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

The Cite Rose Up And Called To Him From Amid The Vast Expanse Of

Stubble. However,  Sandoz's Proposal Aroused Memories In His Mind; And,

Softening Somewhat,  He Replied:

'Yes,  That's It,  We'll Have A Look.'

But As They Advanced Along The River Bank,  He Became Indignant And

Grieved. He Could Scarcely Recognise The Place. A Bridge Had Been

Built To Connect Bennecourt With Bonnieres: A Bridge,  Good Heavens! In

The Place Of The Old Ferry-Boat,  Grating Against Its Chain--The Old

Black Boat Which,  Cutting Athwart The Current,  Had Been So Full Of

Interest To The Artistic Eye. Moreover,  A Dam Established Down-Stream

At Port-Villez Had Raised The Level Of The River,  Most Of The Islands

Of Yore Were Now Submerged,  And The Little Armlets Of The Stream Had

Become Broader. There Were No More Pretty Nooks,  No More Rippling

Alleys Amid Which One Could Lose Oneself; It Was A Disaster That

Inclined One To Strangle All The River Engineers!

'Why,  That Clump Of Pollards Still Emerging From The Water On The

Left,' Cried Claude,  'Was The Barreux Island,  Where We Used To Chat

Together,  Lying On The Grass! You Remember,  Don't You? Ah! The

Scoundrels!'

Sandoz,  Who Could Never See A Tree Felled Without Shaking His Fist At

The Wood-Cutter,  Turned Pale With Anger,  And Felt Exasperated That The

Authorities Had Thus Dared To Mutilate Nature.

Then,  As Claude Approached His Old Home,  He Became Silent,  And His

Teeth Clenched. The House Had Been Sold To Some Middle-Class Folk,  And

Now There Was An Iron Gate,  Against Which He Pressed His Face. The

Rose-Bushes Were All Dead,  The Apricot Trees Were Dead Also; The

Garden,  Which Looked Very Trim,  With Its Little Pathways And Its

Square-Cut Beds Of Flowers And Vegetables,  Bordered With Box,  Was

Reflected In A Large Ball Of Plated Glass Set Upon A Stand In The Very

Centre Of It; And The House,  Newly Whitewashed And Painted At The

Corners And Round The Doors And Windows,  In A Manner To Imitate

Freestone,  Suggested Some Clownish Parvenu Awkwardly Arrayed In His

Sunday Toggery. The Sight Fairly Enraged The Painter. No,  No,  Nothing

Of Himself,  Nothing Of Christine,  Nothing Of The Great Love Of Their

Youth Remained There! He Wished To Look Still Further; He Turned Round

Behind The House,  And Sought For The Wood Of Oak Trees Where They Had

Left The Living Quiver Of Their Embraces; But The Wood Was Dead,  Dead

Like All The Rest,  Felled,  Sold,  And Burnt! Then He Made A Gesture Of

Anathema,  In Which He Cast All His Grief To That Stretch Of Country

Which Was Now So Changed That He Could Not Find In It One Single Token

Of His Past Life. And So A Few Years Sufficed To Efface The Spot Where

One Had Laboured,  Loved,  And Suffered! What Was The Use Of Man's Vain

Agitation If The Wind Behind Him Swept And Carried Away All The Traces

Of His Footsteps? He Had Rightly Realised That He Ought Not To Return

Thither,  For The Past Is Simply The Cemetery Of Our Illusions,  Where

Our Feet For Ever Stumble Against Tombstones!

'Let Us Go!' He Cried; 'Let Us Go At Once! It's Stupid To Torture

One's Heart Like This!'

When They Were On The New Bridge,  Sandoz Tried To Calm Him By Showing

Him The View Which Had Not Formerly Existed,  The Widened Bed Of The

Seine,  Full To The Brim,  As It Were,  And The Water Flowing Onward,

Proudly And Slowly. But This Water Failed To Interest Claude,  Until He

Reflected That It Was The Same Water Which,  As It Passed Through

Paris,  Had Bathed The Old Quay Walls Of The Cite; And Then He Felt

Touched,  He Leant Over The Parapet Of The Bridge For A Moment,  And

Thought That He Could Distinguish Glorious Reflections In

It--The Towers Of Notre-Dame,  And The Needle-Like Spire Of The

Sainte-Chapelle,  Carried Along By The Current Towards The Sea.

The Two Friends Missed The Three O'clock Train,  And It Was Real

Torture To Have To Spend Two Long Hours More In That Region,  Where

Everything Weighed So Heavily On Their Shoulders. Fortunately,  They

Had Forewarned Christine And Madame Sandoz That They Might Return By A

Night Train If They Were Detained. So They Resolved Upon A Bachelor

Dinner At A Restaurant On The Place Du Havre,  Hoping To Set Themselves

All Right Again By A Good Chat At Dessert As In Former Times. Eight

O'clock Was About To Strike When They Sat Down To Table.

Claude,  On Leaving The Terminus,  With His Feet Once More On The Paris

Pavement,  Had Lost His Nervous Agitation,  Like A Man Who At Last Finds

Himself Once More At Home. And With The Cold,  Absent-Minded Air Which

He Now Usually Displayed,  He Listened To Sandoz Trying To Enliven Him.

The Novelist Treated His Friend Like A Mistress Whose Head He Wished

To Turn; They Partook Of Delicate,  Highly Spiced Dishes And Heady

Wines. But Mirth Was Rebellious,  And Sandoz Himself Ended By Becoming

Gloomy. All His Hopes Of Immortality Were Shaken By His Excursion To

That Ungrateful Country Village,  That Bennecourt,  So Loved And So

Forgetful,  Where He And Claude Had Not Found A Single Stone Retaining

Any Recollection Of Them. If Things Which Are Eternal Forget So Soon,

Can One Place Any Reliance For One Hour On The Memory Of Man?

