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

It Had Struck Twelve,  And Claude Was Working At His Picture When There

Was A Loud,  Familiar Knock At The Door. With An Instinctive Yet

Involuntary Impulse,  The Artist Slipped The Sketch Of Christine's

Head,  By The Aid Of Which He Was Remodelling The Principal Figure Of

His Picture,  Into A Portfolio. After Which He Decided To Open The

Door.

'You,  Pierre!' He Exclaimed,  'Already!'

Pierre Sandoz,  A Friend Of His Boyhood,  Was About Twenty-Two,  Very

Dark,  With A Round And Determined Head,  A Square Nose,  And Gentle

Eyes,  Set In Energetic Features,  Girt Round With A Sprouting Beard.

'I Breakfasted Earlier Than Usual,' He Answered,  'In Order To Give You

A Long Sitting. The Devil! You Are Getting On With It.'

He Had Stationed Himself In Front Of The Picture,  And He Added Almost

Immediately: 'Hallo! You Have Altered The Character Of Your Woman's

Features!'

Then Came A Long Pause; They Both Kept Staring At The Canvas. It

Measured About Sixteen Feet By Ten,  And Was Entirely Painted Over,

Though Little Of The Work Had Gone Beyond The Roughing-Out. This

Roughing-Out,  Hastily Dashed Off,  Was Superb In Its Violence And

Ardent Vitality Of Colour. A Flood Of Sunlight Streamed Into A Forest

Clearing,  With Thick Walls Of Verdure; To The Left,  Stretched A Dark

Glade With A Small Luminous Speck In The Far Distance. On The Grass,

Amidst All The Summer Vegetation,  Lay A Nude Woman With One Arm

Supporting Her Head,  And Though Her Eyes Were Closed She Smiled Amidst

The Golden Shower That Fell Around Her. In The Background,  Two Other

Women,  One Fair,  And The Other Dark,  Wrestled Playfully,  Setting Light

Flesh Tints Amidst All The Green Leaves. And,  As The Painter Had

Wanted Something Dark By Way Of Contrast In The Foreground,  He Had

Contented Himself With Seating There A Gentleman,  Dressed In A Black

Velveteen Jacket. This Gentleman Had His Back Turned And The Only Part

Of His Flesh That One Saw Was His Left Hand,  With Which He Was

Supporting Himself On The Grass.

'The Woman Promises Well,' Said Sandoz,  At Last; 'But,  Dash It,  There

Will Be A Lot Of Work In All This.'

Claude,  With His Eyes Blazing In Front Of His Picture,  Made A Gesture

Of Confidence. 'I've Lots Of Time From Now Till The Salon. One Can Get

Through A Deal Of Work In Six Months. And Perhaps This Time I'll Be

Able To Prove That I Am Not A Brute.'

Thereupon He Set Up A Whistle,  Inwardly Pleased At The Sketch He Had

Made Of Christine's Head,  And Buoyed Up By One Of Those Flashes Of

Hope Whence He So Often Dropped Into Torturing Anguish,  Like An Artist

Whom Passion For Nature Consumed.

'Come,  No More Idling,' He Shouted. 'As You're Here,  Let Us Set To.'

Sandoz,  Out Of Pure Friendship,  And To Save Claude The Cost Of A

Model,  Had Offered To Pose For The Gentleman In The Foreground. In

Four Or Five Sundays,  The Only Day Of The Week On Which He Was Free,

The Figure Would Be Finished. He Was Already Donning The Velveteen

Jacket,  When A Sudden Reflection Made Him Stop.

'But,  I Say,  You Haven't Really Lunched,  Since You Were Working When I

Came In. Just Go Down And Have A Cutlet While I Wait Here.'

The Idea Of Losing Time Revolted Claude. 'I Tell You I Have

Breakfasted. Look At The Saucepan. Besides,  You Can See There's A

Crust Of Bread Left. I'll Eat It. Come,  To Work,  To Work,  Lazy-Bones.'

And He Snatched Up His Palette And Caught His Brushes,  Saying,  As He

Did So,  'Dubuche Is Coming To Fetch Us This Evening,  Isn't He?'

'Yes,  About Five O'clock.'

'Well,  That's All Right Then. We'll Go Down To Dinner Directly He

Comes. Are You Ready? The Hand More To The Left,  And Your Head A

Little More Forward.'

Having Arranged Some Cushions,  Sandoz Settled Himself On The Couch In

The Required Attitude. His Back Was Turned,  But All The Same The

Conversation Continued For Another Moment,  For He Had That Very

Morning Received A Letter From Plassans,  The Little Provencal Town

Where He And The Artist Had Known Each Other When They Were Wearing

Out Their First Pairs Of Trousers On The Eighth Form Of The Local

College. However,  They Left Off Talking. The One Was Working With His

Mind Far Away From The World,  While The Other Grew Stiff And Cramped

With The Sleepy Weariness Of Protracted Immobility.

