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

And Poetised In A State Of Ecstasy,  While Mathilde Rolled Up Her Eyes

And Went Into Raptures As If Titillated By Some Invisible Wing. They

Had Caught Sight Of Each Other On The Previous Sunday At The Concert

At The Cirque,  And They Apprised Each Other Of Their Enjoyment In

Alternate,  Far-Soaring Sentences.

'Ah! That Meyerbeer,  Monsieur,  The Overture Of "Struensee," That

Funereal Strain,  And Then That Peasant Dance,  So Full Of Dash And

Colour; And Then The Mournful Burden Which Returns,  The Duo Of The

Violoncellos. Ah! Monsieur,  The Violoncellos,  The Violoncellos!'

'And Berlioz,  Madame,  The Festival Air In "Romeo." Oh! The Solo Of The

Clarionets,  The Beloved Women,  With The Harp Accompaniment! Something

Enrapturing,  Something White As Snow Which Ascends! The Festival

Bursts Upon You,  Like A Picture By Paul Veronese,  With The Tumultuous

Magnificence Of The "Marriage Of Cana"; And Then The Love-Song Begins

Again,  Oh,  How Softly! Oh! Always Higher! Higher Still--'

'Did You Notice,  Monsieur,  In Beethoven's Symphony In A,  That Knell

Which Ever And Ever Comes Back And Beats Upon Your Heart? Yes,  I See

Very Well,  You Feel As I Do,  Music Is A Communion--Beethoven,  Ah,  Me!

How Sad And Sweet It Is To Be Two To Understand Him And Give Way--'

'And Schumann,  Madame,  And Wagner,  Madame--Schumann's "Reverie,"

Nothing But The Stringed Instruments,  A Warm Shower Falling On Acacia

Leaves,  A Sunray Which Dries Them,  Barely A Tear In Space. Wagner! Ah,

Wagner! The Overture Of The "Flying Dutchman," Are You Not Fond Of

It?--Tell Me You Are Fond Of It! As For Myself,  It Overcomes Me. There

Is Nothing Left,  Nothing Left,  One Expires--'

Their Voices Died Away; They Did Not Even Look At Each Other,  But Sat

There Elbow To Elbow,  With Their Faces Turned Upward,  Quite Overcome.

Sandoz,  Who Was Surprised,  Asked Himself Where Mathilde Could Have

Picked Up That Jargon. In Some Article Of Jory's,  Perhaps. Besides,  He

Had Remarked That Women Talk Music Very Well,  Even Without Knowing A

Note Of It. And He,  Whom The Bitterness Of The Others Had Only

Grieved,  Became Exasperated At Sight Of Mathilde's Languishing

Attitude. No,  No,  That Was Quite Enough; The Men Tore Each Other To

Bits; Still That Might Pass,  After All; But What An End To The Evening

It Was,  That Feminine Fraud,  Cooing And Titillating Herself With

Thoughts Of Beethoven's And Schumann's Music! Fortunately,  Gagniere

Suddenly Rose. He Knew What O'clock It Was Even In The Depths Of His

Ecstasy,  And He Had Only Just Time Left Him To Catch His Last Train.

So,  After Exchanging Nerveless And Silent Handshakes With The Others,

He Went Off To Sleep At Melun.

'What A Failure He Is!' Muttered Mahoudeau. 'Music Has Killed

Painting; He'll Never Do Anything!'

He Himself Had To Leave,  And The Door Had Scarcely Closed Behind His

Back When Jory Declared:

'Have You Seen His Last Paperweight? He'll End By Sculpturing

Sleeve-Links. There's A Fellow Who Has Missed His Mark! To Think That

He Prided Himself On Being Vigorous!'

But Mathilde Was Already Afoot,  Taking Leave Of Christine With A Curt

Little Inclination Of The Head,  Affecting Social Familiarity With

Henriette,  And Carrying Off Her Husband,  Who Helped Her On With Her

Cloak In The Ante-Room,  Humble And Terrified At The Severe Glance She

Gave Him,  For She Had An Account To Settle.