'Do You Know,  Old Fellow,' Said The Novelist,  'It's That Which

Sometimes Sends Me Into A Cold Sweat. Have You Ever Reflected That

Posterity May Not Be The Faultless Dispenser Of Justice That We Dream

Of? One Consoles Oneself For Being Insulted And Denied,  By Relying On

The Equity Of The Centuries To Come; Just As The Faithful Endure All

The Abominations Of This Earth In The Firm Belief Of Another Life,  In

Which Each Will Be Rewarded According To His Deserts. But Suppose

Paradise Exists No More For The Artist Than It Does For The Catholic,

Suppose That Future Generations Prolong The Misunderstanding And

Prefer Amiable Little Trifles To Vigorous Works! Ah! What A Sell It

Would Be,  Eh? To Have Led A Convict's Life--To Have Screwed Oneself

Down To One's Work--All For A Mere Delusion! Please Notice That It's

Quite Possible,  After All. There Are Some Consecrated Reputations

Which I Wouldn't Give A Rap For. Classical Education Has Deformed

Everything,  And Has Imposed Upon Us As Geniuses Men Of Correct,  Facile

Talent,  Who Follow The Beaten Track. To Them One May Prefer Men Of

Free Tendencies,  Whose Work Is At Times Unequal; But These Are Only

Known To A Few People Of Real Culture,  So That It Looks As If

Immortality Might Really Go Merely To The Middle-Class "Average"

Talent,  To The Men Whose Names Are Forced Into Our Brains At School,

When We Are Not Strong Enough To Defend Ourselves. But No,  No,  One

Mustn't Say Those Things; They Make Me Shudder! Should I Have The

Courage To Go On With My Task,  Should I Be Able To Remain Erect Amid

All The Jeering Around Me If I Hadn't The Consoling Illusion That I

Shall Some Day Be Appreciated?'

Claude Had Listened With His Dolorous Expression,  And He Now Made A

Gesture Of Indifference Tinged With Bitterness.

'Bah! What Does It Matter? Well,  There's Nothing Hereafter. We Are

Even Madder Than The Fools Who Kill Themselves For A Woman. When The

Earth Splits To Pieces In Space Like A Dry Walnut,  Our Works Won't Add

One Atom To Its Dust.'

'That's Quite True,' Summed Up Sandoz,  Who Was Very Pale. 'What's The

Use Of Trying To Fill Up The Void Of Space? And To Think That We Know

It,  And That Our Pride Still Battles All The Same!'

They Left The Restaurant,  Roamed About The Streets,  And Foundered

Again In The Depths Of A Cafe,  Where They Philosophised. They Had Come

By Degrees To Raking Up The Memories Of Their Childhood,  And This

Ended By Filling Their Hearts With Sadness. One O'clock In The Morning

Struck When They Decided To Go Home.

However,  Sandoz Talked Of Seeing Claude As Far As The Rue Tourlaque.

That August Night Was A Superb One,  The Air Was Warm,  The Sky Studded

With Stars. And As They Went The Round By Way Of The Quartier De

L'europe,  They Passed Before The Old Cafe Baudequin On The Boulevard

Des Batignolles. It Had Changed Hands Three Times. It Was No Longer

Arranged Inside In The Same Manner As Formerly; There Were Now A

Couple Of Billiard Tables On The Right Hand; And Several Strata Of

Customers Had Followed Each Other Thither,  One Covering The Other,  So

That The Old Frequenters Had Disappeared Like Buried Nations. However,

Curiosity,  The Emotion They Had Derived From All The Past Things They

Had Been Raking Up Together,  Induced Them To Cross The Boulevard And

To Glance Into The Cafe Through The Open Doorway. They Wanted To See

Their Table Of Yore,  On The Left Hand,  Right At The Back Of The Room.

'Oh,  Look!' Said Sandoz,  Stupefied.

'Gagniere!' Muttered Claude.

It Was Indeed Gagniere,  Seated All Alone At That Table At The End Of

The Empty Cafe. He Must Have Come From Melun For One Of The Sunday

Concerts To Which He Treated Himself; And Then,  In The Evening,  While

Astray In Paris,  An Old Habit Of His Legs Had Led Him To The Cafe

Baudequin. Not One Of The Comrades Ever Set Foot There Now,  And He,

Who Had Beheld Another Age,  Obstinately Remained There Alone. He Had

Not Yet Touched His Glass Of Beer; He Was Looking At It,  So Absorbed

In Thought That He Did Not Even Stir When The Waiters Began Piling The

Chairs On The Tables,  In Order That Everything Might Be Ready For The

Morrow's Sweeping.

The Two Friends Hurried Off,  Upset By The Sight Of That Dim Figure,

Seized As It Were With A Childish Fear Of Ghosts. They Parted In The

Rue Tourlaque.

'Ah! That Poor Devil Dubuche!' Said Sandoz As He Pressed Claude's

Hand,  'He Spoilt Our Day For Us.'

As Soon As November Had Come Round,  And When All The Old Friends Were

Back In Paris Again,  Sandoz Thought Of Gathering Them Together At One

Of Those Thursday Dinners Which Had Remained A Habit With Him. They

Were Always His Greatest Delight. The Sale Of His Books Was

Increasing,  And He Was Growing Rich; The Flat In The Rue De Londres

Was Becoming Quite Luxurious Compared With The Little House At

Batignolles; But He Himself Remained Immutable. On This Occasion,  He

Was Anxious,  In