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

His Old Friend,  Who Knew Him Well By Now,  Dreaded Lest He Should Give

Him Cause For Discouragement.

'I? Oh,  No! Only I Am Afraid That The Public Will Again Fail To

Understand. That Nude Woman In The Very Midst Of Paris--It's

Improbable.'

Claude Looked Naively Surprised.

'Ah! You Think So? Well,  So Much The Worse. What's The Odds,  As Long

As The Woman Is Well Painted? Besides,  I Need Something Like That To

Get My Courage Up.'

On The Following Occasions,  Sandoz Gently Reverted To The Strangeness

Of The Composition,  Pleading,  As Was His Nature,  The Cause Of Outraged

Logic. How Could A Modern Painter Who Prided Himself On Painting

Merely What Was Real--How Could He So Bastardise His Work As To

Introduce Fanciful Things Into It? It Would Have Been So Easy To

Choose Another Subject,  In Which The Nude Would Have Been Necessary.

But Claude Became Obstinate,  And Resorted To Lame And Violent

Explanations,  For He Would Not Avow His Real Motive: An Idea Which Had

Come To Him And Which He Would Have Been At A Loss To Express Clearly.

It Was,  However,  A Longing For Some Secret Symbolism. A Recrudescence

Of Romanticism Made Him See An Incarnation Of Paris In That Nude

Figure; He Pictured The City Bare And Impassioned,  Resplendent With

The Beauty Of Woman.

Before The Pressing Objections Of His Friend He Pretended To Be Shaken

In His Resolutions.

'Well,  I'll See; I'll Dress My Old Woman Later On,  Since She Worries

You,' He Said. 'But Meanwhile I Shall Do Her Like That. You

Understand,  She Amuses Me.'

He Never Reverted To The Subject Again,  Remaining Silently Obstinate,

Merely Shrugging His Shoulders And Smiling With Embarrassment Whenever

Any Allusion Betrayed The General Astonishment Which Was Felt At The

Sight Of That Venus Emerging Triumphantly From The Froth Of The Seine

Amidst All The Omnibuses On The Quays And The Lightermen Working At

The Port Of St. Nicolas.

Spring Had Come Round Again,  And Claude Had Once More Resolved To Work

At His Large Picture,  When In A Spirit Of Prudence He And Christine

Modified Their Daily Life. She,  At Times,  Could Not Help Feeling

Uneasy At Seeing All Their Money So Quickly Spent. Since The Supply

Had Seemed Inexhaustible,  They Had Ceased Counting. But,  At The End Of

Four Years,  They Had Woke Up One Morning Quite Frightened,  When,  On

Asking For Accounts,  They Found That Barely Three Thousand Francs Were

Left Out Of The Twenty Thousand. They Immediately Reverted To Severe

Economy,  Stinting Themselves As To Bread,  Planning The Cutting Down Of

The Most Elementary Expenses; And It Was Thus That,  In The First

Impulse Of Self-Sacrifice,  They Left The Rue De Douai. What Was The

Use Of Paying Two Rents? There Was Room Enough In The Old Drying-Shed

In The Rue Tourlaque--Still Stained With The Dyes Of Former Days--To

Afford Accommodation For Three People. Settling There Was,

Nevertheless,  A Difficult Affair; For However Big The Place Was,  It

Provided Them,  After All,  With But One Room. It Was Like A Gipsy's

Shed,  Where Everything Had To Be Done In Common. As The Landlord Was

Unwilling,  The Painter Himself Had To Divide It At One End By A

Partition Of Boards,  Behind Which He Devised A Kitchen And A Bedroom.

They Were Then Delighted With The Place,  Despite The Chinks Through

Which The Wind Blew,  And Although On Rainy Days They Had To Set Basins

Beneath The Broader Cracks In The Roof. The Whole Looked Mournfully

Bare; Their Few Poor Sticks Seemed To Dance Alongside The Naked Walls.

They Themselves Pretended To Be Proud At Being Lodged So Spaciously;

They Told Their Friends That Jacques Would At Least Have A Little Room

To Run About. Poor Jacques,  In Spite Of His Nine Years,  Did Not Seem

To Be Growing; His Head Alone Became Larger And Larger. They Could Not

Send Him To School For More Than A Week At A Stretch,  For He Came Back

Absolutely Dazed,  Ill From Having Tried To Learn,  In Such Wise That

They Nearly Always Allowed Him To Live On All Fours Around Them,

Crawling From One Corner To Another.

Christine,  Who For Quite A Long While Had Not Shared Claude's Daily

Work,  Now Once More Found Herself Beside Him Throughout His Long Hours

Of Toil. She Helped Him To Scrape And Pumice The Old Canvas Of The Big

Picture,  And Gave Him Advice About Attaching It More Securely To The

Wall. But They Found That Another Disaster Had Befallen Them--The

Steps Had Become Warped By The Water Constantly Trickling Through The

Roof,  And,  For Fear Of An Accident,  Claude Had To Strengthen Them With

An Oak Cross-Piece,  She Handing Him The Necessary Nails One By One.

Then Once More,  And For The Second Time,  Everything Was Ready. She

Watched Him Again Outlining The Work,  Standing Behind Him The While,

Till She Felt Faint With Fatigue,  And Finally Dropping To The Floor,

Where She Remained Squatting,  And Still Looking At Him.

Ah! How She Would Have Liked To Snatch Him From That Painting Which

Had Seized Hold Of Him! It Was For That Purpose That She Made Herself

His Servant,  Only Too Happy To Lower Herself To A Labourer's Toil.

