His Masterpiece by Emile Zola (most inspirational books of all time txt) 📕
- Author: Emile Zola
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And Forsaken Amid Laughter Expressive Of Relief.
June Was Drawing To A Close, And The Rain Fell In Torrents During The
Week They Spent In Arranging Their New Home. They Discovered That Old
Porrette Had Taken Away Half The Kitchen Utensils Before Signing The
Agreement. But That Matter Did Not Affect Them. They Took A Delight In
Dabbling About Amidst The Showers; They Made Journeys Three Leagues
Long, As Far As Vernon, To Buy Plates And Saucepans, Which They
Brought Back With Them In Triumph. At Last They Got Shipshape,
Occupying One Of The Upstairs Rooms, Abandoning The Other To The Mice,
And Transforming The Dining-Room Into A Studio; And, Above All, As
Happy As Children At Taking Their Meals In The Kitchen Off A Deal
Table, Near The Hearth Where The Soup Sang In The Pot. To Wait Upon
Them They Engaged A Girl From The Village, Who Came Every Morning And
Went Home At Night. She Was Called Melie, She Was A Niece Of The
Faucheurs, And Her Stupidity Delighted Them. In Fact, One Could Not
Have Found A Greater Idiot In The Whole Region.
The Sun Having Shown Itself Again, Some Delightful Days Followed, The
Months Slipping Away Amid Monotonous Felicity. They Never Knew The
Date, They Were For Ever Mixing Up The Days Of The Week. Every Day,
After The Second Breakfast, Came Endless Strolls, Long Walks Across
The Tableland Planted With Apple Trees, Over The Grassy Country Roads,
Along The Banks Of The Seine Through The Meadows As Far As La
Roche-Guyon; And There Were Still More Distant Explorations, Perfect
Journeys On The Opposite Side Of The River, Amid The Cornfields Of
Bonnieres And Jeufosse. A Person Who Was Obliged To Leave The
Neighbourhood Sold Them An Old Boat For Thirty Francs, So That They
Also Had The River At Their Disposal, And, Like Savages, Became Seized
With A Passion For It, Living On Its Waters For Days Together, Rowing
About, Discovering New Countries, And Lingering For Hours Under The
Part 6 Pg 107Willows On The Banks, Or In Little Creeks, Dark With Shade. Betwixt
The Eyots Scattered Along The Stream There Was A Shifting And
Mysterious City, A Network Of Passages Along Which, With The Lower
Branches Of The Trees Caressingly Brushing Against Them, They Softly
Glided, Alone, As It Were, In The World, With The Ringdoves And The
Kingfishers. He At Times Had To Spring Out Upon The Sand, With Bare
Legs, To Push Off The Skiff. She Bravely Plied The Oars, Bent On
Forcing Her Way Against The Strongest Currents, And Exulting In Her
Strength. And In The Evening They Ate Cabbage Soup In The Kitchen,
Laughing At Melie's Stupidity, As They Had Laughed At It The Day
Before; To Begin The Morrow Just In The Same Fashion.
Every Evening, However, Christine Said To Claude:
'Now, My Dear, You Must Promise Me One Thing--That You'll Set To Work
To-Morrow.'
'Yes, To-Morrow; I Give You My Word.'
'And You Know If You Don't, I Shall Really Get Angry This Time. Is It
I Who Prevent You?'
'You! What An Idea. Since I Came Here To Work--Dash It All! You'll See
To-Morrow.'
On The Morrow They Started Off Again In The Skiff; She Looked At Him
With An Embarrassed Smile When She Saw That He Took Neither Canvas Nor
Colours. Then She Kissed Him, Laughing, Proud Of Her Power, Moved By
The Constant Sacrifice He Made To Her. And Then Came Fresh
Affectionate Remonstrances: 'To-Morrow, Ah! To-Morrow She Would Tie
Him To His Easel!'
However, Claude Did Make Some Attempts At Work. He Began A Study Of
The Slopes Of Jeufosse, With The Seine In The Foreground; But
Christine Followed Him To The Islet Where He Had Installed Himself,
And Sat Down On The Grass Close To Him With Parted Lips, Her Eyes
Watching The Blue Sky. And She Looked So Pretty There Amidst The
Verdure, In That Solitude, Where Nothing Broke The Silence But The
Rippling Of The Water, That Every Minute He Relinquished His Palette
To Nestle By Her Side. On Another Occasion, He Was Altogether Charmed
By An Old Farmhouse, Shaded By Some Antiquated Apple Trees Which Had
Grown To The Size Of Oaks. He Came Thither Two Days In Succession, But
On The Third Christine Took Him To The Market At Bonnieres To Buy Some
Hens. The Next Day Was Also Lost; The Canvas Had Dried; Then He Grew
Impatient In Trying To Work At It Again, And Finally Abandoned It
Altogether. Throughout The Warm Weather He Thus Made But A Pretence To
Work--Barely Roughing Out Little Bits Of Painting, Which He Laid Aside
On The First Pretext, Without An Effort At Perseverance. His Passion
For Toil, That Fever Of Former Days That Had Made Him Rise At Daybreak
To Battle With His Rebellious Art, Seemed To Have Gone; A Reaction Of
Indifference And Laziness Had Set In, And He Vegetated Delightfully,
Like One Who Is Recovering From Some Severe Illness.
But Christine Lived Indeed. All The Latent Passion Of Her Nature Burst
Into Being. She Was Indeed An Amorosa, A Child Of Nature And Of Love.
Thus Their Days Passed By And Solitude Did Not Prove Irksome To Them.
