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

'Ah! Dash It! We Are Here At All Events. What Will You Have To Eat?'

Claude Made A Gesture Of Indifference. The Lunch Was Execrable; There

Was Some Trout Softened By Over-Boiling,  Some Undercut Of Beef Dried

Up In The Oven,  Some Asparagus Smelling Of Moist Linen,  And,  In

Addition,  One Had To Fight To Get Served; For The Hustled Waiters,

Losing Their Heads,  Remained In Distress In The Narrow Passages Which

The Chairs Were Constantly Blocking. Behind The Hangings On The Left,

One Could Hear A Racket Of Saucepans And Crockery; The Kitchen Being

Installed There On The Sand,  Like One Of Those Kermesse Cook-Shops Set

Up By The Roadside In The Open Air.

Sandoz And Claude Had To Eat,  Seated Obliquely And Half Strangled

Between Two Parties Of People Whose Elbows Almost Ended By Getting

Into Their Plates; And Each Time That A Waiter Passed He Gave Their

Chairs A Shake With His Hips. However,  The Inconvenience,  Like The

Abominable Cookery,  Made One Gay. People Jested About The Dishes,

Different Tables Fraternised Together,  Common Misfortune Brought About

A Kind Of Pleasure Party. Strangers Ended By Sympathising; Friends

Kept Up Conversations,  Although They Were Seated Three Rows Distant

From One Another,  And Were Obliged To Turn Their Heads And Gesticulate

Over Their Neighbours' Shoulders. The Women Particularly Became

Animated,  At First Rather Anxious As To The Crush,  And Then Ungloving

Their Hands,  Catching Up Their Skirts,  And Laughing At The First

Thimbleful Of Neat Wine They Drank.

However,  Sandoz,  Who Had Renounced Finishing His Meat,  Raised His

Voice Amid The Terrible Hubbub Caused By The Chatter And The Serving:

'A Bit Of Cheese,  Eh? And Let's Try To Get Some Coffee.'

Claude,  Whose Eyes Looked Dreamy,  Did Not Hear. He Was Gazing Into The

Garden. From His Seat He Could See The Central Clump Of Verdure,  Some

Lofty Palms Which Stood In Relief Against The Grey Hangings With Which

The Garden Was Decorated All Round. A Circle Of Statues Was Set Out

There; And You Could See The Back Of A Faun; The Profile Of A Young

Girl With Full Cheeks; The Face Of A Bronze Gaul,  A Colossal Bit Of

Romanticism Which Irritated One By Its Stupid Assumption Of

Patriotism; The Trunk Of A Woman Hanging By The Wrists,  Some Andromeda

Of The Place Pigalle; And Others,  And Others Still Following The Bends

Of The Pathways; Rows Of Shoulders And Hips,  Heads,  Breasts,  Legs,  And

Arms,  All Mingling And Growing Indistinct In The Distance. On The Left

Stretched A Line Of Busts--Such Delightful Ones--Furnishing A Most

Comical And Uncommon Suite Of Noses. There Was The Huge Pointed Nose

Of A Priest,  The Tip-Tilted Nose Of A Soubrette,  The Handsome

Classical Nose Of A Fifteenth-Century Italian Woman,  The Mere Fancy

Nose Of A Sailor--In Fact,  Every Kind Of Nose,  Both The Magistrate's

And The Manufacturer's,  And The Nose Of The Gentleman Decorated With

The Legion Of Honour--All Of Them Motionless And Ranged In Endless

Succession!

However,  Claude Saw Nothing Of Them; To Him They Were But Grey Spots

In The Hazy,  Greenish Light. His Stupor Still Lasted,  And He Was Only

Conscious Of One Thing,  The Luxuriousness Of The Women's Dresses,  Of

Which He Had Formed A Wrong Estimate Amid The Pushing In The

Galleries,  And Which Were Here Freely Displayed,  As If The Wearers Had

Been Promenading Over The Gravel In The Conservatory Of Some Chateau.

