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

His Self-Inflicted Injuries With Gold-Beater's Skin.

Then They Passed The Whole College Staff In Review; A Pitiful,

Grotesque,  And Terrible Procession It Was,  With Such Heads As

Are Seen On Meerschaum Pipes,  And Profiles Instinct With Hatred

And Suffering. There Was The Head Master,  Who Ruined Himself In

Giving Parties,  In Order To Marry His Daughters--Two Tall,  Elegant

Girls,  The Butt Of Constant And Abominable Insults,  Written And

Sketched On Every Wall; There Was The Comptroller Pifard,  Whose

Wonderful Nose Betrayed His Presence Behind Every Door,  When He Went

Eavesdropping; And There Were All The Teachers,  Each Befouled With

Some Insulting Nickname: The Severe 'Rhadamantus,' Who Had Never Been

Seen To Smile; 'Filth,' Who By The Constant Rubbing Of His Head Had

Left His Mark On The Wall Behind Every Professional Seat He Occupied;

'Thou-Hast-Deceived-Me-Adele,' The Professor Of Physics,  At Whom Ten

Generations Of Schoolboys Had Tauntingly Flung The Name Of His

Unfaithful Wife. There Were Others Still: Spontini,  The Ferocious

Usher,  With His Corsican Knife,  Rusty With The Blood Of Three Cousins;

Little Chantecaille,  Who Was So Good-Natured That He Allowed The

Pupils To Smoke When Out Walking; And Also A Scullion And A Scullery

Maid,  Two Ugly Creatures Who Had Been Nicknamed Paraboulomenos And

Paralleluca,  And Who Were Accused Of Kissing One Another Over The

Vegetable Parings.

Then Came Comical Reminiscences; The Sudden Recollection Of Practical

Jokes,  At Which They Shook With Laughter After All Those Years. Oh!

The Morning When They Had Burned The Shoes Of Mimi-La-Mort,  _Alias_

The Skeleton Day Boarder,  A Lank Lad,  Who Smuggled Snuff Into The

School For The Whole Of The Form. And Then That Winter Evening When

They Had Bagged Some Matches Lying Near The Lamp In The Chapel,  In

Order To Smoke Dry Chestnut Leaves In Reed Pipes. Sandoz,  Who Had Been

The Ringleader On That Occasion,  Now Frankly Avowed His Terror; The

Cold Perspiration That Had Come Upon Him When He Had Scrambled Out Of

The Choir,  Wrapt In Darkness. And Again There Was The Day When Claude

Had Hit Upon The Sublime Idea Of Roasting Some Cockchafers In His Desk

To See Whether They Were Good To Eat,  As People Said They Were. So

Terrible Had Been The Stench,  So Dense The Smoke That Poured From The

Desk,  That The Usher Had Rushed To The Water Pitcher,  Under The

Impression That The Place Was On Fire. And Then Their Marauding

Expeditions; The Pillaging Of Onion Beds While They Were Out Walking;

The Stones Thrown At Windows,  The Correct Thing Being To Make The

Breakage Resemble A Well-Known Geographical Map. Also The Greek

Exercises,  Written Beforehand In Large Characters On The Blackboard,

So That Every Dunce Might Easily Read Them Though The Master Remained

Unaware Of It; The Wooden Seats Of The Courtyard Sawn Off And Carried

Round The Basin Like So Many Corpses,  The Boys Marching In Procession

And Singing Funeral Dirges. Yes! That Had Been A Capital Prank.

Dubuche,  Who Played The Priest,  Had Tumbled Into The Basin While

Trying To Scoop Some Water Into His Cap,  Which Was To Serve As A Holy

Water Pot. But The Most Comical And Amusing Of All The Pranks Had

Perhaps Been That Devised By Pouillaud,  Who One Night Had Fastened All

The Unmentionable Crockery Of The Dormitory To One Long String Passed

Under The Beds. At Dawn--It Was The Very Morning When The Long

Vacation Began--He Had Pulled The String And Skedaddled Down The Three

Flights Of Stairs With This Frightful Tail Of Crockery Bounding And

Smashing To Pieces Behind Him.

