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

His Good Nature,  To Procure Real Enjoyment For Claude

By Organising One Of The Dear Evenings Of Their Youth. So He Saw To

The Invitations; Claude And Christine Naturally Must Come; Next Jory

And His Wife,  The Latter Of Whom It Had Been Necessary To Receive

Since Her Marriage,  Then Dubuche,  Who Always Came Alone,  With

Fagerolles,  Mahoudeau,  And Finally Gagniere. There Would Be Ten Of

Them--All The Men Comrades Of The Old Band,  Without A Single Outsider,

In Order That The Good Understanding And Jollity Might Be Complete.

 

Henriette,  Who Was More Mistrustful Than Her Husband,  Hesitated When

This List Of Guests Was Decided Upon.

 

'Oh! Fagerolles? You Believe In Having Fagerolles With The Others?

They Hardly Like Him--Nor Claude Either; I Fancied I Noticed A

Coolness--'

 

But He Interrupted Her,  Bent On Not Admitting It.

 

'What! A Coolness? It's Really Funny,  But Women Can't Understand That

Fellows Chaff Each Other. All That Doesn't Prevent Them From Having

Their Hearts In The Right Place.'

 

Henriette Took Especial Care In Preparing The Menu For That Thursday

Dinner. She Now Had Quite A Little Staff To Overlook,  A Cook,  A

Man-Servant,  And So On; And If She No Longer Prepared Any Of The

Dishes Herself,  She Still Saw That Very Delicate Fare Was Provided,

Out Of Affection For Her Husband,  Whose Sole Vice Was Gluttony. She

Went To Market With The Cook,  And Called In Person On The

Tradespeople. She And Her Husband Had A Taste For Gastronomical

Curiosities From The Four Corners Of The World. On This Occasion They

Decided To Have Some Ox-Tail Soup,  Grilled Mullet,  Undercut Of Beef

With Mushrooms,  _Raviolis_ In The Italian Fashion,  Hazel-Hens From

Russia,  And A Salad Of Truffles,  Without Counting Caviare And _Kilkis_

As Side-Dishes,  A _Glace Pralinee_,  And A Little Emerald-Coloured

Hungarian Cheese,  With Fruit And Pastry. As Wine,  Some Old Bordeaux

Claret In Decanters,  Chambertin With The Roast,  And Sparkling Moselle

At Dessert,  In Lieu Of Champagne,  Which Was Voted Commonplace.

 

At Seven O'clock Sandoz And Henriette Were Waiting For Their Guests,

He Simply Wearing A Jacket,  And She Looking Very Elegant In A Plain

Dress Of Black Satin. People Dined At Their House In Frock-Coats,

Without Any Fuss. The Drawing-Room,  The Arrangements Of Which They

Were Now Completing,  Was Becoming Crowded With Old Furniture,  Old

Tapestry,  Nick-Nacks Of All Countries And All Times--A Rising And Now

Overflowing Stream Of Things Which Had Taken Source At Batignolles

Part 11 Pg 241

With An Old Pot Of Rouen Ware,  Which Henriette Had Given Her Husband

On One Of His Fete Days. They Ran About To The Curiosity Shops

Together; A Joyful Passion For Buying Possessed Them. Sandoz Satisfied

The Longings Of His Youth,  The Romanticist Ambitions Which The First

Books He Had Read Had Given Birth To. Thus This Writer,  So Fiercely

Modern,  Lived Amid The Worm-Eaten Middle Ages Which He Had Dreamt Of

When He Was A Lad Of Fifteen. As An Excuse,  He Laughingly Declared

That Handsome Modern Furniture Cost Too Much,  Whilst With Old Things,

Even Common Ones,  You Immediately Obtained Something With Effect And

Colour. There Was Nothing Of The Collector About Him,  He Was Entirely

Concerned As To Decoration And Broad Effects; And To Tell The Truth,

The Drawing-Room,  Lighted By Two Lamps Of Old Delft Ware,  Had Quite A

Soft Warm Tint With The Dull Gold Of The Dalmaticas Used For

Upholstering The Seats,  The Yellowish Incrustations Of The Italian

Cabinets And Dutch Show-Cases,  The Faded Hues Of The Oriental

Door-Hangings,  The Hundred Little Notes Of The Ivory,  Crockery And

Enamel Work,  Pale With Age,  Which Showed Against The Dull Red Hangings

Of The Room.

 

Claude And Christine Were The First To Arrive. The Latter Had Put On

Her Only Silk Dress--An Old,  Worn-Out Garment Which She Preserved With

Especial Care For Such Occasions. Henriette At Once Took Hold Of Both

Her Hands And Drew Her To A Sofa. She Was Very Fond Of Her,  And

Questioned Her,  Seeing Her So Strange,  Touchingly Pale,  And With

Anxious Eyes. What Was The Matter? Did She Feel Poorly? No,  No,  She

Answered That She Was Very Gay And Very Pleased To Come; But While She

Spoke,  She Kept On Glancing At Claude,  As If To Study Him,  And Then

Looked Away. He Seemed Excited,  Evincing A Feverishness In His Words

And Gestures Which He Had Not Shown For A Month Past. At Intervals,

However,  His Agitation Subsided,  And He Remained Silent,  With His Eyes

Wide Open,  Gazing Vacantly Into Space At Something Which He Fancied

Was Calling Him.