All The Elegance Of Paris Passed By,  The Women Who Had Come To Show

Themselves,  In Dresses Thoughtfully Combined And Destined To Be

Described In The Morrow's Newspapers. People Stared A Great Deal At An

Actress,  Who Walked About With A Queen-Like Tread,  On The Arm Of A

Gentleman Who Assumed The Complacent Airs Of A Prince Consort. The

Women Of Society Looked Like So Many Hussies,  And They All Of Them

Took Stock Of One Another With That Slow Glance Which Estimates The

Value Of Silk And The Length Of Lace,  And Which Ferrets Everywhere,

From The Tips Of Boots To The Feathers Upon Bonnets. This Was Neutral

Ground,  So To Say; Some Ladies Who Were Seated Had Drawn Their Chairs

Together,  After The Fashion In The Garden Of The Tuileries,  And

Occupied Themselves Exclusively With Criticising Those Of Their Own

Sex Who Passed By. Two Female Friends Quickened Their Pace,  Laughing.

Another Woman,  All Alone,  Walked Up And Down,  Mute,  With A Black Look

In Her Eyes. Some Others,  Who Had Lost One Another,  Met Again,  And

Began Ejaculating About The Adventure. And,  Meantime,  The Dark Moving

Mass Of Men Came To A Standstill,  Then Set Off Again Till It Stopped

Short Before A Bit Of Marble,  Or Eddied Back To A Bit Of Bronze. And

Among The Mere Bourgeois,  Who Were Few In Number,  Though All Of Them

Looked Out Of Their Element There,  Moved Men With Celebrated Names

--All The _Illustrations_ Of Paris. A Name Of Resounding Glory

Re-Echoed As A Fat,  Ill-Clad Gentleman Passed By; The Winged Name Of A

Poet Followed As A Pale Man With A Flat,  Common Face Approached. A

Living Wave Was Rising From This Crowd In The Even,  Colourless Light

When Suddenly A Flash Of Sunshine,  From Behind The Clouds Of A Final

Shower,  Set The Glass Panes On High Aflame,  Making The Stained Window

On The Western Side Resplendent,  And Raining Down In Golden Particles

Through The Still Atmosphere; And Then Everything Became Warm--The

Snowy Statues Amid The Shiny Green Stuff,  The Soft Lawns Parted By The

Yellow Sand Of The Pathways,  The Rich Dresses With Their Glossy Satin

And Bright Beads,  Even The Very Voices,  Whose Hilarious Murmur Seemed

To Crackle Like A Bright Fire Of Vine Shoots. Some Gardeners,

Completing The Arrangements Of The Flower-Beds,  Turned On The Taps Of

The Stand-Pipes And Promenaded About With Their Pots,  The Showers

Squirting From Which Came Forth Again In Tepid Steam From The Drenched

Grass. And Meanwhile A Plucky Sparrow,  Who Had Descended From The Iron

Girders,  Despite The Number Of People,  Dipped His Beak In The Sand In

Front Of The Buffet,  Eating Some Crumbs Which A Young Woman Threw Him

By Way Of Amusement. Of All The Tumult,  However,  Claude Only Heard The

Ocean-Like Din Afar,  The Rumbling Of The People Rolling Onwards In The

Galleries. And A Recollection Came To Him,  He Remembered That Noise

Which Had Burst Forth Like A Hurricane In Front Of His Picture At The

Salon Of The Rejected. But Nowadays People No Longer Laughed At Him;

Upstairs The Giant Roar Of Paris Was Acclaiming Fagerolles!

It So Happened That Sandoz,  Who Had Turned Round,  Said To Claude:

'Hallo! There's Fagerolles!'

And,  Indeed,  Fagerolles And Jory Had Just Laid Hands On A Table Near

By Without Noticing Their Friends,  And The Journalist,  Continuing In

His Gruff Voice A Conversation Which Had Previously Begun,  Remarked:

'Yes,  I Saw His "Dead Child"! Ah! The Poor Devil! What An Ending!'

But Fagerolles Nudged Jory,  And The Latter,  Having Caught Sight Of His

Two Old Comrades,  Immediately Added:

'Ah! That Dear Old Claude! How Goes It,  Eh? You Know That I Haven't

Yet Seen Your Picture. But I'm Told That It's Superb.'

