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

However,  Chaine,  Who Had Just Perceived The Two Friends,  Held Out His

Hand To Them,  As If He Had Left Them Merely The Day Before. He Was

Calm,  Neither Proud Nor Ashamed Of His Booth,  And He Had Not Aged,

Having Still A Leathery Aspect; Though,  On The Other Hand,  His Nose

Had Completely Vanished Between His Cheeks,  Whilst His Mouth,  Clammy

With Prolonged Silence,  Was Buried In His Moustache And Beard.

'Hallo! So We Meet Again!' Said Sandoz,  Gaily. 'Do You Know,  Your

Paintings Have A Lot Of Effect?'

'The Old Humbug!' Added Claude. 'Why,  He Has His Little Salon All To

Himself. That's Very Cute Indeed.'

Chaine's Face Became Radiant,  And He Dropped The Remark: 'Of Course!'

Then,  As His Artistic Pride Was Roused,  He,  From Whom People Barely

Wrung Anything But Growls,  Gave Utterance To A Whole Sentence:

'Ah! It's Quite Certain That If I Had Had Any Money,  Like You Fellows,

I Should Have Made My Way,  Just As You Have Done,  In Spite Of

Everything.'

That Was His Conviction. He Had Never Doubted Of His Talent,  He Had

Simply Forsaken The Profession Because It Did Not Feed Him. When He

Visited The Louvre,  At Sight Of The Masterpieces Hanging There He Felt

Convinced That Time Alone Was Necessary To Turn Out Similar Work.

'Ah,  Me!' Said Claude,  Who Had Become Gloomy Again. 'Don't Regret What

You've Done; You Alone Have Succeeded. Business Is Brisk,  Eh?'

But Chaine Muttered Bitter Words. No,  No,  There Was Nothing Doing,  Not

Even In His Line. People Wouldn't Play For Prizes; All The Money Found

Its Way To The Wine-Shops. In Spite Of Buying Paltry Odds And Ends,

And Striking The Table With The Palm Of One's Hand,  So That The

Feather Might Not Indicate One Of The Big Prizes,  A Fellow Barely Had

Water To Drink Nowadays. Then,  As Some People Had Drawn Near,  He

Stopped Short In His Explanation To Call Out: 'Walk Up,  Walk Up,  At

Every Turn You Win!' In A Gruff Voice Which The Two Others Had Never

Known Him To Possess,  And Which Fairly Stupefied Them.

A Workman Who Was Carrying A Sickly Little Girl With Large Covetous

Eyes,  Let Her Play Two Turns. The Revolving Stands Grated And The

Nick-Nacks Danced Round In Dazzling Fashion,  While The Live Rabbit,

With His Ears Lowered,  Revolved And Revolved So Rapidly That The

Outline Of His Body Vanished And He Became Nothing But A Whitish

Circle. There Was A Moment Of Great Emotion,  For The Little Girl Had

Narrowly Missed Winning Him.

Then,  After Shaking Hands With Chaine,  Who Was Still Trembling With

The Fright This Had Given Him,  The Two Friends Walked Away.

'He's Happy,' Said Claude,  After They Had Gone Some Fifty Paces In

Silence.

'He!' Cried Sandoz; 'Why,  He Believes He Has Missed Becoming A Member

Of The Institute,  And It's Killing Him.'

Shortly After This Meeting,  And Towards The Middle Of August,  Sandoz

Devised A Real Excursion Which Would Take Up A Whole Day. He Had Met

Dubuche--Dubuche,  Careworn And Mournful,  Who Had Shown Himself

Plaintive And Affectionate,  Raking Up The Past And Inviting His Two

Old Chums To Lunch At La Richaudiere,  Where He Should Be Alone With

His Two Children For Another Fortnight. Why Shouldn't They Go And

Surprise Him There,  Since He Seemed So Desirous Of Renewing The Old

Intimacy? But In Vain Did Sandoz Repeat That He Had Promised Dubuche

On Oath To Bring Claude With Him; The Painter Obstinately Refused To

Go,  As If He Were Frightened At The Idea Of Again Beholding

Bennecourt,  The Seine,  The Islands,  All The Stretch Of Country Where

His Happy Years Lay Dead And Buried. It Was Necessary For Christine To

Interfere,  And He Finished By Giving Way,  Although Full Of Repugnance

To The Trip. It Precisely Happened That On The Day Prior To The

Appointment He Had Worked At His Painting Until Very Late,  Being Taken

With The Old Fever Again. And So The Next Morning--It Was Sunday

--Being Devoured With A Longing To Paint,  He Went Off Most

Reluctantly,  Tearing Himself Away From His Picture With A Pang. What

Was The Use Of Returning To Bennecourt? All That Was Dead,  It No

Longer Existed. Paris Alone Remained,  And Even In Paris There Was But

One View,  The Point Of The Cite,  That Vision Which Haunted Him Always

And Everywhere,  That One Corner Where He Ever Left His Heart.

Sandoz,  Finding Him Nervous In The Railway Carriage,  And Seeing That

His Eyes Remained Fixed On The Window As If He Had Been Leaving The

City--Which Had Gradually Grown Smaller And Seemed Shrouded In Mist

--For Years,  Did All He Could To Divert His Mind,  Telling Him,  For

Instance,  What He Knew About Dubuche's Real Position. At The Outset,

Old Margaillan,  Glorifying In His Bemedalled Son-In-Law,  Had Trotted

Him About And Introduced Him Everywhere As His Partner And Successor.