Since She Shared His Work Again,  Since The Three Of Them,  He,  She,  And

The Canvas,  Were Side By Side,  Her Hope Revived. If He Had Escaped Her

When She,  All Alone,  Cried Her Eyes Out In The Rue De Douai,  If He

Lingered Till Late In The Rue Tourlaque,  Fascinated As By A Mistress,

Perhaps Now That She Was Present She Might Regain Her Hold Over Him.

Ah,  Painting,  Painting! In What Jealous Hatred She Held It! Hers Was

No Longer The Revolt Of A Girl Of The Bourgeoisie,  Who Painted Neatly

In Water-Colours,  Against Independent,  Brutal,  Magnificent Art. No,

Little By Little She Had Come To Understand It,  Drawn Towards It At

First By Her Love For The Painter,  And Gained Over Afterwards By The

Feast Of Light,  By The Original Charm Of The Bright Tints Which

Claude's Works Displayed. And Now She Had Accepted Everything,  Even

Lilac-Tinted Soil And Blue Trees. Indeed,  A Kind Of Respect Made Her

Quiver Before Those Works Which Had At First Seemed So Horrid To Her.

She Recognised Their Power Well Enough,  And Treated Them Like Rivals

About Whom One Could No Longer Joke. But Her Vindictiveness Grew In

Proportion To Her Admiration; She Revolted At Having To Stand By And

Witness,  As It Were,  A Diminution Of Herself,  The Blow Of Another Love

Beneath Her Own Roof.

At First There Was A Silent Struggle Of Every Minute. She Thrust

Herself Forward,  Interposed Whatever She Could,  A Hand,  A Shoulder,

Between The Painter And His Picture. She Was Always There,

Encompassing Him With Her Breath,  Reminding Him That He Was Hers. Then

Her Old Idea Revived--She Also Would Paint; She Would Seek And Join

Him In The Depths Of His Art Fever. Every Day For A Whole Month She

Put On A Blouse,  And Worked Like A Pupil By The Side Of A Master,

Diligently Copying One Of His Sketches,  And She Only Gave In When She

Found The Effort Turn Against Her Object; For,  Deceived,  As It Were,

By Their Joint Work,  He Finished By Forgetting That She Was A Woman,

And Lived With Her On A Footing Of Mere Comradeship As Between Man And

Man. Accordingly She Resorted To What Was Her Only Strength.

To Perfect Some Of The Small Figures Of His Latter Pictures,  Claude

Had Many A Time Already Taken The Hint Of A Head,  The Pose Of An Arm,

The Attitude Of A Body From Christine. He Threw A Cloak Over Her

Shoulders,  And Caught Her In The Posture He Wanted,  Shouting To Her

Not To Stir. These Were Little Services Which She Showed Herself Only

Too Pleased To Render Him,  But She Had Not Hitherto Cared To Go

Further,  For She Was Hurt By The Idea Of Being A Model Now That She

Was His Wife. However,  Since Claude Had Broadly Outlined The Large

Upright Female Figure Which Was To Occupy The Centre Of His Picture,

Christine Had Looked At The Vague Silhouette In A Dreamy Way,  Worried

By An Ever-Pursuing Thought Before Which All Scruples Vanished. And

So,  When He Spoke Of Taking A Model,  She Offered Herself,  Reminding

Him That She Had Posed For The Figure In The 'Open Air' Subject,  Long

Ago. 'A Model,' She Added,  'Would Cost You Seven Francs A Sitting. We

Are Not So Rich,  We May As Well Save The Money.'

The Question Of Economy Decided Him At Once.

'I'm Agreeable,  And It's Even Very Good Of You To Show Such Courage,

For You Know That It Is Not A Bit Of Pastime To Sit For Me. Never

Mind,  You Had Better Confess To It,  You Big Silly,  You Are Afraid Of

Another Woman Coming Here; You Are Jealous.'

Jealous! Yes,  Indeed She Was Jealous,  So She Suffered Agony. But She

Snapped Her Fingers At Other Women; All The Models In Paris Might Have

Sat To Him For What She Cared. She Had But One Rival,  That Painting,

That Art Which Robbed Her Of Him.

Claude,  Who Was Delighted,  At First Made A Study,  A Simple Academic

Study,  In The Attitude Required For His Picture. They Waited Until

Jacques Had Gone To School,  And The Sitting Lasted For Hours. During

The Earlier Days Christine Suffered A Great Deal From Being Obliged To

Remain In The Same Position; Then She Grew Used To It,  Not Daring To

Complain,  Lest She Might Vex Him,  And Even Restraining Her Tears When

He Roughly Pushed Her About. And He Soon Acquired The Habit Of Doing

So,  Treating Her Like A Mere Model; More Exacting With Her,  However,

Than If He Had Paid Her,  Never Afraid Of Unduly Taxing Her Strength,

Since She Was His Wife. He Employed Her For Every Purpose,  At Every

Minute,  For An Arm,  A Foot,  The Most Trifling Detail That He Stood In

Need Of. And Thus In A Way He Lowered Her To The Level Of A 'Living

Lay Figure,' Which He Stuck In Front Of Him And Copied As He Might

Have Copied A Pitcher Or A Stew-Pan For A Bit Of Still Life.

This Time Claude Proceeded Leisurely,  And Before Roughing In The Large

Figure He Tired Christine For Months By Making Her Pose In Twenty

Different Ways. At Last,  One Day,  He Began The Roughing In. It Was An

Autumnal Morning,  The North Wind Was Already Sharp,  And It Was By No

Means Warm Even In The Big Studio,  Although The Stove Was Roaring. As

Little Jacques Was Poorly Again And Unable To Go To School,  They Had

Decided To Lock Him Up In The Room At The Back,  Telling Him To Be Very