His Masterpiece by Emile Zola (most inspirational books of all time txt) 📕
- Author: Emile Zola
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'Very Pleased--Feel Flattered, Indeed, Dear Master. And You Only Spoke
Well Of Me, I'm Sure Of It.'
'Not At All, Naudet, Not At All,' Said Bongrand, In A Quiet Tone. 'We
Were Saying That Your Manner Of Trading Was Giving Us A Nice
Generation Of Artists--Tricksters Crossed With Dishonest Business
Part 7 Pg 137Men.'
Naudet Smiled, Without Losing His Composure.
'The Remark Is Harsh, But So Charming! Never Mind, Never Mind, Dear
Master, Nothing That You Say Offends Me.'
And, Dropping Into Ecstasy Before The Picture Of The Two Little Women
At Needlework:
'Ah! Good Heavens, I Didn't Know This, It's A Little Marvel! Ah! That
Light, That Broad Substantial Treatment! One Has To Go Back To
Rembrandt For Anything Like It; Yes, To Rembrandt! Look Here, I Only
Came In To Pay My Respects, But I Thank My Lucky Star For Having
Brought Me Here. Let Us Do A Little Bit Of Business. Let Me Have This
Gem. Anything You Like To Ask For It--I'll Cover It With Gold.'
One Could See Bongrand's Back Shake, As If His Irritation Were
Increasing At Each Sentence. He Curtly Interrupted The Dealer.
'Too Late; It's Sold.'
'Sold, You Say. And You Cannot Annul Your Bargain? Tell Me, At Any
Rate, To Whom It's Sold? I'll Do Everything, I'll Give Anything. Ah!
What A Horrible Blow! Sold, Are You Quite Sure Of It? Suppose You Were
Offered Double The Sum?'
'It's Sold, Naudet. That's Enough, Isn't It?'
However, The Dealer Went On Lamenting. He Remained For A Few Minutes
Longer, Going Into Raptures Before Other Sketches, While Making The
Tour Of The Studio With The Keen Glances Of A Speculator In Search Of
Luck. When He Realised That His Time Was Badly Chosen, And That He
Would Be Able To Take Nothing Away With Him, He Went Off, Bowing With
An Air Of Gratitude, And Repeating Remarks Of Admiration As Far As The
Landing.
As Soon As He Had Gone, Jory, Who Had Listened To The Conversation
With Surprise, Ventured To Ask A Question:
'But You Told Us, I Thought--It Isn't Sold, Is It?'
Without Immediately Answering, Bongrand Went Back To His Picture.
Then, In His Thundering Voice, Resuming In One Cry All His Hidden
Suffering, The Whole Of The Nascent Struggle Within Him Which He Dared
Not Avow, He Said:
'He Plagues Me. He Shall Never Have Anything Of Mine! Let Him Go And
Buy Of Fagerolles!'
A Quarter Of An Hour Later, Claude And Jory Also Said Good-Bye,
Leaving Bongrand Struggling With His Work In The Waning Daylight. Once
Outside, When The Young Painter Had Left His Companion, He Did Not At
Once Return Home To The Rue De Douai, In Spite Of His Long Absence. He
Still Felt The Want Of Walking About, Of Surrendering Himself Up To
That Great City Of Paris, Where The Meetings Of One Single Day
Sufficed To Fill His Brain; And This Need Of Motion Made Him Wander
About Till The Black Night Had Fallen, Through The Frozen Mud Of The
Part 7 Pg 138Streets, Beneath The Gas-Lamps, Which, Lighted Up One By One, Showed
Like Nebulous Stars Amidst The Fog.
Claude Impatiently Awaited The Thursday When He Was To Dine At
Sandoz's, For The Latter, Immutable In His Habits, Still Invited His
Cronies To Dinner Once A Week. All Those Who Chose Could Come, Their
Covers Were Laid. His Marriage, His Change Of Life, The Ardent
Literary Struggle Into Which He Had Thrown Himself, Made No
Difference; He Kept To His Day 'At Home,' That Thursday Which Dated
From The Time He Had Left College, From The Time They Had All Smoked
Their First Pipes. As He Himself Expressed It, Alluding To His Wife,
There Was Only One Chum More.
'I Say, Old Man,' He Had Frankly Said To Claude, 'I'm Greatly
Worried--'
'What About?'
'Why, About Inviting Madame Christine. There Are A Lot Of Idiots, A
Lot Of Philistines Watching Me, Who Would Say All Manner Of Things--'
'You Are Quite Right, Old Man. But Christine Herself Would Decline To
Come. Oh! We Understand The Position Very Well. I'll Come Alone,
Depend Upon It.'
At Six O'clock, Claude Started For Sandoz's Place In The Rue Nollet,
In The Depths Of Batignolles, And He Had No End Of Trouble In Finding
The Small Pavilion Which His Friend Had Rented. First Of All He
Entered A Large House Facing The Street, And Applied To The
Doorkeeper, Who Made Him Cross Three Successive Courtyards; Then He
Went Down A Passage, Between Two Other Buildings, Descended Some
Steps, And Tumbled Upon The Iron Gate Of A Small Garden. That Was The
Spot, The Pavilion Was There At The End Of A Path. But It Was So Dark,
And He Had Nearly Broken His Legs Coming Down The Steps, That He Dared
Not Venture Any Further, The More So As A Huge Dog Was Barking
Furiously. At Last He Heard The Voice Of Sandoz, Who Was Coming
Forward And Trying To Quiet The Dog.
