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

In Transversal Avenue No. 2,  There Had Come A Sound Of Crackling,  And

Thick Smoke Had Risen Above The Little Plane Trees Bordering The Path.

Some Distance Ahead,  As The Party Approached,  They Could See A Large

Pile Of Earthy Things Beginning To Burn,  And They Ended By

Understanding. The Fire Was Lighted At The Edge Of A Large Square

Patch Of Ground,  Which Had Been Dug Up In Broad Parallel Furrows,  So

As To Remove The Coffins Before Allotting The Soil To Other Corpses;

Just As The Peasant Turns The Stubble Over Before Sowing Afresh. The

Long Empty Furrows Seemed To Yawn,  The Mounds Of Rich Soil Seemed To

Be Purifying Under The Broad Grey Sky; And The Fire Thus Burning In

That Corner Was Formed Of The Rotten Wood Of The Coffins That Had Been

Removed--Slit,  Broken Boards,  Eaten Into By The Earth,  Often Reduced

To A Ruddy Humus,  And Gathered Together In An Enormous Pile. They

Broke Up With Faint Detonations,  And Being Damp With Human Mud,  They

Refused To Flame,  And Merely Smoked With Growing Intensity. Large

Columns Of The Smoke Rose Into The Pale Sky,  And Were Beaten Down By

The November Wind,  And Torn Into Ruddy Shreds,  Which Flew Across The

Low Tombs Of Quite One Half Of The Cemetery.

Sandoz And Bongrand Had Looked At The Scene Without Saying A Word.

Then,  Having Passed The Fire,  The Former Resumed:

'No,  He Did Not Prove To Be The Man Of The Formula He Laid Down. I

Mean That His Genius Was Not Clear Enough To Enable Him To Set That

Formula Erect And Impose It Upon The World By A Definite Masterpiece.

And Now See How Other Fellows Scatter Their Efforts Around Him,  After

Him! They Go No Farther Than Roughing Off,  They Give Us Mere Hasty

Impressions,  And Not One Of Them Seems To Have Strength Enough To

Become The Master Who Is Awaited. Isn't It Irritating,  This New Notion

Of Light,  This Passion For Truth Carried As Far As Scientific

Analysis,  This Evolution Begun With So Much Originality,  And Now

Loitering On The Way,  As It Were,  Falling Into The Hands Of

Tricksters,  And Never Coming To A Head,  Simply Because The Necessary

Man Isn't Born? But Pooh! The Man Will Be Born; Nothing Is Ever Lost,

Light Must Be.'

'Who Knows? Not Always,' Said Bongrand. 'Life Miscarries,  Like

Everything Else. I Listen To You,  You Know,  But I'm A Despairer. I Am

Dying Of Sadness,  And I Feel That Everything Else Is Dying. Ah! Yes,

There Is Something Unhealthy In The Atmosphere Of The Times--This End

Of A Century Is All Demolition,  A Litter Of Broken Monuments,  And Soil

That Has Been Turned Over And Over A Hundred Times,  The Whole Exhaling

A Stench Of Death! Can Anybody Remain In Good Health Amid All That?

One's Nerves Become Unhinged,  The Great Neurosis Is There,  Art Grows

Unsettled,  There Is General Bustling,  Perfect Anarchy,  All The Madness

Of Self-Love At Bay. Never Have People Quarrelled More And Seen Less

Clearly Than Since It Is Pretended That One Knows Everything.'

Sandoz,  Who Had Grown Pale,  Watched The Large Ruddy Coils Of Smoke

Rolling In The Wind.

