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

Called His Wife.

'Just Come And Have A Look. Isn't Her Attitude Good,  Eh? How

Delicately Her Muscles Are Articulated! Just Look At That Bit There,

Full Of Sunlight. And At The Shoulder Here. Ah,  Heavens! It's Full Of

Life; I Can Feel It Throb As I Touch It.'

Christine,  Standing By,  Kept Looking And Answering In Monosyllables.

This Resurrection Of Herself,  After So Many Years,  Had At First

Flattered And Surprised Her. But On Seeing Him Become So Excited,  She

Gradually Felt Uncomfortable And Irritated,  Without Knowing Why.

'Tell Me,' He Continued,  'Don't You Think Her Beautiful Enough For One

To Go On One's Knees To Her?'

'Yes,  Yes. But She Has Become Rather Blackish--'

Claude Protested Vehemently. Become Blackish,  What An Idea! That Woman

Would Never Grow Black; She Possessed Immortal Youth! Veritable

Passion Had Seized Hold Of Him; He Spoke Of The Figure As Of A Living

Being; He Had Sudden Longings To Look At Her That Made Him Leave

Everything Else,  As If He Were Hurrying To An Appointment.

Then,  One Morning,  He Was Taken With A Fit Of Work.

'But,  Confound It All,  As I Did That,  I Can Surely Do It Again,' He

Said. 'Ah,  This Time,  Unless I'm A Downright Brute,  We'll See About

It.'

And Christine Had To Give Him A Sitting There And Then. For Eight

Hours A Day,  Indeed,  During A Whole Month He Kept Her Before Him,

Without Compassion For Her Increasing Exhaustion Or For The Fatigue He

Felt Himself. He Obstinately Insisted Upon Producing A Masterpiece; He

Was Determined That The Upright Figure Of His Big Picture Should Equal

That Reclining One Which He Saw On The Wall,  Beaming With Life. He

Constantly Referred To It,  Compared It With The One He Was Painting,

Distracted By The Fear Of Being Unable To Equal It. He Cast One Glance

At It,  Another At Christine,  And A Third At His Canvas,  And Burst Into

Oaths Whenever He Felt Dissatisfied. He Ended By Abusing His Wife.

She Was No Longer Young. Age Had Spoilt Her Figure,  And That It Was

Which Spoilt His Work. She Listened,  And Staggered In Her Very Grief.

Those Sittings,  From Which She Had Already Suffered So Much,  Were

Becoming Unbearable Torture Now. What Was This New Freak Of Crushing

Her With Her Own Girlhood,  Of Fanning Her Jealousy By Filling Her With

Regret For Vanished Beauty? She Was Becoming Her Own Rival,  She Could

No Longer Look At That Old Picture Of Herself Without Being Stung At

The Heart By Hateful Envy. Ah,  How Heavily Had That Picture,  That

Study She Had Sat For Long Ago,  Weighed Upon Her Existence! The Whole

Of Her Misfortunes Sprang From It. It Had Changed The Current Of Her

Existence. And It Had Come To Life Again,  It Rose From The Dead,

Endowed With Greater Vitality Than Herself,  To Finish Killing Her,  For

There Was No Longer Aught But One Woman For Claude--She Who Was Shown

Reclining On The Old Canvas,  And Who Now Arose And Became The Upright

Figure Of His New Picture.

Then Christine Felt Herself Growing Older And Older At Each Successive

Sitting. And She Experienced The Infinite Despair Which Comes Upon

Passionate Women When Love,  Like Beauty,  Abandons Them. Was It Because

Of This That Claude No Longer Cared For Her,  That He Sought Refuge In

An Unnatural Passion For His Work? She Soon Lost All Clear Perception

Of Things; She Fell Into A State Of Utter Neglect,  Going About In A

Dressing Jacket And Dirty Petticoats,  Devoid Of All Coquettish

Feeling,  Discouraged By The Idea That It Was Useless For Her To

Continue Struggling,  Since She Had Become Old.

There Were Occasionally Abominable Scenes Between Her And Claude,  Who

This Time,  However,  Obstinately Stuck To His Work And Finished His

Picture,  Swearing That,  Come What Might,  He Would Send It To The

Salon. He Lived On His Steps,  Cleaning Up His Backgrounds Until Dark.

At Last,  Thoroughly Exhausted,  He Declared That He Would Touch The

Canvas No More; And Sandoz,  On Coming To See Him One Day,  At Four

O'clock,  Did Not Find Him At Home. Christine Declared That He Had Just

Gone Out To Take A Breath Of Air On The Height Of Montmartre.

The Breach Between Claude And His Old Friends Had Gradually Widened.

With Time The Latters' Visits Had Become Brief And Far Between,  For

They Felt Uncomfortable When They Found Themselves Face To Face With

That Disturbing Style Of Painting; And They Were More And More Upset

By The Unhinging Of A Mind Which Had Been The Admiration Of Their

Youth. Now All Had Fled; None Excepting Sandoz Ever Came. Gagniere Had

Even Left Paris,  To Settle Down In One Of The Two Houses He Owned At

Melun,  Where He Lived Frugally Upon The Proceeds Of The Other One,

After Suddenly Marrying,  To Every One's Surprise,  An Old Maid,  His

Music Mistress,  Who Played Wagner To Him Of An Evening. As For

Mahoudeau,  He Alleged Work As An Excuse For Not Coming,  And Indeed He

Was Beginning To Earn Some Money,  Thanks To A Bronze Manufacturer,  Who

Employed Him To Touch Up His Models. Matters Were Different With Jory,

Whom No One Saw,  Since Mathilde Despotically Kept Him Sequestrated.

