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

The Hearse Slipped Over The Slimy Pavement; One Could Hear The Wheels

Jolting Noisily. Right Behind,  The Ten Mourners Took Short And Careful

Steps,  Trying To Avoid The Puddles,  And Being So Occupied With The

Difficulty Of The Descent That They Refrained From Speaking. But At

The Bottom Of The Rue Du Ruisseau,  When They Reached The Porte De

Clignancourt And The Vast Open Spaces,  Where The Boulevard Running

Round The City,  The Circular Railway,  The Talus And Moat Of The

Fortifications Are Displayed To View,  There Came Sighs Of Relief,  A

Few Words Were Exchanged,  And The Party Began To Straggle.

Sandoz And Bongrand By Degrees Found Themselves Behind All The Others,

As If They Had Wished To Isolate Themselves From Those Folk Whom They

Had Never Previously Seen. Just As The Hearse Was Passing The City

Gate,  The Painter Leant Towards The Novelist.

'And The Little Woman,  What Is Going To Be Done With Her?'

'Ah! How Dreadful It Is!' Replied Sandoz. 'I Went To See Her Yesterday

At The Hospital. She Has Brain Fever. The House Doctor Maintains That

They Will Save Her,  But That She Will Come Out Of It Ten Years Older

And Without Any Strength. Do You Know That She Had Come To Such A

Point That She No Longer Knew How To Spell. Such A Crushing Fall,  A

Young Lady Abased To The Level Of A Drudge! Yes,  If We Don't Take Care

Of Her Like A Cripple,  She Will End By Becoming A Scullery-Maid

Somewhere.'

'And Not A Copper,  Of Course?'

'Not A Copper. I Thought I Should Find The Studies Claude Made From

Nature For His Large Picture,  Those Superb Studies Which He Afterwards

Turned To Such Poor Account. But I Ferreted Everywhere; He Gave

Everything Away; People Robbed Him. No,  Nothing To Sell,  Not A Canvas

That Could Be Turned To Profit,  Nothing But That Huge Picture,  Which I

Demolished And Burnt With My Own Hands,  And Right Gladly,  I Assure

You,  Even As One Avenges Oneself.'

They Became Silent For A Moment. The Broad Road Leading To St. Ouen

Stretched Out Quite Straight As Far As The Eye Could Reach; And Over

The Plain Went The Procession,  Pitifully Small,  Lost,  As It Were,  On

That Highway,  Along Which There Flowed A River Of Mud. A Line Of

Palings Bordered It On Either Side,  Waste Land Extended Both To Right

And Left,  While Afar Off One Only Saw Some Factory Chimneys And A Few

Lofty White Houses,  Standing Alone,  Obliquely To The Road. They Passed

Through The Clignancourt Fete,  With Booths,  Circuses,  And Roundabouts

On Either Side,  All Shivering In The Abandonment Of Winter,  Empty

Dancing Cribs,  Mouldy Swings,  And A Kind Of Stage Homestead,  'The

Picardy Farm,' Looking Dismally Sad Between Its Broken Fences.

'Ah! His Old Canvases,' Resumed Bongrand,  'The Things He Had At The

Quai De Bourbon,  Do You Remember Them? There Were Some Extraordinary

Bits Among Them. The Landscapes He Brought Back From The South And The

Academy Studies He Painted At Boutin's--A Girl's Legs And A Woman's

Trunk,  For Instance. Oh,  That Trunk! Old Malgras Must Have It. A

Magisterial Study It Was,  Which Not One Of Our "Young Masters" Could

Paint. Yes,  Yes,  The Fellow Was No Fool--Simply A Great Painter.'

'When I Think,' Said Sandoz,  'That Those Little Humbugs Of The School

And The Press Accused Him Of Idleness And Ignorance,  Repeating One

After The Other That He Had Always Refused To Learn His Art. Idle!

