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

Well Enough That He Now Had But One Thought--To Mend The Rent,  To

Repair The Evil At Once; And She Helped Him; It Was She Who Held The

Shreds Together,  Whilst He From Behind Glued A Strip Of Canvas Against

Them. When She Dressed Herself,  'The Other One' Was There Again,

Immortal,  Simply Retaining Near Her Heart A Slight Scar,  Which Seemed

To Make Her Doubly Dear To The Painter.

As This Unhinging Of Claude's Faculties Increased,  He Drifted Into A

Sort Of Superstition,  Into A Devout Belief In Certain Processes And

Methods. He Banished Oil From His Colours,  And Spoke Of It As Of A

Personal Enemy. On The Other Hand,  He Held That Turpentine Produced A

Solid Unpolished Surface,  And He Had Some Secrets Of His Own Which He

Hid From Everybody; Solutions Of Amber,  Liquefied Copal,  And Other

Resinous Compounds That Made Colours Dry Quickly,  And Prevented Them

From Cracking. But He Experienced Some Terrible Worries,  As The

Absorbent Nature Of The Canvas At Once Sucked In The Little Oil

Contained In The Paint. Then The Question Of Brushes Had Always

Worried Him Greatly; He Insisted On Having Them With Special Handles;

And Objecting To Sable,  He Used Nothing But Oven-Dried Badger Hair.

More Important,  However,  Than Everything Else Was The Question Of

Palette-Knives,  Which,  Like Courbet,  He Used For His Backgrounds. He

Had Quite A Collection Of Them,  Some Long And Flexible,  Others Broad

And Squat,  And One Which Was Triangular Like A Glazier's,  And Which

Had Been Expressly Made For Him. It Was The Real Delacroix Knife.

Besides,  He Never Made Use Of The Scraper Or Razor,  Which He

Considered Beneath An Artist's Dignity. But,  On The Other Hand,  He

Indulged In All Sorts Of Mysterious Practices In Applying His Colours,

Concocted Recipes And Changed Them Every Month,  And Suddenly Fancied

That He Had Bit On The Right System Of Painting,  When,  After

Repudiating Oil And Its Flow,  He Began To Lay On Successive Touches

Until He Arrived At The Exact Tone He Required. One Of His Fads For A

Long While Was To Paint From Right To Left; For,  Without Confessing As

Much,  He Felt Sure That It Brought Him Luck. But The Terrible Affair

Which Unhinged Him Once More Was An All-Invading Theory Respecting The

Complementary Colours. Gagniere Had Been The First To Speak To Him On

The Subject,  Being Himself Equally Inclined To Technical Speculation.