'Superb!' Declared Fagerolles,  Who Then Began To Express His Surprise.

'So You Lunched Here. What An Idea! Everything Is So Awfully Bad. We

Two Have Just Come From Ledoyen's. Oh! Such A Crowd And Such Hustling,

Such Mirth! Bring Your Table Nearer And Let Us Chat A Bit.'

They Joined The Two Tables Together. But Flatterers And Petitioners

Were Already After The Triumphant Young Master. Three Friends Rose Up

And Noisily Saluted Him From Afar. A Lady Became Smilingly

Contemplative When Her Husband Had Whispered His Name In Her Ear. And

The Tall,  Thin Fellow,  The Artist Whose Picture Had Been Badly Hung,

And Who Had Pursued Him Since The Morning,  As Enraged As Ever,  Left A

Table Where He Was Seated At The Further End Of The Buffet,  And Again

Hurried Forward To Complain,  Imperatively Demanding 'The Line' At

Once.

'Oh! Go To The Deuce!' At Last Cried Fagerolles,  His Patience And

Amiability Exhausted. And He Added,  When The Other Had Gone Off,

Mumbling Some Indistinct Threats: 'It's True; A Fellow Does All He Can

To Be Obliging,  But Those Chaps Would Drive One Mad! All Of Them On

The "Line"! Leagues Of "Line" Then! Ah! What A Business It Is To Be A

Committee-Man! One Wears Out One's Legs,  And One Only Reaps Hatred As

Reward.'

Claude,  Who Was Looking At Him With His Oppressed Air,  Seemed To Wake

Up For A Moment,  And Murmured:

'I Wrote To You; I Wanted To Go And See You To Thank You. Bongrand

Told Me About All The Trouble You Had. So Thanks Again.'

But Fagerolles Hastily Broke In:

'Tut,  Tut! I Certainly Owed That Much To Our Old Friendship. It's I

Who Am Delighted To Have Given You Any Pleasure.'

He Showed The Embarrassment Which Always Came Upon Him In Presence Of

The Acknowledged Master Of His Youth,  That Kind Of Humility Which

Filled Him Perforce When He Was With The Man Whose Mute Disdain,  Even

At This Moment,  Sufficed To Spoil All His Triumph.

'Your Picture Is Very Good,' Slowly Added Claude,  Who Wished To Be

Kind-Hearted And Generous.

This Simple Praise Made Fagerolles' Heart Swell With Exaggerated,

Irresistible Emotion,  Springing He Knew Not Whence; And This Rascal,

Who Believed In Nothing,  Who Was Usually So Proficient In Humbug,

Answered In A Shaky Voice:

'Ah! My Dear Fellow,  Ah! It's Very Kind Of You To Tell Me That!'

Sandoz Had At Last Obtained Two Cups Of Coffee,  And As The Waiter Had

Forgotten To Bring Any Sugar,  He Had To Content Himself With Some

Pieces Which A Party Had Left On An Adjoining Table. A Few Tables,

Indeed,  Had Now Become Vacant,  But The General Freedom Had Increased,

And One Woman's Laughter Rang Out So Loudly That Every Head Turned

Round. The Men Were Smoking,  And A Bluish Cloud Slowly Rose Above The

Straggling Tablecloths,  Stained By Wine And Littered With Dirty Plates

And Dishes. When Fagerolles,  On His Aide,  Succeeded In Obtaining Two

Glasses Of Chartreuse For Himself And Jory,  He Began To Talk To

Sandoz,  Whom He Treated With A Certain Amount Of Deference,  Divining

That The Novelist Might Become A Power. And Jory Thereupon

Appropriated Claude,  Who Had Again Become Mournful And Silent.

'You Know,  My Dear Fellow,' Said The Journalist,  'I Didn't Send You

Any Announcement Of My Marriage. On Account Of Our Position We Managed

It On The Quiet Without Inviting Any Guests. All The Same,  I Should

Have Liked To Let You Know.