Then,  The Door Having Closed Behind Them,  Sandoz,  Beside Himself,

Cried Out: 'That's The End! The Journalist Was Bound To Call The

Others Abortions--Yes,  The Journalist Who,  After Patching Up Articles,

Has Fallen To Trading Upon Public Credulity! Ah! Luckily There's

Mathilde The Avengeress!'

Of The Guests Christine And Claude Alone Were Left. The Latter,  Since

The Drawing-Room Had Been Growing Empty,  Had Remained Ensconced In The

Depths Of An Arm-Chair,  No Longer Speaking,  But Overcome By That

Species Of Magnetic Slumber Which Stiffened Him,  And Fixed His Eyes On

Something Far Away Beyond The Walls. He Protruded His Face,  A

Convulsive Kind Of Attention Seemed To Carry It Forward; He Certainly

Beheld Something Invisible,  And Heard A Summons In The Silence.

Christine Having Risen In Her Turn,  And Apologised For Being The Last

To Leave,  Henriette Took Hold Of Her Hands,  Repeated How Fond She Was

Of Her,  Begged Her To Come And See Her Frequently,  And To Dispose Of

Her In All Things As She Would With A Sister. But Claude's Sorrowful

Wife,  Looking So Sadly Charming In Her Black Dress,  Shook Her Head

With A Pale Smile.

'Come,' Said Sandoz In Her Ear,  After Giving A Glance At Claude,  'You

Mustn't Distress Yourself Like That. He Has Talked A Great Deal,  He

Has Been Gayer This Evening. He's All Right.'

But In A Terrified Voice She Answered:

'No,  No; Look At His Eyes--I Shall Tremble As Long As He Has His Eyes

Like That. You Have Done All You Could,  Thanks. What You Haven't Done

No One Will Do. Ah! How I Suffer At Being Unable To Hope,  At Being

Unable To Do Anything!'

Then In A Loud Tone She Asked:

'Are You Coming,  Claude?'

She Had To Repeat Her Question Twice,  For At First He Did Not Hear

Her; He Ended By Starting,  However,  And Rose To His Feet,  Saying,  As

If He Had Answered The Summons From The Horizon Afar Off:

'Yes,  I'm Coming,  I'm Coming.'

When Sandoz And His Wife At Last Found Themselves Alone In The

Drawing-Room,  Where The Atmosphere Now Was Stifling--Heated By The

Lights And Heavy,  As It Were,  With Melancholy Silence After All The

Outbursts Of The Quarrelling--They Looked At One Another And Let Their

Arms Fall,  Quite Heart-Rent By The Unfortunate Issue Of Their Dinner

Party. Henrietta Tried To Laugh It Off,  However,  Murmuring:

'I Warned You,  I Quite Understood--'

But He Interrupted Her With A Despairing Gesture. What! Was That,

Then,  The End Of His Long Illusion,  That Dream Of Eternity Which Had

Made Him Set Happiness In A Few Friendships,  Formed In Childhood,  And

Shared Until Extreme Old Age? Ah! What A Wretched Band,  What A Final

Rending,  What A Terrible Balance-Sheet To Weep Over After That

Bankruptcy Of The Human Heart! And He Grew Astonished On Thinking Of

The Friends Who Had Fallen Off By The Roadside,  Of The Great

Affections Lost On The Way,  Of The Others Unceasingly Changing Around

Himself,  In Whom He Found No Change. His Poor Thursdays Filled Him

With Pity,  So Many Memories Were In Mourning,  It Was The Slow Death Of

All That One Loves! Would His Wife And Himself Have To Resign

Themselves To Live As In A Desert,  To Cloister Themselves In Utter

Hatred Of The World? Ought They Rather To Throw Their Doors Wide Open

To A Throng Of Strangers And Indifferent Folk? By Degrees A Certainty

Dawned In The Depths Of His Grief: Everything Ended And Nothing Began

Again In Life. He Seemed To Yield To Evidence,  And,  Heaving A Big

Sigh,  Exclaimed:

'You Were Right. We Won't Invite Them To Dinner Again--They Would

Devour One Another.'