After Which Claude,  Impelled By The Exuberance Of His Passion,  Took To

Exaggerating The Scientific Principles Whereby,  From The Three

Primitive Colours,  Yellow,  Red,  And Blue,  One Derives The Three

Secondary Ones,  Orange,  Green,  And Violet,  And,  Further,  A Whole

Series Of Complementary And Similar Hues,  Whose Composites Are

Obtained Mathematically From One Another. Thus Science Entered Into

Painting,  There Was A Method For Logical Observation Already. One Only

Had To Take The Predominating Hue Of A Picture,  And Note The

Complementary Or Similar Colours,  To Establish Experimentally What

Variations Would Occur; For Instance,  Red Would Turn Yellowish If It

Were Near Blue,  And A Whole Landscape Would Change In Tint By The

Refractions And The Very Decomposition Of Light,  According To The

Clouds Passing Over It. Claude Then Accurately Came To This

Conclusion: That Objects Have No Real Fixed Colour; That They Assume

Various Hues According To Ambient Circumstances; But The Misfortune

Was That When He Took To Direct Observation,  With His Brain Throbbing

With Scientific Formulas,  His Prejudiced Vision Lent Too Much Force To

Delicate Shades,  And Made Him Render What Was Theoretically Correct In

Too Vivid A Manner: Thus His Style,  Once So Bright,  So Full Of The

Palpitation Of Sunlight,  Ended In A Reversal Of Everything To Which

The Eye Was Accustomed,  Giving,  For Instance,  Flesh Of A Violet Tinge

Under Tricoloured Skies. Insanity Seemed To Be At The End Of It All

Poverty Finished Off Claude. It Had Gradually Increased,  While The

Family Spent Money Without Counting; And,  When The Last Copper Of The

Twenty Thousand Francs Had Gone,  It Swooped Down Upon Them--Horrible

And Irreparable. Christine,  Who Wanted To Look For Work,  Was Incapable

Of Doing Anything,  Even Ordinary Needlework. She Bewailed Her Lot,

Twirling Her Fingers And Inveighing Against The Idiotic Young Lady's

Education That She Had Received,  Since It Had Given Her No Profession,

And Her Only Resource Would Be To Enter Into Domestic Service,  Should

Life Still Go Against Them. Claude,  On His Side,  Had Become A Subject

Of Chaff With The Parisians,  And No Longer Sold A Picture. An

Independent Exhibition At Which He And Some Friends Had Shown Some

Pictures,  Had Finished Him Off As Regards Amateurs--So Merry Had The

Public Become At The Sight Of His Canvases,  Streaked With All The

Colours Of The Rainbow. The Dealers Fled From Him. M. Hue Alone Now

And Then Made A Pilgrimage To The Rue Tourlaque,  And Remained In

Ecstasy Before The Exaggerated Bits,  Those Which Blazed In Unexpected

Pyrotechnical Fashion,  In Despair At Being Unable To Cover Them With

Gold. And Though The Painter Wanted To Make Him A Present Of Them,

Implored Him To Accept Them,  The Old Fellow Displayed Extraordinary

Delicacy Of Feeling. He Pinched Himself To Amass A Small Sum Of Money

From Time To Time,  And Then Religiously Took Away The Seemingly

Delirious Picture,  To Hang It Beside His Masterpieces. Such Windfalls

Came Too Seldom,  And Claude Was Obliged To Descend To 'Trade Art,'

Repugnant As It Was To Him. Such,  Indeed,  Was His Despair At Having

Fallen Into That Poison House,  Where He Had Sworn Never To Set Foot,

That He Would Have Preferred Starving To Death,  But For The Two Poor

Beings Who Were Dependent On Him And Who Suffered Like Himself. He

Became Familiar With 'Viae Dolorosae' Painted At Reduced Prices,  With

Male And Female Saints At So Much Per Gross,  Even With 'Pounced' Shop

Blinds--In Short,  All The Ignoble Jobs That Degrade Painting And Make

It So Much Idiotic Delineation,  Lacking Even The Charm Of Naivete. He

Even Suffered The Humiliation Of Having Portraits At Five-And-Twenty

Francs A-Piece Refused,  Because He Failed To Produce A Likeness; And

He Reached The Lowest Degree Of Distress--He Worked According To Size

For The Petty Dealers Who Sell Daubs On The Bridges,  And Export Them

To Semi-Civilised Countries. They Bought His Pictures At Two And Three

Francs A-Piece,  According To The Regulation Dimensions. This Was Like

Physical Decay,  It Made Him Waste Away; He Rose From Such Tasks

Feeling Ill,  Incapable Of Serious Work,  Looking At His Large Picture

In Distress,  And Leaving It Sometimes Untouched For A Week,  As If He

Had Felt His Hands Befouled And Unworthy Of Working At It.

They Scarcely Had Bread To Eat,  And The Huge Shanty,  Which Christine

Had Shown Herself So Proud Of,  On Settling In It,  Became Uninhabitable

In The Winter. She,  Once Such An Active Housewife,  Now Dragged Herself

About The Place,  Without Courage Even To Sweep The Floor,  And Thus

Everything Lapsed Into Abandonment. In The Disaster Little Jacques Was

Sadly Weakened By Unwholesome And Insufficient Food,  For Their Meals

Often Consisted Of A Mere Crust,  Eaten Standing. With Their Lives Thus

Ill-Regulated,  Uncared For,  They Were Drifting To The Filth Of The

Poor Who Lose Even All Self-Pride.