There Was A Fellow Who Would Conduct Business Briskly,  Who Would Build

Houses More Cheaply And In Finer Style Than Ever,  For Hadn't He Grown

Pale Over Books? But Dubuche's First Idea Proved Disastrous; On Some

Land Belonging To His Father-In-Law In Burgundy He Established A

Brickyard In So Unfavourable A Situation,  And After So Defective A

Plan,  That The Venture Resulted In The Sheer Loss Of Two Hundred

Thousand Francs. Then He Turned His Attention To Erecting Houses,

Insisting Upon Bringing Personal Ideas Into Execution,  A Certain

General Scheme Of His Which Would Revolutionise The Building Art.

These Ideas Were The Old Theories He Held From The Revolutionary Chums

Of His Youth,  Everything That He Had Promised He Would Realise When He

Was Free; But He Had Not Properly Reduced The Theories To Method,  And

He Applied Them Unseasonably,  With The Awkwardness Of A Pupil Lacking

The Sacred Fire; He Experimented With Terra-Cotta And Pottery

Ornamentation,  Large Bay Windows,  And Especially With The Employment

Of Iron--Iron Girders,  Iron Staircases,  And Iron Roofings; And As The

Employment Of These Materials Increased The Outlay,  He Again Ended

With A Catastrophe,  Which Was All The Greater As He Was A Pitiful

Manager,  And Had Lost His Head Since He Had Become Rich,  Rendered The

More Obtuse,  It Seemed,  By Money,  Quite Spoilt And At Sea,  Unable Even

To Revert To His Old Habits Of Industry. This Time Margaillan Grew

Angry; He For Thirty Years Had Been Buying Ground,  Building And

Selling Again,  Estimating At A Glance The Cost And Return Of House

Property; So Many Yards Of Building At So Much The Foot Having To

Yield So Many Suites Of Rooms At So Much Rent. He Wouldn't Have

Anything More To Do With A Fellow Who Blundered About Lime,  Bricks,

Millstones,  And In Fact Everything,  Who Employed Oak When Deal Would

Have Suited,  And Who Could Not Bring Himself To Cut Up A Storey--Like

A Consecrated Wafer--Into As Many Little Squares As Was Necessary. No,

No,  None Of That! He Rebelled Against Art,  After Having Been Ambitious

To Introduce A Little Of It Into His Routine,  In Order To Satisfy A

Long-Standing Worry About His Own Ignorance. And After That Matters

Had Gone From Bad To Worse,  Terrible Quarrels Had Arisen Between The

Son-In-Law And The Father-In-Law,  The Former Disdainful,  Intrenching

Himself Behind His Science,  And The Latter Shouting That The Commonest

Labourer Knew More Than An Architect Did. The Millions Were In Danger,

And One Fine Day Margaillan Turned Dubuche Out Of His Offices,

Forbidding Him Ever To Set Foot In Them Again,  Since He Did Not Even

Know How To Direct A Building-Yard Where Only Four Men Worked. It Was

A Disaster,  A Lamentable Failure,  The School Of Arts Collapsing,

Derided By A Mason!

At This Point Of Sandoz's Story,  Claude,  Who Had Begun To Listen To

His Friend,  Inquired:

'Then What Is Dubuche Doing Now?'

'I Don't Know--Nothing Probably,' Answered Sandoz. 'He Told Me That He

Was Anxious About His Children's Health,  And Was Taking Care Of Them.'

That Pale Woman,  Madame Margaillan,  As Slender As The Blade Of A

Knife,  Had Died Of Tubercular Consumption,  Which Was Plainly The

Hereditary Disease,  The Source Of The Family's Degeneracy,  For Her

Daughter,  Regine,  Had Been Coughing Ever Since Her Marriage. She Was

Now Drinking The Waters At Mont-Dore,  Whither She Had Not Dared To

Take Her Children,  As They Had Been Very Poorly The Year Before,  After

A Season Spent In That Part,  Where The Air Was Too Keen For Them. This

Explained The Scattering Of The Family: The Mother Over Yonder With

Her Maid; The Grandfather In Paris,  Where He Had Resumed His Great

Building Enterprises,  Battling Amid His Four Hundred Workmen,  And

Crushing The Idle And The Incapable Beneath His Contempt; And The

Father In Exile At La Richaudiere,  Set To Watch Over His Son And

Daughter,  Shut Up There,  After The Very First Struggle,  As If It Had

Broken Him Down For Life. In A Moment Of Effusion Dubuche Had Even Let

Sandoz Understand That As His Wife Was So Extremely Delicate He Now

Lived With Her Merely On Friendly Terms.

'A Nice Marriage,' Said Sandoz,  Simply,  By Way Of Conclusion.

It Was Ten O'clock When The Two Friends Rang At The Iron Gate Of La

Richaudiere. The Estate,  With Which They Were Not Acquainted,  Amazed

Them. There Was A Superb Park,  A Garden Laid Out In The French Style,

With Balustrades And Steps Spreading Away In Regal Fashion; Three Huge

Conservatories And A Colossal Cascade--Quite A Piece Of Folly,  With

Its Rocks Brought From Afar,  And The Quantity Of Cement And The Number

Of Conduits That Had Been Employed In Arranging It. Indeed,  The Owner

Had Sunk A Fortune In It,  Out Of Sheer Vanity. But What Struck The

Friends Still More Was The Melancholy,  Deserted Aspect Of The Domain;

The Gravel Of The Avenues Carefully Raked,  With Never A Trace Of

Footsteps; The Distant Expanses Quite Deserted,  Save That Now And Then

A Solitary Gardener Passed By; And The House Looking Lifeless,  With

All Its Windows Closed,  Excepting Two,  Which Were Barely Set Ajar.

However,  A Valet Who Had Decided To Show Himself Began To Question

Them,  And When He Learnt That They Wished To See 'Monsieur,' He Became