At The Recollection Of This Last Incident,  Claude Remained Grinning

From Ear To Ear,  His Brush Suspended In Mid-Air. 'That Brute Of A

Pouillaud!' He Laughed. 'And So He Has Written To You. What Is He

Doing Now?'

'Why,  Nothing At All,  Old Man,' Answered Sandoz,  Seating Himself More

Comfortably On The Cushions. 'His Letter Is Idiotic. He Is Just

Finishing His Law Studies,  And He Will Inherit His Father's Practice

As A Solicitor. You Ought To See The Style He Has Already Assumed--All

The Idiotic Austerity Of A Philistine,  Who Has Turned Over A New

Leaf.'

They Were Silent Once More Until Sandoz Added,  'You See,  Old Boy,  We

Have Been Protected Against That Sort Of Thing.'

Then They Relapsed Again Into Reminiscences,  But Such As Made Their

Hearts Thump; The Remembrance Of The Many Happy Days They Had Spent

Far Away From The College,  In The Open Air And The Full Sunlight. When

Still Very Young,  And Only In The Sixth Form,  The Three Inseparables

Had Become Passionately Fond Of Taking Long Walks. The Shortest

Holidays Were Eagerly Seized Upon To Tramp For Miles And Miles; And,

Getting Bolder As They Grew Up,  They Finished By Scouring The Whole Of

The Country-Side,  By Making Journeys That Sometimes Lasted For Days.

They Slept Where They Could,  In The Cleft Of A Rock,  On Some

Threshing-Floor,  Still Burning Hot,  Where The Straw Of The Beaten Corn

Made Them A Soft Couch,  Or In Some Deserted Hut,  The Ground Of Which

They Covered With Wild Thyme And Lavender. Those Were Flights Far From

The Everyday World,  When They Became Absorbed In Healthy Mother Nature

Herself,  Adoring Trees And Streams And Mountains; Revelling In The

Supreme Joy Of Being Alone And Free.

Dubuche,  Who Was A Boarder,  Had Only Joined Them On Half-Holidays And

During The Long Vacation. Besides,  His Legs Were Heavy,  And He Had The

Quiet Nature Of A Studious Lad. But Claude And Sandoz Never Wearied;

They Awakened Each Other Every Sunday Morning By Throwing Stones At

Their Respective Shutters. In Summer,  Above All,  They Were Haunted By

The Thought Of The Viorne,  The Torrent,  Whose Tiny Stream Waters The

Low-Lying Pastures Of Plassans. When Scarcely Twelve They Already Knew

How To Swim,  And It Became A Passion With Them To Potter About In The

Holes Where The Water Accumulated; To Spend Whole Days There,  Stark

Naked,  Drying Themselves On The Burning Sand,  And Then Replunging Into

The River,  Living There As It Were,  On Their Backs,  On Their Stomachs,

Searching Among The Reeds On The Banks,  Immersed Up To Their Ears,  And

Watching The Hiding-Places Of The Eels For Hours At A Stretch. That

Constant Contact Of Water Beneath A Burning Sun Prolonged Their

Childhood,  As It Were,  And Lent Them The Joyous Laughter Of Truant

Urchins,  Though They Were Almost Young Men,  When Of An Evening They

Returned To The Town Amidst The Still Oppressive Heat Of A Summer

Sunset. Later On They Became Very Fond Of Shooting,  But Shooting Such

As Is Carried On In A Region Devoid Of Game,  Where They Had To Trudge

A Score Of Miles To Pick Off Half A Dozen Pettychaps,  Or Fig-Peckers;

