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

After That Henriette And Sandoz,  Who Were In Consternation,  Witnessed

The Rout Of Their Menu. The Truffle Salad,  The Ice,  The Dessert,

Everything Was Swallowed Without Being At All Appreciated Amidst The

Rising Anger Of The Quarrel; And The Chambertin And Sparkling Moselle

Were Imbibed As If They Had Merely Been Water. In Vain Did Henriette

Smile,  While Sandoz Good-Naturedly Tried To Calm Them By Making

Allowances For Human Weakness. Not One Of Them Retreated From His

Position; A Single Word Made Them Spring Upon Each Other. There Was

None Of The Vague Boredom,  The Somniferous Satiety Which At Times Had

Saddened Their Old Gatherings; At Present There Was Real Ferocity In

The Struggle,  A Longing To Destroy One Another. The Tapers Of The

Hanging Lamp Flared Up,  The Painted Flowers Of The Earthenware On The

Walls Bloomed,  The Table Seemed To Have Caught Fire Amid The Upsetting

Of Its Symmetrical Arrangements And The Violence Of The Talk,  That

Demolishing Onslaught Of Chatter Which Had Filled Them With Fever For

A Couple Of Hours Past.

And Amid The Racket,  When Henriette Made Up Her Mind To Rise So As To

Silence Them,  Claude At Length Remarked:

'Ah! If I Only Had The Hotel De Ville Work,  And If I Could! It Used To

Be My Dream To Cover All The Walls Of Paris!'

They Returned To The Drawing-Room,  Where The Little Chandelier And The

Bracket-Candelabra Had Just Been Lighted. It Seemed Almost Cold There

In Comparison With The Kind Of Hot-House Which Had Just Been Left; And

For A Moment The Coffee Calmed The Guests. Nobody Beyond Fagerolles

Was Expected. The House Was Not An Open One By Any Means,  The Sandozes

Did Not Recruit Literary Dependents Or Muzzle The Press By Dint Of

Invitations. The Wife Detested Society,  And The Husband Said With A

Laugh That He Needed Ten Years To Take A Liking To Anybody,  And Then

He Must Like Him Always. But Was Not That Real Happiness,  Seldom

Realised? A Few Sound Friendships And A Nook Full Of Family Affection.

No Music Was Ever Played There,  And Nobody Had Ever Read A Page Of His

Composition Aloud.

On That Particular Thursday The Evening Seemed A Long One,  On Account

Of The Persistent Irritation Of The Men. The Ladies Had Begun To Chat

Before The Smouldering Fire; And When The Servant,  After Clearing The

Table,  Reopened The Door Of The Dining-Room,  They Were Left Alone,  The

Men Repairing To The Adjoining Apartment To Smoke And Sip Some Beer.

Sandoz And Claude,  Who Were Not Smokers,  Soon Returned,  However,  And

Sat Down,  Side By Side,  On A Sofa Near The Doorway. The Former,  Who

Was Glad To See His Old Friend Excited And Talkative,  Recalled The

Memories Of Plassans Apropos Of A Bit Of News He Had Learnt The

Previous Day. Pouillaud,  The Old Jester Of Their Dormitory,  Who Had

Become So Grave A Lawyer,  Was Now In Trouble Over Some Adventure With

A Woman. Ah! That Brute Of A Pouillaud! But Claude Did Not Answer,

For,  Having Heard His Name Mentioned In The Dining-Room,  He Listened

Attentively,  Trying To Understand.

Jory,  Mahoudeau,  And Gagniere,  Unsatiated And Eager For Another Bite,

Had Started On The Massacre Again. Their Voices,  At First Mere

Whispers,  Gradually Grew Louder,  Till At Last They Began To Shout.

'Oh! The Man,  I Abandon The Man To You,' Said Jory,  Who Was Speaking

Of Fagerolles. 'He Isn't Worth Much. And He Out-Generalled You,  It's

True. Ah! How He Did Get The Better Of You Fellows,  By Breaking Off

From You And Carving Success For Himself On Your Backs! You Were

Certainly Not At All Cute.'

Mahoudeau,  Waxing Furious,  Replied:

'Of Course! It Sufficed For Us To Be With Claude,  To Be Turned Away

Everywhere.'

'It Was Claude Who Did For Us!' So Gagniere Squarely Asserted.

And Thus They Went On,  Relinquishing Fagerolles,  Whom They Reproached

For Toadying The Newspapers,  For Allying Himself With Their Enemies

And Wheedling Sexagenarian Baronesses,  To Fall Upon Claude,  Who Now

Became The Great Culprit. Well,  After All,  The Other Was Only A Hussy,

One Of The Many Found In The Artistic Fraternity,  Fellows Who Accost

The Public At Street Corners,  Leave Their Comrades In The Lurch,  And

Victimise Them So As To Get The Bourgeois Into Their Studios. But

Claude,  That Abortive Great Artist,  That Impotent Fellow Who Couldn't

Set A Figure On Its Legs In Spite Of All His Pride,  Hadn't He Utterly

Compromised Them,  Hadn't He Let Them In Altogether? Ah! Yes,  Success

Might Have Been Won By Breaking Off. If They Had Been Able To Begin

Over Again,  They Wouldn't Have Been Idiots Enough To Cling Obstinately

To Impossible Principles! And They Accused Claude Of Having Paralysed

Them,  Of Having Traded On Them--Yes,  Traded On Them,  But In So Clumsy

And Dull-Witted A Manner That He Himself Had Not Derived Any Benefit

By It.