As Soon As Claude And Christine Reached The Place De La Trinite On

Their Way Home,  The Painter Let Go Of His Wife's Arm; And,  Stammering

That He Had To Go Somewhere,  He Begged Her To Return To The Rue

Tourlaque Without Him. She Had Felt Him Shuddering,  And She Remained

Quite Scared With Surprise And Fear. Somewhere To Go At That Hour

--Past Midnight! Where Had He To Go,  And What For? He Had Turned Round

And Was Making Off,  When She Overtook Him,  And,  Pretending That She

Was Frightened,  Begged That He Would Not Leave Her To Climb Up To

Montmartre Alone At That Time Of Night. This Consideration Alone

Brought Him Back. He Took Her Arm Again; They Ascended The Rue Blanche

And The Rue Lepic,  And At Last Found Themselves In The Rue Tourlaque.

And On Reaching Their Door,  He Rang The Bell,  And Then Again Left Her.

'Here You Are,' He Said; 'I'm Going.'

He Was Already Hastening Away,  Taking Long Strides,  And Gesticulating

Like A Madman. Without Even Closing The Door Which Had Been Opened,

She Darted Off,  Bent On Following Him. In The Rue Lepic She Drew Near;

But For Fear Of Exciting Him Still More She Contented Herself With

Keeping Him In Sight,  Walking Some Thirty Yards In The Rear,  Without

His Knowing That She Was Behind Him. On Reaching The End Of The Rue

Lepic He Went Down The Rue Blanche Again,  And Then Proceeded By Way Of

The Rue De La Chaussee-D'antin And The Rue Du Dix Decembre As Far As

The Rue De Richelieu. When She Saw Him Turn Into The Last-Named

Thoroughfare,  A Mortal Chill Came Over Her: He Was Going Towards The

Seine; It Was The Realisation Of The Frightful Fear Which Kept Her Of

A Night Awake,  Full Of Anguish! And What Could She Do,  Good Lord? Go

With Him,  Hang Upon His Neck Over Yonder? She Was Now Only Able To

Stagger Along,  And As Each Step Brought Them Nearer To The River,  She

Felt Life Ebbing From Her Limbs. Yes,  He Was Going Straight There; He

Crossed The Place Du Theatre Francais,  Then The Carrousel,  And Finally

Reached The Pont Des Saints-Peres. After Taking A Few Steps Along The

Bridge,  He Approached The Railing Overlooking The Water; And At The

Thought That He Was About To Jump Over,  A Loud Cry Was Stifled In Her

Contracted Throat.

But No; He Remained Motionless. Was It Then Only The Cite Over Yonder

That Haunted Him,  That Heart Of Paris Which Pursued Him Everywhere,

Which He Conjured Up With His Fixed Eyes,  Even Through Walls,  And

Which,  When He Was Leagues Away,  Cried Out The Constant Summons Heard

By Him Alone? She Did Not Yet Dare To Hope It; She Had Stopped Short,

In The Rear,  Watching Him With Giddy Anxiety,  Ever Fancying That She

Saw Him Take The Terrible Leap,  But Resisting Her Longing To Draw

Nearer,  For Fear Lest She Might Precipitate The Catastrophe By Showing

Herself. Oh,  God! To Think That She Was There With Her Devouring

Passion,  Her Bleeding Motherly Heart--That She Was There Beholding

Everything,  Without Daring To Risk One Movement To Hold Him Back!

He Stood Erect,  Looking Very Tall,  Quite Motionless,  And Gazing Into

The Night.

It Was A Winter's Night,  With A Misty Sky Of Sooty Blackness,  And Was

Rendered Extremely Cold By A Sharp Wind Blowing From The West. Paris,

Lighted Up,  Had Gone To Sleep,  Showing No Signs Of Life Save Such As

Attached To The Gas-Jets,  Those Specks Which Scintillated And Grew

Smaller And Smaller In The