Wonderful Expeditions,  Whence They Returned With Their Bags Empty,  Or

With A Mere Bat,  Which They Had Managed To Bring Down While

Discharging Their Guns At The Outskirts Of The Town. Their Eyes

Moistened At The Recollection Of Those Happy Days; They Once More

Beheld The White Endless Roads,  Covered With Layers Of Dust,  As If

There Had Been A Fall Of Snow. They Paced Them Again And Again In

Their Imagination,  Happy To Hear The Fancied Creaking Of Their Heavy

Shoes. Then They Cut Across The Fields,  Over The Reddish-Brown

Ferruginous Soil,  Careering Madly On And On; And There Was A Sky Of

Molten Lead Above Them,  Not A Shadow Anywhere,  Nothing But Dwarf Olive

Trees And Almond Trees With Scanty Foliage. And Then The Delicious

Drowsiness Of Fatigue On Their Return,  Their Triumphant Bravado At

Having Covered Yet More Ground Than On The Precious Journey,  The

Delight Of Being No Longer Conscious Of Effort,  Of Advancing Solely By

Dint Of Strength Acquired,  Spurring Themselves On With Some Terrible

Martial Strain Which Helped To Make Everything Like A Dream.

Already At That Time Claude,  In Addition To His Powder-Flask And

Cartridge-Belt,  Took With Him An Album,  In Which He Sketched Little

Bits Of Country,  While Sandoz,  On His Side,  Always Had Some Favourite

Poet In His Pocket. They Lived In A Perfect Frenzy Of Romanticism,

Winged Strophes Alternated With Coarse Garrison Stories,  Odes Were

Flung Upon The Burning,  Flashing,  Luminous Atmosphere That Enwrapt

Them. And When Perchance They Came Upon A Small Rivulet,  Bordered By

Half A Dozen Willows,  Casting Grey Shadows On The Soil All Ablaze With

Colour,  They At Once Went Into The Seventh Heaven. They There By

Themselves Performed The Dramas They Knew By Heart,  Inflating Their

Voices When Repeating The Speeches Of The Heroes,  And Reducing Them To

The Merest Whisper When They Replied As Queens And Love-Sick Maidens.

On Such Days The Sparrows Were Left In Peace. In That Remote Province,

Amidst The Sleepy Stupidity Of That Small Town,  They Had Thus Lived On

From The Age Of Fourteen,  Full Of Enthusiasm,  Devoured By A Passion

For Literature And Art. The Magnificent Scenarios Devised By Victor

Hugo,  The Gigantic Phantasies Which Fought Therein Amidst A Ceaseless

Cross-Fire Of Antithesis,  Had At First Transported Them Into The

Fulness Of Epic Glory; Gesticulating,  Watching The Sun Decline Behind

Some Ruins,  Seeing Life Pass By Amidst All The Superb But False

Glitter Of A Fifth Act. Then Musset Had Come To Unman Them With His

Passion And His Tears; They Heard Their Own Hearts Throb In Response

To His,  A New World Opened To Them--A World More Human--That Conquered

Them By Its Cries For Pity,  And Of Eternal Misery,  Which Henceforth

They Were To Hear Rising From All Things. Besides,  They Were Not

Difficult To Please; They Showed The Voracity Of Youth,  A Furious

Appetite For All Kinds Of Literature,  Good And Bad Alike. So Eager

Were They To Admire Something,  That Often The Most Execrable Works

Threw Them Into A State Of Exaltation Similar To That Which The Purest

Masterpieces Produce.

And As Sandoz Now Remarked,  It Was Their Great Love Of Bodily

Exercise,  Their Very Revels Of Literature That Had Protected Them

Against The Numbing Influence Of Their Ordinary Surroundings. They

Never Entered A Cafe,  They Had A Horror Of The Streets,  Even

Pretending To Moult In Them Like Caged Eagles,  Whereas Their

Schoolfellows Were Already Rubbing Their Elbows Over The Small Marble

Tables And Playing At Cards For Drinks. Provincial Life,  Which Dragged

Other Lads,  When Still Young,  Within Its Cogged Mechanism,  That Habit

Of Going To One's Club,  Of Spelling Out The Local Paper From Its

Heading To The Last Advertisement,  The Everlasting Game Of Dominoes No

Sooner Finished Than Renewed,  The Same Walk At The Self-Same Hour And

Ever Along The Same Roads--All That Brutifies The Mind,  Like A

Grindstone Crushing