His Masterpiece by Émile Zola (classic novels for teens .TXT) 📕

on like that, honour bright; I shall have to go into liquidation, and I shall end my days in the hospital. You know me, eh? my heart is bigger than my pocket, and there’s nothing I like better than to oblige young men of talent like yourself. Oh, for the matter of that, you’ve got talent, and I keep on telling them so⁠—nay, shouting it to them⁠—but what’s the good? They won’t nibble, they won’t nibble!”

He was trying the emotional dodge; then, with the spirit of a man about to do something rash: “Well, it shan’t be said that I came in to waste your time. What do you want for that rough sketch?”

Claude, still irritated, was painting nervously. He dryly answered, without even turning his head: “Twenty francs.”

“Nonsense; twenty francs! you must be mad. You sold me the others ten francs apiece⁠—and today I won’t give a copper more than eight francs.”

As a rule the painter closed with him at once, ashamed and humbled at this miserable chaffering, glad also to get a little money now and then. But this time he was obstinate, and took to insulting the picture-dealer, who, giving tit for tat, all at once dropped the formal “you” to assume the glib “thou,” denied his talent, overwhelmed him with invective, and taxed him with ingratitude. Meanwhile, however, he had taken from his pocket three successive five-franc pieces, which, as if playing at chuck-farthing, he flung from a distance upon the table, where they rattled among the crockery.

“One, two, three⁠—not one more, dost hear? for there is already one too many, and I’ll take care to get it back; I’ll deduct it from something else of thine, as I live. Fifteen francs for that! Thou art wrong, my lad, and thou’lt be sorry for this dirty trick.”

Quite exhausted, Claude let him take down the little canvas, which disappeared as if by magic in his capacious green coat. Had it dropped into a special pocket, or was it reposing on Papa Malgras’ ample chest? Not the slightest protuberance indicated its whereabouts.

Having accomplished his stroke of business, Papa Malgras abruptly calmed down and went towards the door. But he suddenly changed his mind and came back. “Just listen, Lantier,” he said, in the honeyest of tones; “I want a lobster painted. You really owe me that much after fleecing me. I’ll bring you the lobster, you’ll paint me a bit of still life from it, and keep it for your pains. You can eat it with your friends. It’s settled, isn’t it?”

At this proposal Sandoz and Dubuche, who had hitherto listened inquisitively, burst into such loud laughter that the picture-dealer himself became gay. Those confounded painters, they did themselves no good, they simply starved. What would have become of the lazy beggars if he, Papa Malgras, hadn’t brought a leg of mutton now and then, or a nice fresh plaice, or a lobster, with its garnish of parsley?

“You’ll paint me my lobster, eh, Lantier? Much obliged.” And he stationed himself anew before the large canvas, with his wonted smile of mingled derision and admiration. And at last he went off, repeating, “Well, well, there’s a machine.”

Claude wanted to take up his palette and brushes once more. But his legs refused their service; his arms fell to his side, stiff, as if pinioned there by some occult force. In the intense melancholy silence that had followed the din of the dispute he staggered, distracted, bereft of sight before his shapeless work.

“I’m done for, I’m done for,” he gasped. “That brute has finished me off!”

The clock had just struck seven; he had been at work for eight mortal hours without tasting anything but a crust of bread, without taking a moment’s rest, ever on his legs, shaken by feverish excitement. And now the sun was setting, shadows began to darken the studio, which in the gloaming assumed a most melancholy aspect. When the light went down like this on the crisis of a bad day’s work, it seemed to Claude as if the sun would never rise again, but had forever carried life and all the jubilant gaiety of colour away.

“Come,” implored Sandoz, with all the gentleness of brotherly compassion. “Come, there’s a good fellow.”

Even Dubuche added, “You’ll see more clearly into it tomorrow. Come and dine.”

For a moment Claude refused to surrender. He stood rooted to the spot, deaf to their friendly voices, and fiercely obstinate.

What did he want to do then, since his tired fingers were no longer able to grasp the brush? He did not know, but, however powerless he might be, he was gnawed by a mad craving to go on working still and to create in spite of everything. Even if he did nothing, he would at least stay there, he would not vacate the spot. All at once, however, he made up his mind, shaken the while as by a big sob. He clutched firmly hold of his broadest palette-knife, and, with one deep, slow sweep, he obliterated the woman’s head and bosom. It was veritable murder, a pounding away of human flesh; the whole disappeared in a murky, muddy mash. By the side of the gentleman in the dark jacket, amidst the bright verdure, where the two little wrestlers so lightly tinted were disporting themselves, there remained naught of the nude, headless, breastless woman but a mutilated trunk, a vague cadaverous stump, an indistinct, lifeless patch of visionary flesh.

Sandoz and Dubuche were already descending the stairs with a great clatter, and Claude followed them, fleeing his work, in agony at having to leave it thus scarred with a gaping gash.

III

The beginning of the week proved disastrous to Claude. He had relapsed into one of those periods of self-doubt that made him hate painting, with the hatred of a lover betrayed, who overwhelms the faithless one with insults although tortured by an uncontrollable desire to worship her yet again. So on the Thursday, after three frightful days of