At The Close Of Another Year,  Claude,  On One Of Those Days Of Defeat,

When He Fled From His Miscarried Picture,  Met An Old Acquaintance.

This Time He Had Sworn He Would Never Go Home Again,  And He Had Been

Tramping Across Paris Since Noon,  As If At His Heels He Had Heard The

Wan Spectre Of The Big,  Nude Figure Of His Picture--Ravaged By

Constant Retouching,  And Always Left Incomplete--Pursuing Him With A

Passionate Craving For Birth. The Mist Was Melting Into A Yellowish

Drizzle,  Befouling The Muddy Streets. It Was About Five O'clock,  And

He Was Crossing The Rue Royale Like One Walking In His Sleep,  At The

Risk Of Being Run Over,  His Clothes In Rags And Mud-Bespattered Up To

His Neck,  When A Brougham Suddenly Drew Up.

'Claude,  Eh? Claude!--Is That How You Pass Your Friends?'

It Was Irma Becot Who Spoke,  Irma In A Charming Grey Silk Dress,

Covered With Chantilly Lace. She Had Hastily Let Down The Window,  And

She Sat Smiling,  Beaming In The Frame-Work Of The Carriage Door.

'Where Are You Going?'

He,  Staring At Her Open-Mouthed,  Replied That He Was Going Nowhere. At

Which She Merrily Expressed Surprise In A Loud Voice,  Looking At Him

With Her Saucy Eyes.

'Get In,  Then; It's Such A Long While Since We Met,' Said She. 'Get

In,  Or You'll Be Knocked Down.'

And,  In Fact,  The Other Drivers Were Getting Impatient,  And Urging

Their Horses On,  Amidst A Terrible Din,  So He Did As He Was Bidden,

Feeling Quite Dazed; And She Drove Him Away,  Dripping,  With The

Unmistakable Signs Of His Poverty Upon Him,  In The Brougham Lined With

Blue Satin,  Where He Sat Partly On The Lace Of Her Skirt,  While The

Cabdrivers Jeered At The Elopement Before Falling Into Line Again.

When Claude Came Back To The Rue Tourlaque He Was In A Dazed

Condition,  And For A Couple Of Days Remained Musing Whether After All

He Might Not Have Taken The Wrong Course In Life. He Seemed So Strange

That Christine Questioned Him,  Whereupon He At First Stuttered And

Stammered,  And Finally Confessed Everything. There Was A Scene; She

Wept For A Long While,  Then Pardoned Him Once More,  Full Of Infinite

Indulgence For Him. And,  Indeed,  Amidst All Her Bitter Grief There

Sprang Up A Hope That He Might Yet Return To Her,  For If He Could

Deceive Her Thus He Could Not Care As Much As She Had Imagined For

That Hateful Painted Creature Who Stared Down From The Big Canvas.

The Days Went By,  And Towards The Middle Of The Winter Claude's

Courage Revived Once More. One Day,  While Putting Some Old Frames In

Order,  He Came Upon A Roll Of Canvas Which Had Fallen Behind The Other

Pictures. On Opening The Roll He Found On It The Nude Figure,  The

Reclining Woman Of His Old Painting,  'In The Open Air,' Which He Had

Cut Out When The Picture Had Come Back To Him From The Salon Of The

Rejected. And,  As He Gazed At It,  He Uttered A Cry Of Admiration:

'By The Gods,  How Beautiful It Is!'

He At Once Secured It To The Wall With Four Nails,  And Remained For

Hours In Contemplation Before It. His Hands Shook,  The Blood Rushed To

His Face. Was It Possible That He Had Painted Such A Masterly Thing?

He Had Possessed Genius In Those Days Then. So His Skull,  His Eyes,

His Fingers Had Been Changed. He Became So Feverishly Excited And Felt

Such A Need Of