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

Part 9 Pg 179

Good. And Then The Mother Settled Herself Near The Stove,  Motionless,

In The Attitude Required.

 

During The First Hour,  The Painter,  Perched Upon His Steps,  Kept

Glancing At Her,  But Did Not Speak A Word. Unutterable Sadness Stole

Over Her,  And She Felt Afraid Of Fainting,  No Longer Knowing Whether

She Was Suffering From The Cold Or From A Despair That Had Come From

Afar,  And The Bitterness Of Which She Felt To Be Rising Within Her.

Her Fatigue Became So Great That She Staggered And Hobbled About On

Her Numbed Legs.

 

'What,  Already?' Cried Claude. 'Why,  You Haven't Been At It More Than

A Quarter Of An Hour. You Don't Want To Earn Your Seven Francs,  Then?'

 

He Was Joking In A Gruff Voice,  Delighted With His Work. And She Had

Scarcely Recovered The Use Of Her Limbs,  Beneath The Dressing-Gown She

Had Wrapped Round Her,  When He Went On Shouting: 'Come On,  Come On,  No

Idling! It's A Grand Day To-Day Is! I Must Either Show Some Genius Or

Else Kick The Bucket.'

 

Then,  In A Weary Way,  She At Last Resumed The Pose.

 

The Misfortune Was That Before Long,  Both By His Glances And The

Language He Used,  She Fully Realised That She Herself Was As Nothing

To Him. If Ever He Praised A Limb,  A Tint,  A Contour,  It Was Solely

From The Artistic Point Of View. Great Enthusiasm And Passion He Often

Showed,  But It Was Not Passion For Herself As In The Old Days. She

Felt Confused And Deeply Mortified. Ah! This Was The End; In Her He No

Longer Loved Aught But His Art,  The Example Of Nature And Life! And

Then,  With Her Eyes Gazing Into Space,  She Would Remain Rigid,  Like A

Statue,  Keeping Back The Tears Which Made Her Heart Swell,  Lacking

Even The Wretched Consolation Of Being Able To Cry. And Day By Day The

Same Sorry Life Began Afresh For Her. To Stand There As His Model Had

Become Her Profession. She Could Not Refuse,  However Bitter Her Grief.

Their Once Happy Life Was All Over,  There Now Seemed To Be Three

People In The Place; It Was As If Claude Had Introduced A Mistress

Into It--That Woman He Was Painting. The Huge Picture Rose Up Between

Them,  Parted Them As With A Wall,  Beyond Which He Lived With The

Other. That Duplication Of Herself Well Nigh Drove Christine Mad With

Jealousy,  And Yet She Was Conscious Of The Pettiness Of Her

Sufferings,  And Did Not Dare To Confess Them Lest He Should Laugh At

Her. However,  She Did Not Deceive Herself; She Fully Realised That He

Preferred Her Counterfeit To Herself,  That Her Image Was The

Worshipped One,  The Sole Thought,  The Affection Of His Every Hour. He

Almost Killed Her With Long Sittings In That Cold Draughty Studio,  In

Order To Enhance The Beauty Of The Other; Upon Whom Depended All His

Joys And Sorrows According As To Whether He Beheld Her Live Or

Languish Beneath His Brush. Was Not This Love? And What Suffering To

Have To Lend Herself So That The Other Might Be Created,  So That She

Might Be Haunted By A Nightmare Of That Rival,  So That The Latter

Might For Ever Rise Between Them,  More Powerful Than Reality! To Think

Of It! So Much Dust,  The Veriest Trifle,  A Patch Of Colour On A

Canvas,  A Mere Semblance Destroying All Their Happiness!--He,  Silent,

Indifferent,  Brutal At Times,  And She,  Tortured By His Desertion,  In

Despair At Being Unable To Drive Away That Creature Who Ever

Encroached More And More Upon Their Daily Life!

 

And It Was Then That Christine,  Finding Herself Altogether Beaten In

Part 9 Pg 180

Her Efforts To Regain Claude's Love,  Felt All The Sovereignty Of Art

Weigh Down Upon Her. That Painting,  Which She Had Already Accepted

Without Restriction,  She Raised Still Higher In Her Estimation,  Placed

Inside An Awesome Tabernacle Before Which She Remained Overcome,  As

Before Those Powerful Divinities Of Wrath Which One Honours From The

Very Hatred And Fear That They Inspire. Hers Was A Holy Awe,  A

Conviction That Struggling Was Henceforth Useless,  That She Would Be

Crushed Like A Bit Of Straw If She Persisted In Her Obstinacy. Each Of

Her Husband's Canvases Became Magnified In Her Eyes,  The Smallest

Assumed Triumphal Dimensions,  Even The Worst Painted Of Them

Overwhelmed Her With Victory,  And She No Longer Judged Them,  But

Grovelled,  Trembling,  Thinking Them All Formidable,  And Invariably

Replying To Claude's Questions:

 

'Oh,  Yes; Very Good! Oh,  Superb! Oh,  Very,  Very Extraordinary That

One!'

 

Nevertheless,  She Harboured No Anger Against Him; She Still Worshipped

Him With Tearful Tenderness,  As She Saw Him Thus Consume Himself With

Efforts. After A Few Weeks Of Successful Work,  Everything Got Spoilt

Again; He Could Not Finish His Large Female Figure. At Times He Almost

Killed His Model With Fatigue,  Keeping Hard At Work For Days And Days

Together,  Then Leaving The Picture Untouched For A Whole Month. The

Figure Was Begun Anew,  Relinquished,  Painted All Over Again At Least A

Dozen Times. One Year,  Two Years Went By Without The Picture Reaching

Completion. Though Sometimes It Was Almost Finished,  It Was Scratched

Out The Next Morning And Painted Entirely Over Again.