'It Was Fated,' He Mused In An Undertone. 'Our Excessive Activity And

Pride Of Knowledge Were Bound To Cast Us Back Into Doubt. This

Century,  Which Has Already Thrown So Much Light Over The World,  Was

Bound To Finish Amid The Threat Of A Fresh Flow Of Darkness--Yes,  Our

Discomfort Comes From That! Too Much Has Been Promised,  Too Much Has

Been Hoped For; People Have Looked Forward To The Conquest And

Explanation Of Everything,  And Now They Growl Impatiently. What! Don't

Things Go Quicker Than That? What! Hasn't Science Managed To Bring Us

Absolute Certainty,  Perfect Happiness,  In A Hundred Years? Then What

Is The Use Of Going On,  Since One Will Never Know Everything,  And

One's Bread Will Always Be As Bitter? It Is As If The Century Had

Become Bankrupt,  As If It Had Failed; Pessimism Twists People's

Bowels,  Mysticism Fogs Their Brains; For We Have Vainly Swept Phantoms

Away With The Light Of Analysis,  The Supernatural Has Resumed

Hostilities,  The Spirit Of The Legends Rebels And Wants To Conquer Us,

While We Are Halting With Fatigue And Anguish. Ah! I Certainly Don't

Affirm Anything; I Myself Am Tortured. Only It Seems To Me That This

Last Convulsion Of The Old Religious Terrors Was To Be Foreseen. We

Are Not The End,  We Are But A Transition,  A Beginning Of Something

Else. It Calms Me And Does Me Good To Believe That We Are Marching

Towards Reason,  And The Substantiality Of Science.'

His Voice Had Become Husky With Emotion,  And He Added:

'That Is,  Unless Madness Plunges Us,  Topsy-Turvy,  Into Night Again,

And We All Go Off Throttled By The Ideal,  Like Our Old Friend Who

Sleeps There Between His Four Boards.'

The Hearse Was Leaving Transversal Avenue No. 2 To Turn,  On The Right,

Into Lateral Avenue No. 3,  And The Painter,  Without Speaking,  Called

The Novelist's Attention To A Square Plot Of Graves,  Beside Which The

Procession Was Now Passing.

There Was Here A Children's Cemetery,  Nothing But Children's Tombs,

Stretching Far Away In Orderly Fashion,  Separated At Regular Intervals

By Narrow Paths,  And Looking Like Some Infantile City Of Death. There

Were Tiny Little White Crosses,  Tiny Little White Railings,

Disappearing Almost Beneath An Efflorescence Of White And Blue

Wreaths,  On A Level With The Soil; And That Peaceful Field Of Repose,

So Soft In Colour,  With The Bluish Tint Of Milk About It,  Seemed To

Have Been Made Flowery By All The Childhood Lying In The Earth. The

Crosses Recorded Various Ages,  Two Years,  Sixteen Months,  Five Months.

One Poor Little Cross,  Destitute Of Any Railing,  Was Out Of Line,

Having Been Set Up Slantingly Across A Path,  And It Simply Bore The

Words: 'Eugenie,  Three Days.' Scarcely To Exist As Yet,  And Withal To

Sleep There Already,  Alone,  On One Side,  Like The Children Who On

Festive Occasions Dine At A Little Side Table!

However,  The Hearse Had At Last Stopped,  In The Middle Of The Avenue;

And When Sandoz Saw The Grave Ready At The Corner Of The Next

Division,  In Front Of The Cemetery Of The Little Ones,  He Murmured

Tenderly:

'Ah! My Poor Old Claude,  With Your Big Child's Heart,  You Will Be In

Your Place Beside Them.'

The Under-Bearers Removed The Coffin From The Hearse. The Priest,  Who

Looked Surly,  Stood Waiting In The Wind; Some Sextons Were There With

Their Shovels. Three Neighbours Had Fallen Off On The Road,  The Ten

Had Dwindled Into Seven. The Second Cousin,  Who Had Been Holding His

Hat In His Hand Since Leaving The Church,  Despite The Frightful

Weather,  Now Drew Nearer. All The Others Uncovered,  And The Prayers

Were About To Begin,  When A Loud Piercing Whistle Made Everybody Look

Up.