'Why,  As For Me,' Resumed Mahoudeau,  'Didn't He Make Me Quite Idiotic

At One Moment? When I Think Of It,  I Sound Myself,  And Remain

Wondering Why I Ever Joined His Band. Am I At All Like Him? Was There

Ever Any One Thing In Common Between Us,  Eh? Ah! It's Exasperating To

Find The Truth Out So Late In The Day!'

'And As For Myself,' Said Gagniere,  'He Robbed Me Of My Originality.

Do You Think It Has Amused Me,  Each Time I Have Exhibited A Painting

During The Last Fifteen Years,  To Hear People Saying Behind Me,

"That's A Claude!" Oh! I've Had Enough Of It,  I Prefer Not To Paint

Any More. All The Same,  If I Had Seen Clearly In Former Times,  I

Shouldn't Have Associated With Him.'

It Was A Stampede,  The Snapping Of The Last Ties,  In Their

Stupefaction At Suddenly Finding That They Were Strangers And Enemies,

After A Long Youth Of Fraternity Together. Life Had Disbanded Them On

The Road,  And The Great Dissimilarity Of Their Characters Stood

Revealed; All That Remained In Them Was The Bitterness Left By The Old

Enthusiastic Dream,  That Erstwhile Hope Of Battle And Victory To Be

Won Side By Side,  Which Now Increased Their Spite.

'The Fact Is,' Sneered Jory,  'That Fagerolles Did Not Let Himself Be

Pillaged Like A Simpleton.'

But Mahoudeau,  Feeling Vexed,  Became Angry. 'You Do Wrong To Laugh,'

He Said,  'For You Are A Nice Backslider Yourself. Yes,  You Always Told

Us That You Would Give Us A Lift Up When You Had A Paper Of Your Own.'

'Ah! Allow Me,  Allow Me--'

Gagniere,  However,  United With Mahoudeau: 'That's Quite True!' He

Said. 'You Can't Say Any More That What You Write About Us Is Cut Out,

For You Are The Master Now. And Yet,  Never A Word! You Didn't Even

Name Us In Your Articles On The Last Salon.'

Then Jory,  Embarrassed And Stammering,  In His Turn Flew Into A Rage.

'Ah! Well,  It's The Fault Of That Cursed Claude! I Don't Care To Lose

My Subscribers Simply To Please You Fellows. It's Impossible To Do

Anything For You! There! Do You Understand? You,  Mahoudeau,  May Wear

Yourself Out In Producing Pretty Little Things; You,  Gagniere,  May

Even Never Do Anything More; But You Each Have A Label On The Back,

And You'll Need Ten Years' Efforts Before You'll Be Able To Get It

Off. In Fact,  There Have Been Some Labels That Would Never Come Off!

The Public Is Amused By It,  You Know; There Were Only You Fellows To

Believe In The Genius Of That Big Ridiculous Lunatic,  Who Will Be

Locked Up In A Madhouse One Of These Fine Mornings!'

And Sandoz,  Turning Pale,  Remained There,  Listening To That Bitter

Quarrelling,  The Outcome Of The Struggle For Life,  That Grappling Of

Conflicting Personalities,  Which Bore All His Chimera Of Everlasting

Friendship Away.

Henriette,  Fortunately,  Became Anxious On Hearing The Violent

Shouting. She Rose And Went To Shame The Smokers For Thus Forsaking

The Ladies To Go And Quarrel Together. They Then Returned To The

Drawing-Room,  Perspiring,  Breathing Hard,  And Still Shaken By Their

Anger. And As Henriette,  With Her Eyes On The Clock,  Remarked That

They Certainly Would Not See Fagerolles That Evening,  They,  Began To

Sneer Again,  Exchanging Glances. Ah! He Had A Fine Scent,  And No

Mistake; He Wouldn't Be Caught Associating With Old Friends,  Who Had

Become Troublesome,  And Whom He Hated.

In Fact,  Fagerolles Did Not Come. The Evening Finished Laboriously.

They Once More Went Back To The Dining-Room,  Where The Tea Was Served

On A Russian Tablecloth Embroidered With A Stag-Hunt In Red Thread;

And Under The Tapers A Plain Cake Was Displayed,  With Plates Full Of

Sweetstuff And Pastry,  And A Barbarous Collection Of Liqueurs And

Spirits,  Whisky,  Hollands,  Chio Raki,  And Kummel. The Servant Also

Brought Some Punch,  And Bestirred Himself Round The Table,  While The

Mistress Of The House Filled The Teapot From The Samovar Boiling In

Front Of Her. But All The Comfort,  All The Feast For The Eyes And The

Fine Perfume Of The Tea Did Not Move Their Hearts. The Conversation

Again Turned On The Success That Some Men Achieved And The Ill-Luck

That Befell Others. For Instance,  Was It Not Shameful That Art Should

Be Dishonoured By All Those Medals,  All Those Crosses,  All Those

Rewards,  Which Were So Badly Distributed To Boot? Were Artists Always

To Remain Like Little Boys At School? All The Universal Platitude Came

From The Docility And Cowardice Which Were Shown,  As In The Presence

Of Ushers,  So As To Obtain Good Marks.

They Had Repaired To The Drawing-Room Once More,  And Sandoz,  Who Was

Greatly Distressed,  Had Begun To Wish That They Would Take Themselves

Off,  When He Noticed Mathilde And Gagniere Seated Side By Side On A

Sofa And Talking Languishingly Of Music,  While The Others Remained

Exhausted,