'Ah, It's You! We Are Quite In The Country, Aren't We? We Are Going To
Set Up A Lantern, So That Our Company May Not Break Their Necks. Come
In, Come In! Will You Hold Your Noise, You Brute Of A Bertrand? Don't
You See That It's A Friend, Fool?'
Thereupon The Dog Accompanied Them As Far As The Pavilion, Wagging His
Tail And Barking Joyously. A Young Servant-Girl Had Come Out With A
Lantern, Which She Fastened To The Gate, In Order To Light Up The
Breakneck Steps. In The Garden There Was Simply A Small Central Lawn,
On Which There Stood A Large Plum Tree, Diffusing A Shade Around That
Rotted The Grass; And Just In Front Of The Low House, Which Showed
Only Three Windows, There Stretched An Arbour Of Virginia Creeper,
With A Brand-New Seat Shining There As An Ornament Amid The Winter
Showers, Pending The Advent Of The Summer Sun.
'Come In,' Repeated Sandoz.
On The Right-Hand Side Of The Hall He Ushered Claude Into The Parlour,
Which He Had Turned Into A Study. The Dining-Room And Kitchen Were On
The Left. Upstairs, His Mother, Who Was Now Altogether Bedridden,
Part 7 Pg 139Occupied The Larger Room, While He And His Wife Contented Themselves
With The Other One, And A Dressing-Room That Parted The Two. That Was
The Whole Place, A Real Cardboard Box, With Rooms Like Little Drawers
Separated By Partitions As Thin As Paper. Withal, It Was The Abode Of
Work And Hope, Vast In Comparison With The Ordinary Garrets Of Youth,
And Already Made Bright By A Beginning Of Comfort And Luxury.
'There's Room Here, Eh?' He Exclaimed. 'Ah! It's A Jolly Sight More
Comfortable Than The Rue D'enfer. You See That I've A Room To Myself.
And I Have Bought Myself An Oaken Writing-Table, And My Wife Made Me A
Present Of That Dwarf Palm In That Pot Of Old Rouen Ware. Isn't It
Swell, Eh?'
His Wife Came In At That Very Moment. Tall, With A Pleasant, Tranquil
Face And Beautiful Brown Hair, She Wore A Large White Apron Over Her
Plainly Made Dress Of Black Poplin; For Although They Had A Regular
Servant, She Saw To The Cooking, For She Was Proud Of Certain Of Her
Dishes, And She Put The Household On A Footing Of Middle-Class
Cleanliness And Love Of Cheer.
She And Claude Became Old Chums At Once.
'Call Him Claude, My Darling. And You, Old Man, Call Her Henriette. No
Madame Nor Monsieur, Or I Shall Fine You Five Sous Each Time.'
They Laughed, And She Scampered Away, Being Wanted In The Kitchen To
Look After A Southern Dish, A _Bouillabaisse_, With Which She Wished
To Surprise The Plassans Friend. She Had Obtained The Recipe From Her
Husband Himself, And Had Become Marvellously Deft At It, So He Said.
'Your Wife Is Charming,' Said Claude, 'And I See She Spoils You.'
But Sandoz, Seated At His Table, With His Elbows Among Such Pages Of
The Book He Was Working At As He Had Written That Morning, Began To
Talk Of The First Novel Of His Series, Which He Had Published In
October. Ah! They Had Treated His Poor Book Nicely! It Had Been A
Throttling, A Butchering, All The Critics Yelling At His Heels, A
Broadside Of Imprecations, As If He Had Murdered People In A Wood. He
Himself Laughed At It, Excited Rather Than Otherwise, For He Had
Sturdy Shoulders And The Quiet Bearing Of A Toiler Who Knows What He's
After. Mere Surprise Remained To Him At The Profound Lack Of
Intelligence Shown By Those Fellows The Critics, Whose Articles,
Knocked Off On The Corner Of Some Table, Bespattered Him With Mud,
Without Appearing As Much As To Guess At The Least Of His Intentions.
Everything Was Flung Into The Same Slop-Pail Of Abuse: His Studies Of
Physiological Man; The Important Part He Assigned To Circumstances And
Surroundings; His Allusions To Nature, Ever And Ever Creating; In
Short, Life--Entire, Universal Life--Existent Through All The Animal
World Without There Really Being Either High Or Low, Beauty Or
Ugliness; He Was Insulted, Too, For His Boldness Of Language For The
Conviction He Expressed That All Things Ought To Be Said, That There
Are Abominable Expressions Which Become Necessary, Like Branding
Irons, And That A Language Emerges Enriched From Such Strength-Giving
Baths. He Easily Granted Their Anger, But He Would At Least Have Liked
Them To Do Him The Honour Of Understanding Him And Getting Angry At
His Audacity, Not At The Idiotic, Filthy Designs Of Which He Was
Accused.
Part 7 Pg 140'Really,' He Continued, 'I Believe That The World Still Contains More
Idiots Than Downright Spiteful People. They Are Enraged With Me On
Account Of The Form I Give To My Productions, The Written Sentences,
The Similes, The Very Life Of My Style.
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