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

The Child Made A Fruitless,  Painful Effort To Lift His Head; His

Eyelids Parted,  Showing His White Eyeballs,  Then Closed Again.

'Have You Sent For A Doctor?'

Christine Shrugged Her Shoulders.

'Oh! Doctors,  What Do They Know?' She Answered. 'We Sent For One; He

Said That There Was Nothing To Be Done. Let Us Hope That It Will Pass

Over Again. He Is Close Upon Twelve Years Old Now,  And Maybe He Is

Growing Too Fast.'

Sandoz,  Quite Chilled,  Said Nothing For Fear Of Increasing Her

Anxiety,  Since She Did Not Seem To Realise The Gravity Of The Disease.

He Walked About In Silence And Stopped In Front Of The Picture.

'Ho,  Ho! It's Getting On; It's On The Right Road This Time.'

'It's Finished.'

'What! Finished?'

And When She Told Him That The Canvas Was To Be Sent To The Salon That

Next Week,  He Looked Embarrassed,  And Sat Down On The Couch,  Like A

Man Who Wishes To Judge The Work Leisurely. The Background,  The Quays,

The Seine,  Whence Arose The Triumphal Point Of The Cite,  Still

Remained In A Sketchy State--Masterly,  However,  But As If The Painter

Had Been Afraid Of Spoiling The Paris Of His Dream By Giving It

Greater Finish. There Was Also An Excellent Group On The Left,  The

Lightermen Unloading The Sacks Of Plaster Being Carefully And

Powerfully Treated. But The Boat Full Of Women In The Centre

Transpierced The Picture,  As It Were,  With A Blaze Of Flesh-Tints

Which Were Quite Out Of Place; And The Brilliancy And Hallucinatory

Proportions Of The Large Nude Figure Which Claude Had Painted In A

Fever Seemed Strangely,  Disconcertingly False Amidst The Reality Of

All The Rest.

Sandoz,  Silent,  Fell Despair Steal Over Him As He Sat In Front Of That

Magnificent Failure. But He Saw Christine's Eyes Fixed Upon Him,  And

Had Sufficient Strength Of Mind To Say:

'Astounding!--The Woman,  Astounding!'

At That Moment Claude Came In,  And On Seeing His Old Chum He Uttered A

Joyous Exclamation And Shook His Hand Vigorously. Then He Approached

Christine,  And Kissed Little Jacques,  Who Had Once More Thrown Off The

Bedclothes.

'How Is He?'

'Just The Same.'

'To Be Sure,  To Be Sure; He Is Growing Too Fast. A Few Days' Rest Will

Set Him All Right. I Told You Not To Be Uneasy.'

And Claude Thereupon Sat Down Beside Sandoz On The Couch. They Both

Took Their Ease,  Leaning Back,  With Their Eyes Surveying The Picture;

While Christine,  Seated By The Bed,  Looked At Nothing,  And Seemingly

Thought Of Nothing,  In The Everlasting Desolation Of Her Heart. Night

Was Slowly Coming On,  The Vivid Light From The Window Paled Already,

Losing Its Sheen Amidst The Slowly-Falling Crepuscular Dimness.

'So It's Settled; Your Wife Told Me That You Were Going To Send It

In.'

'Yes.'

'You Are Right; You Had Better Have Done With It Once For All. Oh,

There Are Some Magnificent Bits In It. The Quay In Perspective To The

Left,  The Man Who Shoulders That Sack Below. But--'

He Hesitated,  Then Finally Took The Bull By The Horns.

'But,  It's Odd That You Have Persisted In Leaving Those Women Nude. It

Isn't Logical,  I Assure You; And,  Besides,  You Promised Me You Would

Dress Them--Don't You Remember? You Have Set Your Heart Upon Them Very

Much Then?'

'Yes.'

Claude Answered Curtly,  With The Obstinacy Of One Mastered By A Fixed

Idea And Unwilling To Give Any Explanations. Then He Crossed His Arms

Behind His Head,  And Began Talking Of Other Things,  Without,  However,

Taking His Eyes Off His Picture,  Over Which The Twilight Began To Cast

A Slight Shadow.

'Do You Know Where I Have Just Come From?' He Asked. 'I Have Been To

Courajod's. You Know,  The Great Landscape Painter,  Whose "Pond Of

Gagny" Is At The Luxembourg. You Remember,  I Thought He Was Dead,  And

We Were Told That He Lived Hereabouts,  On The Other Side Of The Hill,

In The Rue De L'abreuvoir. Well,  Old Boy,  He Worried Me,  Did Courajod.

While Taking A Breath Of Air Now And Then Up There,  I Discovered His

Shanty,  And I Could No Longer Pass In Front Of It Without Wanting To

Go Inside. Just Think,  A Master,  A Man Who Invented Our Modern

Landscape School,  And Who Lives There,  Unknown,  Done For,  Like A Mole

In Its Hole! You Can Have No Idea Of The Street Or The Caboose: A

Village Street,  Full Of Fowls,  And Bordered By Grassy Banks; And A

Caboose Like A Child's Toy,  With Tiny Windows,  A Tiny Door,  A Tiny

Garden. Oh! The Garden--A Mere Patch Of Soil,  Sloping Down Abruptly,

With A Bed Where Four Pear Trees Stand,  And The Rest Taken Up By A

Fowl-House,  Made Out Of Green Boards,  Old Plaster,  And Wire Network,

Held Together With Bits Of String.'

His Words Came Slowly; He Blinked While He Spoke As If The Thought Of

His Picture Had Returned To Him And Was Gradually Taking Possession Of

Him,  To Such A Degree As To Hamper Him In His Speech About Other

Matters.