No Desire For Diversion, Of Paying Or Receiving Visits, As Yet Made
Part 6 Pg 108Them Look Beyond Themselves. Such Hours As She Did Not Spend Near Him,
She Employed In Household Cares, Turning The House Upside Down With
Great Cleanings, Which Melie Executed Under Her Supervision, And
Falling Into Fits Of Reckless Activity, Which Led Her To Engage In
Personal Combats With The Few Saucepans In The Kitchen. The Garden
Especially Occupied Her; Provided With Pruning Shears, Careless Of The
Thorns Which Lacerated Her Hands, She Reaped Harvests Of Roses From
The Giant Rose-Bushes; And She Gave Herself A Thorough Back-Ache In
Gathering The Apricots, Which She Sold For Two Hundred Francs To Some
Of The Englishmen Who Scoured The District Every Year. She Was Very
Proud Of Her Bargain, And Seriously Talked Of Living Upon The Garden
Produce. Claude Cared Less For Gardening; He Had Placed His Couch In
The Large Dining-Room, Transformed Into A Studio; And He Stretched
Himself Upon It, And Through The Open Window Watched Her Sow And
Plant. There Was Profound Peace, The Certainty That Nobody Would Come,
That No Ring At The Bell Would Disturb Them At Any Moment Of The Day.
Claude Carried This Fear Of Coming Into Contact With People So Far As
To Avoid Passing Faucheur's Inn, For He Dreaded Lest He Might Run
Against Some Party Of Chums From Paris. Not A Soul Came, However,
Throughout The Livelong Summer. And Every Night As They Went Upstairs,
He Repeated That, After All, It Was Deuced Lucky.
There Was, However, A Secret Sore In The Depths Of His Happiness.
After Their Flight From Paris, Sandoz Had Learnt Their Address, And
Had Written To Ask Whether He Might Go To See Claude, But The Latter
Had Not Answered The Letter, And So Coolness Had Followed, And The Old
Friendship Seemed Dead. Christine Was Grieved At This, For She
Realised Well Enough That He Had Broken Off All Intercourse With His
Comrades For Her Sake. She Constantly Reverted To The Subject; She Did
Not Want To Estrange Him From His Friends, And Indeed She Insisted
That He Should Invite Them. But, Though He Promised To Set Matters
Right, He Did Nothing Of The Kind. It Was All Over; What Was The Use
Of Raking Up The Past?
However, Money Having Become Scarce Towards The Latter Days Of July,
He Was Obliged To Go To Paris To Sell Papa Malgras Half A Dozen Of His
Old Studies, And Christine, On Accompanying Him To The Station, Made
Him Solemnly Promise That He Would Go To See Sandoz. In The Evening
She Was There Again, At The Bonnieres Station, Waiting For Him.
'Well, Did You See Him? Did You Embrace Each Other?'
He Began Walking By Her Side In Silent Embarrassment. Then He Answered
In A Husky Voice:
'No; I Hadn't Time.'
Thereupon, Sorely Distressed, With Two Big Tears Welling To Her Eyes,
She Replied:
'You Grieve Me Very Much Indeed.'
Then, As They Were Walking Under The Trees, He Kissed Her, Crying
Also, And Begging Her Not To Make Him Sadder Still. 'Could People
Alter Life? Did It Not Suffice That They Were Happy Together?'
During The Earlier Months They Only Once Met Some Strangers. This
Occurred A Little Above Bennecourt, In The Direction Of La
Part 6 Pg 109Roche-Guyon. They Were Strolling Along A Deserted, Wooded Lane, One Of
Those Delightful Dingle Paths Of The Region, When, At A Turning, They
Came Upon Three Middle-Class People Out For A Walk--Father, Mother,
And Daughter. It Precisely Happened That, Believing Themselves To Be
Quite Alone, Claude And Christine Had Passed Their Arms Round Each
Other's Waists; She, Bending Towards Him, Was Offering Her Lips; While
He Laughingly Protruded His; And Their Surprise Was So Sudden That
They Did Not Change Their Attitude, But, Still Clasped Together,
Advanced At The Same Slow Pace. The Amazed Family Remained Transfixed
Against One Of The Side Banks, The Father Stout And Apoplectic, The
Mother As Thin As A Knife-Blade, And The Daughter, A Mere Shadow,
Looking Like A Sick Bird Moulting--All Three Of Them Ugly, Moreover,
And But Scantily Provided With The Vitiated Blood Of Their Race. They
Looked Disgraceful Amidst The Throbbing Life Of Nature, Beneath The
Glorious Sun. And All At Once The Sorry Girl, Who With Stupefied Eyes
Thus Watched Love Passing By, Was Pushed Off By Her Father, Dragged
Along By Her Mother, Both Beside Themselves, Exasperated By The Sight
Of That Embrace, And Asking Whether There Was No Longer Any Country
Police, While, Still Without Hurrying, The Lovers Went Off
Triumphantly In Their Glory.
Claude, However, Was Wondering And Searching His Memory. Where Had He
Previously Seen Those Heads, So Typical Of Bourgeois Degeneracy, Those
Flattened, Crabbed Faces Reeking Of Millions Earned At The Expense Of
The Poor? It Was Assuredly In Some Important Circumstance Of His Life.
And All At Once He Remembered; They Were The Margaillans, The Man Was
That Building Contractor Whom Dubuche Had Promenaded Through The Salon
Of The Rejected, And Who Had Laughed In Front Of His Picture With The
Roaring Laugh Of A Fool. A Couple Of Hundred Steps Further On, As He
And Christine Emerged From The Lane And Found Themselves In Front Of A
Large Estate, Where A Big White Building Stood, Girt With Fine Trees,
They Learnt From An Old Peasant Woman That La Richaudiere, As It Was
Called, Had Belonged To The Margaillans For Three
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