Good Heavens! Why,  I Have Seen Him Faint With Fatigue After Sittings

Ten Hours Long; He Gave His Whole Life To His Work,  And Killed Himself

In His Passion For Toil! And They Call Him Ignorant--How Idiotic! They

Will Never Understand That The Individual Gift Which A Man Brings In

His Nature Is Superior To All Acquired Knowledge. Delacroix Also Was

Ignorant Of His Profession In Their Eyes,  Simply Because He Could Not

Confine Himself To Hard And Fast Rules! Ah! The Ninnies,  The Slavish

Pupils Who Are Incapable Of Painting Anything Incorrectly!'

He Took A Few Steps In Silence,  And Then He Added:

'A Heroic Worker,  Too--A Passionate Observer Whose Brain Was Crammed

With Science--The Temperament Of A Great Artist Endowed With Admirable

Gifts. And To Think That He Leaves Nothing,  Nothing!'

'Absolutely Nothing,  Not A Canvas,' Declared Bongrand. 'I Know Nothing

Of His But Rough Drafts,  Sketches,  Notes Carelessly Jotted Down,  As It

Were,  All That Artistic Paraphernalia Which Can't Be Submitted To The

Public. Yes,  Indeed,  It Is Really A Dead Man,  Dead Completely,  Who Is

About To Be Lowered Into The Grave.'

However,  The Painter And The Novelist Now Had To Hasten Their Steps,

For They Had Got Far Behind The Others While Talking; And The Hearse,

After Rolling Past Taverns And Shops Full Of Tombstones And Crosses,

Was Turning To The Right Into The Short Avenue Leading To The

Cemetery. They Overtook It,  And Passed Through The Gateway With The

Little Procession. The Priest In His Surplice And The Choirboy

Carrying The Holy Water Receiver,  Who Had Both Alighted From The

Mourning Coach,  Walked On Ahead.

It Was A Large Flat Cemetery,  Still In Its Youth,  Laid Out By Rule And

Line In The Suburban Waste Land,  And Divided Into Squares By Broad

Symmetrical Paths. A Few Raised Tombs Bordered The Principal Avenues,

But Most Of The Graves,  Already Very Numerous,  Were On A Level With

The Soil. They Were Hastily Arranged Temporary Sepulchres,  For

Five-Year Grants Were The Only Ones To Be Obtained,  And Families

Hesitated To Go To Any Serious Expense. Thus,  The Stones Sinking Into

The Ground For Lack Of Foundations,  The Scrubby Evergreens Which Had

Not Yet Had Time To Grow,  All The Provisional Slop Kind Of Mourning

That One Saw There,  Imparted To That Vast Field Of Repose A Look Of

Poverty And Cold,  Clean,  Dismal Bareness Like That Of A Barracks Or A

Hospital. There Was Not A Corner To Be Found Recalling The Graveyard

Nooks Sung Of In The Ballads Of The Romantic Period,  Not One Leafy

Turn Quivering With Mystery,  Not A Single Large Tomb Speaking Of Pride

And Eternity. You Were In The New Style Of Paris Cemetery,  Where

Everything Is Set Out Straight And Duly Numbered--The Cemetery Of

Democratic Times,  Where The Dead Seem To Slumber At The Bottom Of An

Office Drawer,  After Filing Past One By One,  As People Do At A Fete

Under The Eyes Of The Police,  So As To Avoid Obstruction.

'Dash It!' Muttered Bongrand,  'It Isn't Lively Here.'

'Why Not?' Asked Sandoz. 'It's Commodious; There Is Plenty Of Air. And

Even Although There Is No Sun,  See What A Pretty Colour It All Has.'

