His Masterpiece by Emile Zola (most inspirational books of all time txt) 📕
- Author: Emile Zola
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A Fainting Fit, And When, On Being Called In By The Woman, They Had
Taken To Rubbing Him With So Much Vigour That He Had Remained Dead In
Their Hands.
And If Christine Failed To Look Amused At All This, Claude Rose Up
And Said, In A Churlish Voice: 'Oh, You; Nothing Will Make You Laugh
--Let's Go To Bed.'
He Still Adored Her, But She No Longer Sufficed. Another Torment Had
Invincibly Seized Hold Of Him--The Passion For Art, The Thirst For
Fame.
In The Spring, Claude, Who, With An Affectation Of Disdain, Had Sworn
He Would Never Again Exhibit, Began To Worry A Great Deal About The
Salon. Whenever He Saw Sandoz He Questioned Him About What The
Comrades Were Going To Send. On The Opening Day He Went To Paris And
Came Back The Same Evening, Stern And Trembling. There Was Only A Bust
By Mahoudeau, Said He, Good Enough, But Of No Importance. A Small
Landscape By Gagniere, Admitted Among The Ruck, Was Also Of A Pretty
Sunny Tone. Then There Was Nothing Else, Nothing But Fagerolles'
Picture--An Actress In Front Of Her Looking-Glass Painting Her Face.
He Had Not Mentioned It At First; But He Now Spoke Of It With
Indignant Laughter. What A Trickster That Fagerolles Was! Now That He
Had Missed His Prize He Was No Longer Afraid To Exhibit--He Threw The
School Overboard; But You Should Have Seen How Skilfully He Managed
It, What Compromises He Effected, Painting In A Style Which Aped The
Audacity Of Truth Without Possessing One Original Merit. And It Would
Be Sure To Meet With Success, The Bourgeois Were Only Too Fond Of
Being Titillated While The Artist Pretended To Hustle Them. Ah! It Was
Time Indeed For A True Artist To Appear In That Mournful Desert Of A
Salon, Amid All The Knaves And The Fools. And, By Heavens, What A
Place Might Be Taken There!
Christine, Who Listened While He Grew Angry, Ended By Faltering:
'If You Liked, We Might Go Back To Paris.'
'Who Was Talking Of That?' He Shouted. 'One Can Never Say A Word To
You But You At Once Jump To False Conclusions.'
Six Weeks Afterwards He Heard Some News That Occupied His Mind For A
Week. His Friend Dubuche Was Going To Marry Mademoiselle Regine
Margaillan, The Daughter Of The Owner Of La Richaudiere. It Was An
Intricate Story, The Details Of Which Surprised And Amused Him
Exceedingly. First Of All, That Cur Dubuche Had Managed To Hook A
Medal For A Design Of A Villa In A Park, Which He Had Exhibited; That
Of Itself Was Already Sufficiently Amusing, As It Was Said That The
Drawing Had Been Set On Its Legs By His Master, Dequersonniere, Who
Had Quietly Obtained This Medal For Him From The Jury Over Which He
Presided. Then The Best Of It Was That This Long-Awaited Reward Had
Decided The Marriage. Ah! It Would Be Nice Trafficking If Medals Were
Now Awarded To Settle Needy Pupils In Rich Families! Old Margaillan,
Like All Parvenus, Had Set His Heart Upon Having A Son-In-Law Who
Could Help Him, By Bringing Authentic Diplomas And Fashionable Clothes
Into The Business; And For Some Time Past He Had Had His Eyes On That
Young Man, That Pupil Of The School Of Arts, Whose Notes Were
Excellent, Who Was So Persevering, And So Highly Recommended By His
Masters. The Medal Aroused His Enthusiasm; He At Once Gave The Young
Part 6 Pg 120Fellow His Daughter And Took Him As A Partner, Who Would Soon Increase
His Millions Now Lying Idle, Since He Knew All That Was Needful In
Order To Build Properly. Besides, By This Arrangement Poor Regine,
Always Low-Spirited And Ailing, Would At Least Have A Husband In
Perfect Health.
'Well, A Man Must Be Fond Of Money To Marry That Wretched Flayed
Kitten,' Repeated Claude.
And As Christine Compassionately Took The Girl's Part, He Added:
'But I Am Not Down Upon Her. So Much The Better If The Marriage Does
Not Finish Her Off. She Is Certainly Not To Be Blamed, If Her Father,
The Ex-Stonemason, Had The Stupid Ambition To Marry A Girl Of The
Middle-Classes. Her Father, You Know, Has The Vitiated Blood Of
Generations Of Drunkards In His Veins, And Her Mother Comes Of A Stock
In The Last Stages Of Degeneracy. Ah! They May Coin Money, But That
Doesn't Prevent Them From Being Excrescences On The Face Of The
Earth!'
He Was Growing Ferocious, And Christine Had To Clasp Him In Her Arms
And Kiss Him, And Laugh, To Make Him Once More The Good-Natured Fellow
Of Earlier Days. Then, Having Calmed Down, He Professed To Understand
Things, Saying That He Approved Of The Marriages Of His Old Chums. It
Was True Enough, All Three Had Taken Wives Unto Themselves. How Funny
Life Was!
