which Rose From The Ground Below The

Bridge. He Saw It,  Too,  On A Somewhat Misty Day Recede To A Distance

And Almost Evaporate,  Delicate And Quivering,  Like A Fairy Palace.

Then,  Again,  There Were Pelting Rains,  Which Submerged It,  Hid It As

With A Huge Curtain Drawn From The Sky To The Earth; Storms,  With

Lightning Flashes Which Lent It A Tawny Hue,  The Opaque Light Of

Some Cut-Throat Place Half Destroyed By The Fall Of The Huge

Copper-Coloured Clouds; And There Were Winds That Swept Over It

Tempestuously,  Sharpening Its Angles And Making It Look Hard,  Bare,

And Beaten Against The Pale Blue Sky. Then,  Again,  When The Sunbeams

Broke Into Dust Amidst The Vapours Of The Seine,  It Appeared Steeped

In Diffused Brightness,  Without A Shadow About It,  Lighted Up Equally

On Every