 

Ah! What An Effort Of Creation It Was,  An Effort Of Blood And Tears,

Filling Claude With Agony In His Attempt To Beget Flesh And Instil

Life! Ever Battling With Reality,  And Ever Beaten,  It Was A Struggle

With The Angel. He Was Wearing Himself Out With This Impossible Task

Of Making A Canvas Hold All Nature; He Became Exhausted At Last With

The Pains Which Racked His Muscles Without Ever Being Able To Bring

His Genius To Fruition. What Others Were Satisfied With,  A More Or

Less Faithful Rendering,  The Various Necessary Bits Of Trickery,

Filled Him With Remorse,  Made Him As Indignant As If In Resorting To

Such Practices One Were Guilty Of Ignoble Cowardice; And Thus He Began

His Work Over And Over Again,  Spoiling What Was Good Through His

Craving To Do Better. He Would Always Be Dissatisfied With His Women

--So His Friends Jokingly Declared--Until They Flung Their Arms Round

His Neck. What Was Lacking In His Power That He Could Not Endow Them

With Life? Very Little,  No Doubt. Sometimes He Went Beyond The Right

Point,  Sometimes He Stopped Short Of It. One Day The Words,  'An

Incomplete Genius,' Which He Overheard,  Both Flattered And Frightened

Him. Yes,  It Must Be That; He Jumped Too Far Or Not Far Enough; He

Suffered From A Want Of Nervous Balance; He Was Afflicted With Some

Hereditary Derangement Which,  Because There Were A Few Grains The More

Or The Less Of Some Substance In His Brain,  Was Making Him A Lunatic

Instead Of A Great Man. Whenever A Fit Of Despair Drove Him From His

Studio,  Whenever He Fled From His Work,  He Now Carried About With Him

That Idea Of Fatal Impotence,  And He Heard It Beating Against His

Skull Like The Obstinate Tolling Of A Funeral Bell.

 

His Life Became Wretched. Never Had Doubt Of Himself Pursued Him In

That Way Before. He Disappeared For Whole Days Together; He Even

Stopped Out A Whole Night,  Coming Back The Next Morning Stupefied,

Without Being Able To Say Where He Had Gone. It Was Thought That He

Part 9 Pg 181

Had Been Tramping Through The Outskirts Of Paris Rather Than Find

Himself Face To Face With His Spoilt Work. His Sole Relief Was To Flee

The Moment That Work Filled Him With Shame And Hatred,  And To Remain

Away Until He Felt Sufficient Courage To Face It Once More. And Not

Even His Wife Dared To Question Him On His Return--Indeed,  She Was

Only Too Happy To See Him Back Again After Her Anxious Waiting. At

Such Times He Madly Scoured Paris,  Especially The Outlying Quarters,

From A Longing To Debase Himself And Hob-Nob With Labourers. He

Expressed At Each Recurring Crisis His Old Regret At Not Being Some

Mason's Hodman. Did Not Happiness Consist In Having Solid Limbs,  And

In Performing The Work One Was Built For Well And Quickly? He Had

Wrecked His Life; He Ought To Have Got Himself Engaged In The Building

Line In The Old Times When He Had Lunched At The 'Dog Of Montargis,'

Gomard's Tavern,  Where He Had Known A Limousin,  A Big,  Strapping,

Merry Fellow,  Whose Brawny Arms He Envied. Then,  On Coming Back To The

Rue Tourlaque,  With His Legs Faint And His Head Empty,  He Gave His

Picture Much The Same Distressful,  Frightened Glance As One Casts At A

Corpse In A Mortuary,  Until Fresh Hope Of Resuscitating It,  Of

Endowing It With Life,  Brought A Flush To His Face Once More.

 

One Day Christine Was Posing,  And The Figure Of The Woman Was Again

Well Nigh Finished. For The Last Hour,  However,  Claude Had Been

Growing Gloomy,  Losing The Childish Delight That He Had Displayed At

The Beginning Of The Sitting. So His Wife Scarcely Dared To Breathe,

Feeling By Her Own Discomfort That Everything Must Be Going Wrong Once

More,  And Afraid That She Might Accelerate The Catastrophe If She

Moved As Much As A Finger. And,  Surely Enough,  He Suddenly Gave A Cry

Of Anguish,  And Launched Forth An Oath In A Thunderous Voice.

 

'Oh,  Curse It! Curse It!'

 

He Had Flung His Handful Of Brushes From The Top Of The Steps. Then,

Blinded With Rage,  With One Blow Of His Fist He Transpierced The

Canvas.

 

Christine Held Out Her Trembling Hands.

 

'My Dear,  My Dear!'

 

But When She Had Flung A Dressing-Gown Over Her Shoulders,  And

Approached The Picture,  She Experienced Keen Delight,  A Burst Of

Satisfied Hatred. Claude's Fist Had Struck 'The Other One' Full In The

Bosom,  And There Was A Gaping Hole! At Last,  Then,  That Other One Was

Killed!

 

Motionless,  Horror-Struck By That Murder,  Claude Stared At The

Perforated Bosom. Poignant Grief Came Upon Him At The Sight Of The

Wound Whence The Blood Of His Work Seemed To Flow. Was It Possible?

Was It He Who Had Thus Murdered What He Loved Best Of All On Earth?

His Anger Changed Into Stupor; His Fingers Wandered Over The Canvas,

Drawing The Ragged Edges Of The Rent Together,  As If He Had Wished To

Close The Bleeding Gash. He Was Choking; He Stammered,  Distracted With

Boundless Grief:

 

'She Is Killed,  She Is Killed!'

 

Then Christine,  In Her Maternal Love For That Big Child Of An Artist,

Felt Moved To Her Very Entrails. She Forgave Him As Usual. She Saw