Once More The Summer Drew To An End; It Was The Fourth Spent At
Bennecourt. In Reality They Could Never Be Happier Than Now; Life Was
Peaceful And Cheap In The Depths Of That Village. Since They Had Been
There They Had Never Lacked Money. Claude's Thousand Francs A Year And
The Proceeds Of The Few Pictures He Had Sold Had Sufficed For Their
Wants; They Had Even Put Something By, And Had Bought Some House
Linen. On The Other Hand, Little Jacques, By Now Two Years And A Half
Old, Got On Admirably In The Country. From Morning Till Night He
Rolled About The Garden, Ragged And Dirt-Begrimed, But Growing As He
Listed In Robust Ruddy Health. His Mother Often Did Not Know Where To
Take Hold Of Him When She Wished To Wash Him A Bit. However, When She
Saw Him Eat And Sleep Well She Did Not Trouble Much; She Reserved Her
Anxious Affection For Her Big Child Of An Artist, Whose Despondency
Filled Her With Anguish. The Situation Grew Worse Each Day, And
Although They Lived On Peacefully Without Any Cause For Grief, They,
Nevertheless, Drifted To Melancholy, To A Discomfort That Showed
Itself In Constant Irritation.
It Was All Over With Their First Delights Of Country Life. Their
Rotten Boat, Staved In, Had Gone To The Bottom Of The Seine. Besides,
They Did Not Even Think Of Availing Themselves Of The Skiff That The
Faucheurs Had Placed At Their Disposal. The River Bored Them; They Had
Grown Too Lazy To Row. They Repeated Their Exclamations Of Former
Times Respecting Certain Delightful Nooks In The Islets, But Without
Ever Being Tempted To Return And Gaze Upon Them. Even The Walks By The
River-Side Had Lost Their Charm--One Was Broiled There In Summer, And
One Caught Cold There In Winter. And As For The Plateau, The Vast
Stretch Of Land Planted With Apple Trees That Overlooked The Village,
It Became Like A Distant Country, Something Too Far Off For One To Be
Silly Enough To Risk One's Legs There. Their House Also Annoyed Them
--That Barracks Where They Had To Take Their Meals Amid The Greasy
Part 6 Pg 121Refuse Of The Kitchen, Where Their Room Seemed A Meeting-Place For The
Winds From Every Point Of The Compass. As A Finishing Stroke Of Bad
Luck, The Apricots Had Failed That Year, And The Finest Of The Giant
Rose-Bushes, Which Were Very Old, Had Been Smitten With Some Canker Or
Other And Died. How Sorely Time And Habit Wore Everything Away! How
Eternal Nature Herself Seemed To Age Amidst That Satiated Weariness.
But The Worst Was That The Painter Himself Was Getting Disgusted With
The Country, No Longer Finding A Single Subject To Arouse His
Enthusiasm, But Scouring The Fields With A Mournful Tramp, As If The
Whole Place Were A Void, Whose Life He Had Exhausted Without Leaving
As Much As An Overlooked Tree, An Unforeseen Effect Of Light To
Interest Him. No, It Was Over, Frozen, He Should Never Again Be Able
To Paint Anything Worth Looking At In That Confounded Country!
October Came With Its Rain-Laden Sky. On One Of The First Wet Evenings
Claude Flew Into A Passion Because Dinner Was Not Ready. He Turned
That Goose Of A Melie Out Of The House And Clouted Jacques, Who Got
Between His Legs. Whereupon, Christine, Crying, Kissed Him And Said:
'Let's Go, Oh, Let Us Go Back To Paris.'
He Disengaged Himself, And Cried In An Angry Voice: 'What, Again!
Never! Do You Hear Me?'
'Do It For My Sake,' She Said, Warmly. 'It's I Who Ask It Of You, It's
I That You'll Please.'
'Why, Are You Tired Of Being Here, Then?'
'Yes, I Shall Die If We Stay Here Much Longer; And, Besides I Want You
To Work. I Feel Quite Certain That Your Place Is There. It Would Be A
Crime For You To Bury Yourself Here Any Longer.'
'No, Leave Me!'
He Was Quivering. On The Horizon Paris Was Calling Him, The Paris Of
Winter-Tide Which Was Being Lighted Up Once More. He Thought He Could
Hear From Where He Stood The Great Efforts That His Comrades Were
Making, And, In Fancy, He Returned Thither In Order That They Might
Not Triumph Without Him, In Order That He Might Become Their Chief
Again, Since Not One Of Them Had Strength Or Pride Enough To Be Such.
And Amid This Hallucination, Amid The Desire He Felt To Hasten To
Paris, He Yet Persisted In Refusing To Do So, From A Spirit Of
Involuntary Contradiction, Which Arose, Though He Could Not Account
For It, From His Very Entrails. Was It The Fear With Which The Bravest
Quivers, The Mute Struggle Of Happiness Seeking To Resist The Fatality
Of Destiny?
'Listen,' Said Christine, Excitedly. 'I Shall Get Our Boxes Ready, And
Take You Away.'
Five Days Later, After Packing And Sending Their Chattels To The
Railway, They Started For Paris.
Claude Was Already On The Road With Little Jacques, When Christine
Fancied That She Had Forgotten Something. She Returned Alone To The
House; And Finding It Quite Bare And Empty, She Burst Out Crying. It
Seemed As If Something Were Being Torn From Her, As If She Were
Part 6 Pg 122Leaving Something Of Herself Behind--What, She Could Not Say. How
Willingly Would She Have Remained! How Ardent Was Her Wish To Live
There Always--She Who Had Just Insisted On That Departure, That Return
To The City Of Passion Where She Scented The Presence Of A Rival.
However, She Continued Searching For What She Lacked,
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