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

Leaned Heavily On Their Parasols,  Sinking,  But Still Obstinate. Every

Eye Was Turned Anxiously And Supplicatingly Towards The Settees Laden

With People. And All That Those Thousands Of Sight-Seers Were Now

Conscious Of,  Was That Last Fatigue Of Theirs,  Which Made Their Legs

Totter,  Drew Their Features Together,  And Tortured Them With Headache

--That Headache Peculiar To Fine-Art Shows,  Which Is Caused By The

Constant Straining Of One's Neck And The Blinding Dance Of Colours.

Alone On The Little Settee Where At Noon Already They Had Been Talking

About Their Private Affairs,  The Two Decorated Gentlemen Were Still

Chatting Quietly,  With Their Minds A Hundred Leagues Away From The

Place. Perhaps They Had Returned Thither,  Perhaps They Had Not Even

Stirred From The Spot.

'And So,' Said The Fat One,  'You Went In,  Pretending Not To

Understand?'

'Quite So,' Replied The Thin One. 'I Looked At Them And Took Off My

Hat. It Was Clear,  Eh?'

'Astonishing! You Really Astonish Me,  My Dear Friend.'

Claude,  However,  Only Heard The Low Beating Of His Heart,  And Only

Beheld The 'Dead Child' Up There In The Air,  Near The Ceiling. He Did

Not Take His Eyes Off It,  A Prey To A Fascination Which Held Him

There,  Quite Independent Of His Will. The Crowd Turned Round Him,

People's Feet Trod On His Own,  He Was Pushed And Carried Away; And,

Like Some Inert Object,  He Abandoned Himself,  Waved About,  And

Ultimately Found Himself Again On The Same Spot As Before Without

Having Once Lowered His Head,  Quite Ignorant Of What Was Occurring

Below,  All His Life Being Concentrated Up Yonder Beside His Work,  His

Little Jacques,  Swollen In Death. Two Big Tears Which Stood Motionless

Between His Eyelids Prevented Him From Seeing Clearly. And It Seemed

To Him As If He Would Never Have Time To See Enough.

Then Sandoz,  In His Deep Compassion,  Pretended He Did Not Perceive His

Old Friend; It Was As If He Wished To Leave Him There,  Beside The Tomb

Of His Wrecked Life. Their Comrades Once More Went Past In A Band.

Fagerolles And Jory Darted On Ahead,  And,  Mahoudeau Having Asked

Sandoz Where Claude's Picture Was Hung,  The Novelist Told A Lie,  Drew

Him Aside And Took Him Off. All Of Them Went Away.

In The Evening Christine Only Managed To Draw Curt Words From Claude;

Everything Was Going On All Right,  Said He; The Public Showed No

Ill-Humour; The Picture Had A Good Effect,  Though It Was Hung Perhaps

Rather High Up. However,  Despite This Semblance Of Cold Tranquillity,

He Seemed So Strange That She Became Frightened.

After Dinner,  As She Returned From Carrying The Dirty Plates Into The

Kitchen,  She No Longer Found Him Near The Table. He Had Opened A

Window Which Overlooked Some Waste Ground,  And He Stood There,  Leaning

Out To Such A Degree That She Could Scarcely See Him. At This She

Sprang Forward,  Terrified,  And Pulled Him Violently By His Jacket.

'Claude! Claude! What Are You Doing?'

He Turned Round,  With His Face As White As A Sheet And His Eyes

Haggard.

'I'm Looking,' He Said.

But She Closed The Window With Trembling Hands,  And After That

Significant Incident Such Anguish Clung To Her That She No Longer

Slept At Night-Time.

Claude Set To Work Again On The Very Next Day,  And Months Elapsed,

Indeed The Whole Summer Went By,  In Heavy Quietude. He Had Found A

Job,  Some Little Paintings Of Flowers For England,  The Proceeds Of

Which Sufficed For Their Daily Bread. All His Available Time Was Again

Devoted To His Large Canvas,  And He No Longer Went Into The Same Fits

Of Anger Over It,  But Seemed To Resign Himself To That Eternal Task,

Evincing Obstinate,  Hopeless Industry. However,  His Eyes Retained

Their Crazy Expression--One Could See The Death Of Light,  As It Were,

In Them,  When They Gazed Upon The Failure Of His Existence.

About This Period Sandoz Also Experienced Great Grief. His Mother

Died,  His Whole Life Was Upset--That Life Of Three Together,  So Homely

In Its Character,  And Shared Merely By A Few Friends. He Began To Hate

The Pavilion Of The Rue Nollet,  And,  Moreover,  Success Suddenly

Declared Itself With Respect To His Books,  Which Hitherto Had Sold But

Moderately Well. So,  Prompted By The Advent Of Comparative Wealth,  He

Rented In The Rue De Londres A Spacious Flat,  The Arrangements Of

Which Occupied Him And His Wife For Several Months. Sandoz's Grief Had

Drawn Him Closer To Claude Again,  Both Being Disgusted With

Everything. After The Terrible Blow Of The Salon,  The Novelist Had

Felt Very Anxious About His Old Chum,  Divining That Something Had

Irreparably Snapped Within Him,  That There Was Some Wound By Which

Life Ebbed Away Unseen. Then,  However,  Finding Claude So Cold And

Quiet,  He Ended By Growing Somewhat Reassured.