She Had Conquered Him,  And He Had Fallen Into A Kind Of Domesticity

Comparable To That Of A Faithful Dog,  Yielding Up The Keys Of His

Cashbox,  And Only Carrying Enough Money About Him To Buy A Cigar At A

Time. It Was Even Said That Mathilde,  Like The Devotee She Had Once

Been,  Had Thrown Him Into The Arms Of The Church,  In Order To

Consolidate Her Conquest,  And That She Was Constantly Talking To Him

About Death,  Of Which He Was Horribly Afraid. Fagerolles Alone

Affected A Lively,  Cordial Feeling Towards His Old Friend Claude

Whenever He Happened To Meet Him. He Then Always Promised To Go And

See Him,  But Never Did So. He Was So Busy Since His Great Success,  In

Such Request,  Advertised,  Celebrated,  On The Road To Every Imaginable

Honour And Form Of Fortune! And Claude Regretted Nobody Save Dubuche,

To Whom He Still Felt Attached,  From A Feeling Of Affection For The

Old Reminiscences Of Boyhood,  Notwithstanding The Disagreements Which

Difference Of Disposition Had Provoked Later On. But Dubuche,  It

Appeared,  Was Not Very Happy Either. No Doubt He Was Gorged With

Millions,  But He Led A Wretched Life,  Constantly At Logger-Heads With

His Father-In-Law (Who Complained Of Having Been Deceived With Regard

To His Capabilities As An Architect),  And Obliged To Pass His Life

Amidst The Medicine Bottles Of His Ailing Wife And His Two Children,

Who,  Having Been Prematurely Born,  Had To Be Reared Virtually In

Cotton Wool.

Of All The Old Friends,  Therefore,  There Only Remained Sandoz,  Who

Still Found His Way To The Rue Tourlaque. He Came Thither For Little

Jacques,  His Godson,  And For The Sorrowing Woman Also,  That Christine

Whose Passionate Features Amidst All This Distress Moved Him Deeply,

Like A Vision Of One Of The Ardently Amorous Creatures Whom He Would

Have Liked To Embody In His Books. But,  Above All,  His Feeling Of

Artistic Brotherliness Had Increased Since He Had Seen Claude Losing

Ground,  Foundering Amidst The Heroic Folly Of Art. At First He Had

Remained Utterly Astonished At It,  For He Had Believed In His Friend

More Than In Himself. Since Their College Days,  He Had Always Placed

Himself Second,  While Setting Claude Very High On Fame's Ladder--On

The Same Rung,  Indeed,  As The Masters Who Revolutionise A Period. Then

He Had Been Grievously Affected By That Bankruptcy Of Genius; He Had

Become Full Of Bitter,  Heartfelt Pity At The Sight Of The Horrible

Torture Of Impotency. Did One Ever Know Who Was The Madman In Art?

Every Failure Touched Him To The Quick,  And The More A Picture Or A

Book Verged Upon Aberration,  Sank To The Grotesque And Lamentable,  The

More Did Sandoz Quiver With Compassion,  The More Did He Long To Lull

To Sleep,  In The Soothing Extravagance Of Their Dreams,  Those Who Were

Thus Blasted By Their Own Work.

On The Day When Sandoz Called,  And Failed To Find Claude At Home,  He

Did Not Go Away; But,  Seeing Christine's Eyelids Red With Crying,  He

Said:

'If You Think That He'll Be In Soon,  I'll Wait For Him.'

'Oh! He Surely Won't Be Long.'

'In That Case I'll Wait,  Unless I Am In Your Way.'

Never Had Her Demeanour,  The Crushed Look Of A Neglected Woman,  Her

Listless Movements,  Her Slow Speech,  Her Indifference For Everything

But The Passion That Was Consuming Her,  Moved Him So Deeply. For The

Last Week,  Perhaps,  She Had Not Put A Chair In Its Place,  Or Dusted A

Piece Of Furniture; She Left The Place To Go To Wreck And Ruin,

Scarcely Having The Strength To Drag Herself About. And It Was Enough

To Break One's Heart To Behold That Misery Ending In Filth Beneath The

Glaring Light From The Big Window; To Gaze On That Ill-Pargetted

Shanty,  So Bare And Disorderly,  Where One Shivered With Melancholy

Although It Was A Bright February Afternoon.

Christine Had Slowly Sat Down Beside An Iron Bedstead,  Which Sandoz

Had Not Noticed When He Came In.

'Hallo,' He Said,  'Is Jacques Ill?'

She Was Covering Up The Child,  Who Constantly Flung Off The

Bedclothes.

'Yes,  He Hasn't Been Up These Three Days. We Brought His Bed In Here

So That He Might Be With Us. He Was Never Very Strong. But He Is

Getting Worse And Worse,  It's Distracting.'

She Had A Fixed Stare In Her Eyes And Spoke In A Monotonous Tone,  And

Sandoz Felt Frightened When He Drew Up To The Bedside. The Child's

Pale Head Seemed To Have Grown Bigger Still,  So Heavy That He Could No

Longer Support It. He Lay Perfectly Still,  And One Might Have Thought

He Was Dead,  But For The Heavy Breathing Coming From Between His

Discoloured Lips.

'My Poor Little Jacques,  It's I,  Your Godfather. Won't You Say How

D'ye Do?'