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

Forth Their Protestations. They Preferred To Scale The Neighbouring

Hills In Search Of Some Unknown Solitary Spot,  Where They Declaimed

Verses Even Amidst Drenching Showers,  Without Dreaming Of Shelter In

Their Very Hatred Of Town-Life. They Had Even Planned An Encampment On

The Banks Of The Viorne,  Where They Were To Live Like Savages,  Happy

With Constant Bathing,  And The Company Of Five Or Six Books,  Which

Would Amply Suffice For Their Wants. Even Womankind Was To Be Strictly

Banished From That Camp. Being Very Timid And Awkward In The Presence

Of The Gentler Sex,  They Pretended To The Asceticism Of Superior

Intellects. For Two Years Claude Had Been In Love With A 'Prentice

Hat-Trimmer,  Whom Every Evening He Had Followed At A Distance,  But To

Whom He Had Never Dared To Address A Word. Sandoz Nursed Dreams Of

Ladies Met While Travelling,  Beautiful Girls Who Would Suddenly Spring

Up In Some Unknown Wood,  Charm Him For A Whole Day,  And Melt Into Air

At Dusk. The Only Love Adventure Which They Had Ever Met With Still

Evoked Their Laughter,  So Silly Did It Seem To Them Now. It Consisted

Of A Series Of Serenades Which They Had Given To Two Young Ladies

During The Time When They,  The Serenaders,  Had Formed Part Of The

College Band. They Passed Their Nights Beneath A Window Playing The

Clarinet And The Cornet-A-Piston,  And Thus Raising A Discordant Din

Which Frightened All The Folk Of The Neighbourhood,  Until One

Memorable Evening The Indignant Parents Had Emptied All The Water

Pitchers Of The Family Over Them.

Ah! Those Were Happy Days,  And How Loving Was The Laughter With Which

They Recalled Them. On The Walls Of The Studio Hung A Series Of

Sketches,  Which Claude,  It So Happened,  Had Made During A Recent Trip

Southward. Thus It Seemed As If They Were Surrounded By The Familiar

Vistas Of Bright Blue Sky Overhanging A Tawny Country-Side. Here

Stretched A Plain Dotted With Little Greyish Olive Trees As Far As A

Rosy Network Of Distant Hills. There,  Between Sunburnt Russet Slopes,

The Exhausted Viorne Was Almost Running Dry Beneath The Span Of An Old

Dust-Bepowdered Bridge,  Without A Bit Of Green,  Nothing Save A Few

Bushes,  Dying For Want Of Moisture. Farther On,  The Mountain Gorge Of

The Infernets Showed Its Yawning Chasm Amidst Tumbled Rocks,  Struck

Down By Lightning,  A Huge Chaos,  A Wild Desert,  Rolling Stony Billows

As Far As The Eye Could Reach. Then Came All Sorts Of Well Remembered

Nooks: The Valley Of Repentance,  Narrow And Shady,  A Refreshing Oasis

Amid Calcined Fields; The Wood Of Les Trois Bons-Dieux,  With Hard,

Green,  Varnished Pines Shedding Pitchy Tears Beneath The Burning Sun;

The Sheep Walk Of Bouffan,  Showing White,  Like A Mosque,  Amidst A

Far-Stretching Blood-Red Plain. And There Were Yet Bits Of Blinding,

Sinuous Roads; Ravines,  Where The Heat Seemed Even To Wring Bubbling

Perspiration From The Pebbles; Stretches Of Arid,  Thirsty Sand,

Drinking Up Rivers Drop By Drop; Mole Hills,  Goat Paths,  And Hill

Crests,  Half Lost In The Azure Sky.

'Hallo!' Exclaimed Sandoz,  Turning Towards One Sketch,  'What's That?'