Sandoz Often Walked Up To The Rue Tourlaque,  And Whenever He Found

Only Christine At Home,  He Questioned Her,  Realising That She Also

Lived In Apprehension Of A Calamity Of Which She Never Spoke. Her Face

Bore A Look Of Worry,  And Now And Again She Started Nervously,  Like A

Mother Who Watches Over Her Child And Trembles At The Slightest Sound,

With The Fear That Death May Be Entering The Chamber.

One July Morning Sandoz Asked Her: 'Well,  Are You Pleased? Claude's

Quiet,  He Works A Deal.'

She Gave The Large Picture Her Usual Glance,  A Side Glance Full Of

Terror And Hatred.

'Yes,  Yes,  He Works,' She Said. 'He Wants To Finish Everything Else

Before Taking Up The Woman Again.' And Without Confessing The Fear

That Harassed Her,  She Added In A Lower Tone: 'But His Eyes--Have You

Noticed His Eyes? They Always Have The Same Wild Expression. I Know

Very Well That He Lies,  Despite His Pretence Of Taking Things So

Easily. Pray,  Come And See Him,  And Take Him Out With You,  So As To

Change The Current Of His Thoughts. He Only Has You Left; Help Me,  Do

Help Me!'

After That Sandoz Diligently Devised Motives For Various Walks,

Arriving At Claude's Early In The Morning,  And Carrying Him Away From

His Work Perforce. It Was Almost Always Necessary To Drag Him From His

Steps,  On Which He Habitually Sat,  Even When He Was Not Painting. A

Feeling Of Weariness Stopped Him,  A Kind Of Torpor Benumbed Him For

Long Minutes,  During Which He Did Not Give A Single Stroke With The

Brush. In Those Moments Of Mute Contemplation,  His Gaze Reverted With

Pious Fervour To The Woman's Figure Which He No Longer Touched: It Was

Like A Hesitating Desire Combined With Sacred Awe,  A Passion Which He

Refused To Satisfy,  As He Felt Certain That It Would Cost Him His

Life. When He Set To Work Again At The Other Figures And The

Background Of The Picture,  He Well Knew That The Woman's Figure Was

Still There,  And His Glance Wavered Whenever He Espied It; He Felt

That He Would Only Remain Master Of Himself As Long As He Did Not

Touch It Again.

One Evening,  Christine,  Who Now Visited At Sandoz's And Never Missed A

Single Thursday There,  In The Hope Of Seeing Her Big Sick Child Of An

Artist Brighten Up In The Society Of His Friends,  Took The Novelist

Aside And Begged Him To Drop In At Their Place On The Morrow. And On

The Next Day Sandoz,  Who,  As It Happened,  Wanted To Take Some Notes

For A Novel,  On The Other Side Of Montmartre,  Went In Search Of

Claude,  Carried Him Off And Kept Him Idling About Until Night-Time.

On This Occasion They Went As Far As The Gate Of Clignancourt,  Where A

Perpetual Fair Was Held,  With Merry-Go-Rounds,  Shooting-Galleries,  And

Taverns,  And On Reaching The Spot They Were Stupefied To Find

Themselves Face To Face With Chaine,  Who Was Enthroned In A Large And

Stylish Booth. It Was A Kind Of Chapel,  Highly Ornamented. There Were

Four Circular Revolving Stands Set In A Row And Loaded With Articles

In China And Glass,  All Sorts Of Ornaments And Nick-Nacks,  Whose

Gilding And Polish Shone Amid An Harmonica-Like Tinkling Whenever The

Hand Of A Gamester Set The Stand In Motion. It Then Spun Round,

Grating Against A Feather,  Which,  On The Rotatory Movement Ceasing,

Indicated What Article,  If Any,  Had Been Won. The Big Prize Was A Live

Rabbit,  Adorned With Pink Favours,  Which Waltzed And Revolved

Unceasingly,  Intoxicated With Fright. And All This Display Was Set In

Red Hangings,  Scalloped At The Top; And Between The Curtains One Saw

Three Pictures Hanging At The Rear Of The Booth,  As In The Sanctuary

Of Some Tabernacle. They Were Chaine's Three Masterpieces,  Which Now

Followed Him From Fair To Fair,  From One End Of Paris To The Other.

The 'Woman Taken In Adultery' In The Centre,  The Copy Of The Mantegna

On The Left,  And Mahoudeau's Stove On The Right. Of An Evening,  When

The Petroleum Lamps Flamed And The Revolving Stands Glowed And

Radiated Like Planets,  Nothing Seemed Finer Than Those Pictures

Hanging Amid The Blood-Tinged Purple Of The Hangings,  And A Gaping

Crowd Often Flocked To View Them.

The Sight Was Such That It Wrung An Exclamation From Claude: 'Ah,  Good

Heavens! But Those Paintings Look Very Well--They Were Surely Intended

For This.'

The Mantegna,  So Naively Harsh In Treatment,  Looked Like Some Faded

Coloured Print Nailed There For The Delectation Of Simple-Minded Folk;

Whilst The Minutely Painted Stove,  All Awry,  Hanging Beside The

Gingerbread Christ Absolving The Adulterous Woman,  Assumed An

Unexpectedly Gay Aspect.