It Was Only When Claude Was Nine Years Old That A Lucky Chance Had

Enabled Him To Leave Paris And Return To The Little Place In Provence,

Where He Had Been Born. His Mother,  A Hardworking Laundress,* Whom His

Ne'er-Do-Well Father Had Scandalously Deserted,  Had Afterwards Married

An Honest Artisan Who Was Madly In Love With Her. But In Spite Of

Their Endeavours,  They Failed To Make Both Ends Meet. Hence They

Gladly Accepted The Offer Of An Elderly And Well-To-Do Townsman To

Send The Lad To School And Keep Him With Him. It Was The Generous

Freak Of An Eccentric Amateur Of Painting,  Who Had Been Struck By The

Little Figures That The Urchin Had Often Daubed. And Thus For Seven

Years Claude Had Remained In The South,  At First Boarding At The

College,  And Afterwards Living With His Protector. The Latter,

However,  Was Found Dead In His Bed One Morning. He Left The Lad A

Thousand Francs A Year,  With The Faculty Of Disposing Of The Principal

When He Reached The Age Of Twenty-Five. Claude,  Already Seized With A

Passion For Painting,  Immediately Left School Without Even Attempting

To Secure A Bachelor's Degree,  And Rushed To Paris Whither His Friend

Sandoz Had Preceded Him.

  * Gervaise Of 'The Dram Shop'(L'assommoir).--Ed.

At The College Of Plassans,  While Still In The Lowest Form,  Claude

Lantier,  Pierre Sandoz,  And Another Lad Named Louis Dubuche,  Had Been

Three Inseparables. Sprung From Three Different Classes Of Society,  By

No Means Similar In Character,  But Simply Born In The Same Year At A

Few Months' Interval,  They Had Become Friends At Once And For Aye,

Impelled Thereto By Certain Secret Affinities,  The Still Vague

Promptings Of A Common Ambition,  The Dawning Consciousness Of

Possessing Greater Intelligence Than The Set Of Dunces Who Maltreated

Them. Sandoz's Father,  A Spaniard,  Who Had Taken Refuge In France In

Consequence Of Some Political Disturbances In Which He Had Been Mixed

Up,  Had Started,  Near Plassans,  A Paper Mill With New Machinery Of His

Own Invention. When He Had Died,  Heart-Broken By The Petty Local

Jealousy That Had Sought To Hamper Him In Every Way,  His Widow Had

Found Herself In So Involved A Position,  And Burdened With So Many

Tangled Law Suits,  That The Whole Of Her Remaining Means Were

Swallowed Up. She Was A Native Of Burgundy. Yielding To Her Hatred Of

The Provencals,  And Laying At Their Door Even The Slow Paralysis From

Which She Was Suffering,  She Removed To Paris With Her Son,  Who Then

Supported Her Out Of A Meagre Clerk's Salary,  He Himself Haunted By

The Vision Of Literary Glory. As For Dubuche,  He Was The Son Of A

Baker Of Plassans. Pushed By His Mother,  A Covetous And Ambitious

Woman,  He Had Joined His Friends In Paris Later On. He Was Attending

The Courses At The School Of Arts As A Pupil Architect,  Living As Best

He Might Upon The Last Five-Franc Pieces That His Parents Staked On

His Chances,  With The Obstinacy Of Usurers Discounting The Future At

The Rate Of A Hundred Per Cent.

'Dash It!' At Last Exclaimed Sandoz,  Breaking The Intense Silence That

Hung Upon The Room. 'This Position Isn't At All Easy; My Wrist Feels

Broken. Can I Move For A Moment?'

Claude Let Him Stretch Himself Without Answering. He Was Now Working

At The Velveteen Jacket,  Laying On The Colour With Thick Strokes,

However,  Stepping Backward And Blinking,  He Suddenly Burst Into Loud

Laughter At Some Reminiscence.

'I Say,  Do You Recollect,  When We Were In The Sixth Form,  How,  One

Day,  Pouillaud Lighted The Candles In That Idiot Lalubie's Cupboard?

And How Frightened Lalubie Was When,  Before Going To His Desk,  He

Opened The Cupboard To Take His Books,  And Found It Transformed Into A

Mortuary Chapel? Five Hundred Lines To Every One In The Form.'

Sandoz,  Unable To Withstand The Contagion Of The Other's Gaiety,  Flung

Himself Back On The Couch. As He Resumed His Pose,  He Remarked,  'Ah,

That Brute Of A Pouillaud. You Know That In His Letter This Morning He

Tells Me Of Lalubie's Forthcoming Marriage. The Old Hack Is Marrying A

Pretty Girl. But You Know Her,  She's The Daughter Of Gallissard,  The

Haberdasher--The Little Fair-Haired Girl Whom We Used To Serenade!'

Once On The Subject Of Their Recollections There Was No Stopping Them,

Though Claude Went On Painting With Growing Feverishness,  While

Pierre,  Still Turned Towards The Wall,  Spoke Over His Shoulders,

Shaking Every Now And Then With Excitement.

First Of All Came Recollections Of The College,  The Old,  Dank Convent,

That Extended As Far As The Town Ramparts; The Two Courtyards With

Their Huge Plane Trees; The Slimy Sedge-Covered Pond,  Where They Had

Learned To Swim,  And The Class-Rooms With Dripping Plaster Walls On

The Ground Floor; Then The Refectory,  With Its Atmosphere Constantly

Poisoned By The Fumes Of Dish-Water; The Dormitory Of The Little Ones,

Famous For Its Horrors,  The Linen Room,  And The Infirmary,  Full Of

Gentle Sisters,  Nuns In Black Gowns Who Looked So Sweet Beneath Their

White Coifs. What A To-Do There Had Been When Sister Angela,  She Whose

Madonna-Like Face Had Turned The Heads Of All The Big Fellows,

Disappeared One Morning With Hermeline,  A Stalwart First-Form Lad,

Who,  From Sheer Love,  Purposely Cut His Hands With His Penknife So As

To Get An Opportunity Of Seeing And Speaking To Her