Claude,  Indignant,  Waved His Palette. 'What! Don't You Remember? We

Were Very Nigh Breaking Our Necks There. Surely You Recollect The Day

We Clambered From The Very Bottom Of Jaumegarde With Dubuche? The Rock

Was As Smooth As Your Hand,  And We Had To Cling To It With Our Nails,

So That At One Moment We Could Neither Get Up Nor Go Down Again. When

We Were Once Atop And About To Cook Our Cutlets,  We,  You And I,  Nearly

Came To Blows.'

Sandoz Now Remembered. 'Yes,  Yes; Each Had To Roast His Own Cutlet On

Rosemary Sticks,  And,  As Mine Took Fire,  You Exasperated Me By

Chaffing My Cutlet,  Which Was Being Reduced To Cinders.'

They Both Shook With Laughter,  Until The Painter Resumed His Work,

Gravely Concluding,  'That's All Over,  Old Man. There Is To Be No More

Idling At Present.'

He Spoke The Truth. Since The Three Inseparables Had Realised Their

Dream Of Meeting Together In Paris,  Which They Were Bent Upon

Conquering,  Their Life Had Been Terribly Hard. They Had Tried To Renew

The Long Walks Of Old. On Certain Sunday Mornings They Had Started On

Foot From The Fontainebleau Gate,  Had Scoured The Copses Of Verrieres,

Gone As Far As The Bievre,  Crossed The Woods Of Meudon And Bellevue,

And Returned Home By Way Of Grenelle. But They Taxed Paris With

Spoiling Their Legs; They Scarcely Ever Left The Pavement Now,

Entirely Taken Up As They Were With Their Struggle For Fortune And

Fame.

From Monday Morning Till Saturday Night Sandoz Sat Fuming And Fretting

At The Municipal Building Of The Fifth Arrondissement In A Dark Corner

Of The Registry Office For Births,  Rooted To His Stool By The Thought

Of His Mother,  Whom His Salary Of A Hundred And Fifty Francs A Month

Helped In Some Fashion To Keep. Dubuche,  Anxious To Pay His Parents

The Interest Of The Money Placed On His Head,  Was Ever On The Look-Out

For Some Petty Jobs Among Architects,  Outside His Studies At The

School Of Arts. As For Claude,  Thanks To His Thousand Francs A Year,

He Had His Full Liberty; But The Latter Days Of Each Month Were

Terrible Enough,  Especially If He Had To Share The Fag-End Of His

Allowance. Luckily He Was Beginning To Sell A Little; Disposing Of

Tiny Canvases,  At The Rate Of Ten And Twelve Francs A-Piece,  To Papa

Malgras,  A Wary Picture Dealer. After All,  He Preferred Starvation To

Turning His Art Into Mere Commerce By Manufacturing Portraits Of

Tradesmen And Their Wives; Concocting Conventional Religious Pictures

Or Daubing Blinds For Restaurants Or Sign-Boards For Accoucheuses.

When First He Had Returned To Paris,  He Had Rented A Very Large Studio

In The Impasse Des Bourdonnais; But He Had Moved To The Quai De

Bourbon From Motives Of Economy. He Lived There Like A Savage,  With An

Absolute Contempt For Everything That Was Not Painting. He Had Fallen

Out With His Relatives,  Who Disgusted Him; He Had Even Ceased Visiting

His Aunt,  Who Kept A Pork-Butcher's Shop Near The Central Markets,

Because She Looked Too Flourishing And Plump.* Respecting The Downfall

Of His Mother,  Who Was Being Eaten Out Of Doors And Driven Into The

Streets,  He Nursed A Secret Grief.

  * This Aunt Is Lisa Of 'The Fat And The Thin' (Le Ventre De Paris)

    In A Few Chapters Of Which Claude Figures.--Ed.

Suddenly He Shouted To Sandoz,  'Will You Be Kind Enough Not To Tumble

To Pieces?' But Sandoz Declared That He Was Getting Stiff,  And Jumped

From The Couch To Stretch His Legs A Bit. They Took Ten Minutes' Rest,

Talking Meanwhile About Many Things. Claude Felt Condescendingly

Good-Tempered. When His Work Went Smoothly He Brightened Up And Became

Talkative; He,  Who Painted With His Teeth Set,  And Raged Inwardly

Directly He Felt That Nature Was Escaping Him. Hence His Friend Had

Scarcely Resumed His Attitude Before He Went On Chattering,  Without,

However,  Missing A Stroke Of His Brush.