'Well,  As Luck Would Have It,  I Found Courajod On His Doorstep To-Day.

An Old Man Of More Than Eighty,  Wrinkled And Shrunk To The Size Of A

Boy. I Should Like You To See Him,  With His Clogs,  His Peasant's

Jersey And His Coloured Handkerchief Wound Over His Head As If He Were

An Old Market-Woman. I Pluckily Went Up To Him,  Saying,  "Monsieur

Courajod,  I Know You Very Well; You Have A Picture In The Luxembourg

Gallery Which Is A Masterpiece. Allow A Painter To Shake Hands With

You As He Would With His Master." And Then You Should Have Seen Him

Take Fright,  Draw Back And Stutter,  As If I Were Going To Strike Him.

A Regular Flight! However,  I Followed Him,  And Gradually He Recovered

His Composure,  And Showed Me His Hens,  His Ducks,  His Rabbits And

Dogs--An Extraordinary Collection Of Birds And Beasts; There Was Even

A Raven Among Them. He Lives In The Midst Of Them All; He Speaks To No

One But His Animals. As For The View,  It's Simply Magnificent; You See

The Whole Of The St. Denis Plain For Miles Upon Miles; Rivers And

Towns,  Smoking Factory-Chimneys,  And Puffing Railway-Engines; In

Short,  The Place Is A Real Hermitage On A Hill,  With Its Back Turned

To Paris And Its Eyes Fixed On The Boundless Country. As A Matter Of

Course,  I Came Back To His Picture. "Oh,  Monsieur Courajod," Said I,

"What Talent You Showed! If You Only Knew How Much We All Admire You.

You Are One Of Our Illustrious Men; You'll Remain The Ancestor Of Us

All." But His Lips Began To Tremble Again; He Looked At Me With An Air

Of Terror-Stricken Stupidity; I Am Sure He Would Not Have Waved Me

Back With A More Imploring Gesture If I Had Unearthed Under His Very

Eyes The Corpse Of Some Forgotten Comrade Of His Youth. He Kept

Chewing Disconnected Words Between His Toothless Gums; It Was The

Mumbling Of An Old Man Who Had Sunk Into Second Childhood,  And Whom

It's Impossible To Understand. "Don't Know--So Long Ago--Too Old

--Don't Care A Rap." To Make A Long Story Short,  He Showed Me The

Door; I Heard Him Hurriedly Turn The Key In Lock,  Barricading Himself

And His Birds And Animals Against The Admiration Of The Outside World.

Ah,  My Good Fellow,  The Idea Of It! That Great Man Ending His Life

Like A Retired Grocer; That Voluntary Relapse Into "Nothingness" Even

Before Death. Ah,  The Glory,  The Glory For Which We Others Are Ready

To Die!'

Claude's Voice,  Which Had Sunk Lower And Lower,  Died Away At Last In A

Melancholy Sigh. Darkness Was Still Coming On; After Gradually

Collecting In The Corners,  It Rose Like A Slow,  Inexorable Tide,  First

Submerging The Legs Of The Chairs And The Table,  All The Confusion Of

Things That Littered The Tiled Floor. The Lower Part Of The Picture

Was Already Growing Dim,  And Claude,  With His Eyes Still Desperately

Fixed On It,  Seemed To Be Watching The Ascent Of The Darkness As If He

Had At Last Judged His Work In The Expiring Light. And No Sound Was

Heard Save The Stertorous Breathing Of The Sick Child,  Near Whom There

Still Loomed The Dark Silhouette Of The Motionless Mother.

Then Sandoz Spoke In His Turn,  His Hands Also Crossed Behind His Head,

And His Back Resting Against One Of The Cushions Of The Couch.

'Does One Ever Know? Would It Not Be Better,  Perhaps,  To Live And Die

Unknown? What A Sell It Would Be If Artistic Glory Existed No More

Than The Paradise Which Is Talked About In Catechisms And Which Even

Children Nowadays Make Fun Of! We,  Who No Longer Believe In The

Divinity,  Still Believe In Our Own Immortality. What A Farce It All

Is!'

Then,  Affected To Melancholy Himself By The Mournfulness Of The

Twilight,  And Stirred By All The Human Suffering He Beheld Around Him,

He Began To Speak Of His Own Torments.

'Look Here,  Old Man,  I,  Whom You Envy,  Perhaps--Yes,  I,  Who Am

Beginning To Get On In The World,  As Middle-Class People Say--I,  Who

Publish Books And Earn A Little Money--Well,  I Am Being Killed By It

All. I Have Often Already Told You This,  But You Don't Believe Me,

Because,  As You Only Turn Out Work With A Deal Of Trouble And Cannot

Bring Yourself To Public Notice,  Happiness In Your Eyes Could

Naturally Consist In Producing A Great Deal,  In Being Seen,  And

Praised Or Slated. Well,  Get Admitted To The Next Salon,  Get Into The

Thick Of The Battle,  Paint Other Pictures,  And Then Tell Me Whether

That Suffices,  And Whether You Are Happy At Last. Listen; Work Has

Taken Up The Whole Of My Existence. Little By Little,  It Has Robbed Me

Of My Mother,  Of My Wife,  Of Everything I Love. It Is Like A Germ

Thrown Into The Cranium,  Which Feeds On The Brain,  Finds Its Way Into

The Trunk And Limbs,  And Gnaws Up The Whole Of The Body. The Moment I

Jump Out Of Bed Of A Morning,  Work Clutches Hold Of Me,  Rivets Me To

My Desk Without Leaving Me Time To Get A Breath Of Fresh Air; Then