In Fact,  Under The Grey Sky Of That November Morning,  In The

Penetrating Quiver Of The Wind,  The Low Tombs,  Laden With Garlands And

Crowns Of Beads,  Assumed Soft Tints Of Charming Delicacy. There Were

Some Quite White,  And Others All Black,  According To The Colour Of The

Beads. But The Contrast Lost Much Of Its Force Amid The Pale Green

Foliage Of The Dwarfish Trees. Poor Families Exhausted Their Affection

For The Dear Departed In Decking Those Five-Year Grants; There Were

Piles Of Crowns And Blooming Flowers--Freshly Brought There On The

Recent Day Of The Dead. Only The Cut Flowers Had As Yet Faded,  Between

Their Paper Collars. Some Crowns Of Yellow Immortelles Shone Out Like

Freshly Chiselled Gold. But The Beads Predominated To Such A Degree

That At The First Glance There Seemed To Be Nothing Else; They Gushed

Forth Everywhere,  Hiding The Inscriptions And Covering The Stones And

Railings. There Were Beads Forming Hearts,  Beads In Festoons And

Medallions,  Beads Framing Either Ornamental Designs Or Objects Under

Glass,  Such As Velvet Pansies,  Wax Hands Entwined,  Satin Bows,  Or,  At

Times,  Even Photographs Of Women--Yellow,  Faded,  Cheap Photographs,

Showing Poor,  Ugly,  Touching Faces That Smiled Awkwardly.

As The Hearse Proceeded Along The Avenue Du Rond Point,  Sandoz,  Whose

Last Remark--Since It Was Of An Artistic Nature--Had Brought Him Back

To Claude,  Resumed The Conversation,  Saying:

'This Is A Cemetery Which He Would Have Understood,  He Who Was So Mad

On Modern Things. No Doubt He Suffered Physically,  Wasted Away By The

Over-Severe Lesion That Is So Often Akin To Genius,  "Three Grains Too

Little,  Or Three Grains Too Much,  Of Some Substance In The Brain," As

He Himself Said When He Reproached His Parents For His Constitution.

However,  His Disorder Was Not Merely A Personal Affair,  He Was The

Victim Of Our Period. Yes,  Our Generation Has Been Soaked In

Romanticism,  And We Have Remained Impregnated With It. It Is In Vain

That We Wash Ourselves And Take Baths Of Reality,  The Stain Is

Obstinate,  And All The Scrubbing In The World Won't Take It Away.

Bongrand Smiled. 'Oh! As For Romanticism,' Said He,  'I'm Up To My Ears

In It. It Has Fed My Art,  And,  Indeed,  I'm Impenitent. If It Be True

That My Final Impotence Is Due To That,  Well,  After All,  What Does It

Matter? I Can't Deny The Religion Of My Artistic Life. However,  Your

Remark Is Quite Correct; You Other Fellows,  You Are Rebellious Sons.

Claude,  For Instance,  With His Big Nude Woman Amid The Quays,  That

Extravagant Symbol--'

'Ah,  That Woman!' Interrupted Sandoz,  'It Was She Who Throttled Him!

If You Knew How He Worshipped Her! I Was Never Able To Cast Her Out Of

Him. And How Can One Possibly Have Clear Perception,  A Solid,

Properly-Balanced Brain When Such Phantasmagoria Sprouts Forth From

Your Skull? Though Coming After Yours,  Our Generation Is Too

Imaginative To Leave Healthy Work Behind It. Another Generation,

Perhaps Two,  Will Be Required Before People Will Be Able To Paint And

Write Logically,  With The High,  Pure Simplicity Of Truth. Truth,

Nature Alone,  Is The Right Basis,  The Necessary Guide,  Outside Of

Which Madness Begins; And The Toiler Needn't Be Afraid Of Flattening

His Work,  His Temperament Is There,  Which Will Always Carry Him

Sufficiently Away. Does Any One Dream Of Denying Personality,  The

Involuntary Thumb-Stroke Which Deforms Whatever We Touch And

Constitutes Our Poor Creativeness?'

However,  He Turned His Head,  And Involuntarily Added:

'Hallo! What's Burning? Are They Lighting Bonfires Here?'

The Procession Had Turned On Reaching The Rond Point,  Where The

Ossuary Was Situated--The Common Vault Gradually Filled With All The

Remnants Removed From The Graves,  And The Stone Slab Of Which,  In The

Centre Of A Circular Lawn,  Disappeared Under A Heap Of Wreaths,

Deposited There By The Pious Relatives Of Those Who No Longer Had An

Individual Resting-Place.