'It's Going On All Right,  Old Boy,  Isn't It? You Look All There In It.

Oh,  The Brutes,  I'll Just See Whether They'll Refuse Me This Time. I

Am More Severe For Myself Than They Are For Themselves,  I'm Sure Of

It; And Whenever I Pass One Of My Own Pictures,  It's More Serious Than

If It Had Passed Before All The Hanging Committees On Earth. You Know

My Picture Of The Markets,  With The Two Urchins Tumbling About On A

Heap Of Vegetables? Well,  I've Scratched It All Out,  It Didn't Come

Right. I Found That I Had Got Hold Of A Beastly Machine,* A Deal Too

Heavy For My Strength. But,  Never You Fear,  I'll Take The Subject Up

Again Some Day,  When I Know Better,  And I'll Take Up Others,  Machines

Which Will Knock Them All Cock-A-Hoop With Surprise.'

  * In Familiar Conversation,  French Artists,  Playwrights,  And

    Novelists Invariably Call Their Productions By The Slang

    Term 'Machines.'--Ed.

He Made A Magnificent Gesture,  As If To Sweep A Whole Crowd Away;

Emptied A Tube Of Cobalt On His Palette; And Then Began To Jeer,

Asking What His First Master Would Say To A Picture Like This? His

First Master Indeed,  Papa Belloque,  A Retired Infantry Captain,  With

One Arm,  Who For A Quarter Of A Century Had Taught Drawing To The

Youth Of Plassans In One Of The Galleries Of The Museum! Then,  In

Paris,  Hadn't The Celebrated Berthou,  The Painter Of 'Nero In The

Circus'--Berthou,  Whose Lessons He Had Attended For Six Long Months

--Told Him A Score Of Times That He Would Never Be Able To Do

Anything? How He Now Regretted Those Six Months Wasted In Idiotic

Efforts,  Absurd 'Studies,' Under The Iron Rule Of A Man Whose Ideas

Differed So Much From His Own. He At Last Began To Hold Forth Against

Working At The Louvre. He Would,  He Said,  Sooner Chop His Hand Off

Than Return There To Spoil His Perception Of Nature By Undertaking One

Of Those Copies Which For Ever Dim The Vision Of The World In Which

One Lives.

Was There Aught Else In Art Than The Rendering Of What One Felt Within

Oneself? Was Not The Whole Of Art Reduced To Placing A Woman In Front

Of One--And Then Portraying Her According To The Feelings That She

Inspired? Was Not A Bunch Of Carrots--Yes,  A Bunch Of Carrots--Studied

From Nature,  And Painted Unaffectedly,  In A Personal Style,  Worth All

The Ever-Lasting Smudges Of The School Of Arts,  All That Tobacco-Juice

Painting,  Cooked Up According To Certain Given Recipes? The Day Would

Come When One Carrot,  Originally Rendered,  Would Lead To A Revolution.

It Was Because Of This That He Now Contented Himself With Going To The

Boutin Studio,  A Free Studio,  Kept By A Former Model,  In The Rue De La

Huchette. When He Had Paid His Twenty Francs He Was Put In Front Of As

Many Men And Women As He Cared For,  And Set About His Work With A

Will,  Never Thinking Of Eating Or Drinking,  But Struggling Unrestingly

With Nature,  Mad Almost With The Excitement Of Work,  By The Side Of A

Pack Of Dandies Who Accused Him Of Ignorant Laziness,  And Arrogantly

Prated About Their 'Studies,' Because They Copied Noses And Mouths,

Under The Eye Of A Master.

'Listen To This,  Old Man: When One Of Those Whipper-Snappers Can Build

Up A Torso Like That One Over Yonder,  He May Come Up And