Beyond This Corner Of The Cemetery As Yet Untenanted,  At The End Of

Lateral Avenue No. 3,  A Train Was Passing Along The High Embankment Of

The Circular Railway Which Overlooked The Graveyard. The Grassy Slope

Rose Up,  And A Number Of Geometrical Lines,  As It Were,  Stood Out

Blackly Against The Grey Sky; There Were Telegraph-Posts,  Connected By

Thin Wires,  A Superintendent's Box,  And A Red Signal Plate,  The Only

Bright Throbbing Speck Visible. When The Train Rolled Past,  With Its

Thunder-Crash,  One Plainly Distinguished,  As On The Transparency Of A

Shadow Play,  The Silhouettes Of The Carriages,  Even The Heads Of The

Passengers Showing In The Light Gaps Left By The Windows. And The Line

Became Clear Again,  Showing Like A Simple Ink Stroke Across The

Horizon; While Far Away Other Whistles Called And Wailed Unceasingly,

Shrill With Anger,  Hoarse With Suffering,  Or Husky With Distress. Then

A Guard's Horn Resounded Lugubriously.

'_Revertitur In Terram Suam Unde Erat_,' Recited The Priest,  Who Had

Opened A Book And Was Making Haste.

But He Was Not Heard,  For A Large Engine Had Come Up Puffing,  And Was

Manoeuvring Backwards And Forwards Near The Funeral Party. It Had A

Loud Thick Voice,  A Guttural Whistle,  Which Was Intensely Mournful. It

Came And Went,  Panting; And Seen In Profile It Looked Like A Heavy

Monster. Suddenly,  Moreover,  It Let Off Steam,  With All The Furious

Blowing Of A Tempest.

'_Requiescat In Pace_,' Said The Priest.

'Amen,' Replied The Choirboy.

But The Words Were Again Lost Amid The Lashing,  Deafening Detonation,

Which Was Prolonged With The Continuous Violence Of A Fusillade.

Bongrand,  Quite Exasperated,  Turned Towards The Engine. It Became

Silent,  Fortunately,  And Every One Felt Relieved. Tears Had Risen To

The Eyes Of Sandoz,  Who Had Already Been Stirred By The Words Which

Had Involuntarily Passed His Lips,  While He Walked Behind His Old

Comrade,  Talking As If They Had Been Having One Of Their Familiar

Chats Of Yore; And Now It Seemed To Him As If His Youth Were About To

Be Consigned To The Earth. It Was Part Of Himself,  The Best Part,  His

Illusions And His Enthusiasm,  Which The Sextons Were Taking Away To

Lower Into The Depths. At That Terrible Moment An Accident Occurred

Which Increased His Grief. It Had Rained So Hard During The Preceding

Days,  And The Ground Was So Soft,  That A Sudden Subsidence Of Soil

Took Place. One Of The Sextons Had To Jump Into The Grave And Empty It

With His Shovel With A Slow Rhythmical Movement. There Was No End To

The Matter,  The Funeral Seemed Likely To Last For Ever Amid The

Impatience Of The Priest And The Interest Of The Four Neighbours Who

Had Followed On To The End,  Though Nobody Could Say Why. And Up Above,

On The Embankment,  The Engine Had Begun Manoeuvring Again,  Retreating

And Howling At Each Turn Of Its Wheels,  Its Fire-Box Open The While,

And Lighting Up The Gloomy Scene With A Rain Of Sparks.

At Last The Pit Was Emptied,  The Coffin Lowered,  And The Aspergillus

Passed Round. It Was All Over. The Second Cousin,  Standing Erect,  Did

The Honours With His Correct,  Pleasant Air,  Shaking Hands With All

These People Whom He Had Never Previously Seen,  In Memory Of The

Relative Whose Name He Had Not Remembered The Day Before.

'That Linen-Draper Is A Very Decent Fellow,' Said Bongrand,  Who Was

Swallowing His Tears.

'Quite So,' Replied Sandoz,  Sobbing.

All The Others Were Going Off,  The Surplices Of The Priest And The

Choirboy Disappeared Between The Green Trees,  While The Straggling

Neighbours Loitered Reading The Inscriptions On The Surrounding Tombs.

Then Sandoz,  Making Up His