 

'Ah! Old Man,' He Said To Sandoz,  'I Finished Reading Your Book Last

Night. It's Deucedly Clever; You Have Shut Up Their Mouths This Time!'

 

They Both Talked Standing In Front Of The Chimney-Piece,  Where Some

Logs Were Blazing. Sandoz Had Indeed Just Published A New Novel,  And

Although His Critics Did Not Disarm,  There Was At Last That Stir Of

Success Which Establishes A Man's Reputation Despite The Persistent

Attacks Of His Adversaries. Besides,  He Had No Illusions; He Knew Very

Well That The Battle,  Even If It Were Won,  Would Begin Again At Each

Fresh Book He Wrote. The Great Work Of His Life Was Advancing,  That

Series Of Novels Which He Launched Forth In Volumes One After Another

In Stubborn,  Regular Fashion,  Marching Towards The Goal He Had

Selected Without Letting Anything,  Obstacles,  Insults,  Or Fatigue,

Conquer Him.

 

'It's True,' He Gaily Replied,  'They Are Weakening This Time. There's

Even One Who Has Been Foolish Enough To Admit That I'm An Honest Man!

See How Everything Degenerates! But They'll Make Up For It,  Never

Fear! I Know Some Of Them Whose Nuts Are Too Much Unlike My Own To Let

Them Accept My Literary Formula,  My Boldness Of Language,  And My

Physiological Characters Acting Under The Influence Of Circumstances;

And I Refer To Brother Writers Who Possess Self-Respect; I Leave The

Fools And The Scoundrels On One Side. For A Man To Be Able To Work On

Pluckily,  It Is Best For Him To Expect Neither Good Faith Nor Justice.

To Be In The Right He Must Begin By Dying.'

Part 11 Pg 242

At This Claude's Eyes Abruptly Turned Towards A Corner Of The

Drawing-Room,  As If To Pierce The Wall And Go Far Away Yonder,  Whither

Something Had Summoned Him. Then They Became Hazy And Returned From

Their Journey,  Whilst He Exclaimed:

 

'Oh! You Speak For Yourself! I Should Do Wrong To Kick The Bucket. No

Matter,  Your Book Sent Me Into A Deuced Fever. I Wanted To Paint

To-Day,  But I Couldn't. Ah! It's Lucky That I Can't Get Jealous Of

You,  Else You Would Make Me Too Unhappy.'

 

However,  The Door Had Opened,  And Mathilde Came In,  Followed By Jory.

She Was Richly Attired In A Tunic Of Nasturtium-Hued Velvet And A

Skirt Of Straw-Coloured Satin,  With Diamonds In Her Ears And A Large

Bouquet Of Roses On Her Bosom. What Astonished Claude The Most Was

That He Did Not Recognise Her,  For She Had Become Plump,  Round,  And

Fair Skinned,  Instead Of Thin And Sunburnt As He Had Known Her. Her

Disturbing Ugliness Had Departed In A Swelling Of The Face; Her Mouth,

Once Noted For Its Black Voids,  Now Displayed Teeth Which Looked

Over-White Whenever She Condescended To Smile,  With A Disdainful

Curling Of The Upper Lip. You Could Guess That She Had Become

Immoderately Respectable; Her Five And Forty Summers Gave Her Weight

Beside Her Husband,  Who Was Younger Than Herself And Seemed To Be Her

Nephew. The Only Thing Of Yore That Clung To Her Was A Violent

Perfume; She Drenched Herself With The Strongest Essences,  As If She

Had Been Anxious To Wash From Her Skin The Smell Of All The Aromatic

Simples With Which She Had Been Impregnated By Her Herbalist Business;

However,  The Sharpness Of Rhubarb,  The Bitterness Of Elder-Seed,  And

The Warmth Of Peppermint Clung To Her; And As Soon As She Crossed The

Drawing-Room,  It Was Filled With An Undefinable Smell Like That Of A

Chemist's Shop,  Relieved By An Acute Odour Of Musk.

 

Henriette,  Who Had Risen,  Made Her Sit Down Beside Christine,  Saying:

 

'You Know Each Other,  Don't You? You Have Already Met Here.'

 

Mathilde Gave But A Cold Glance At The Modest Attire Of That Woman Who

Had Lived For A Long Time With A Man,  So It Was Said,  Before Being

Married To Him. She Herself Was Exceedingly Rigid Respecting Such

Matters Since The Tolerance Prevailing In Literary And Artistic

Circles Had Admitted Her To A Few Drawing-Rooms. Henriette Hated Her,

However,  And After The Customary Exchange Of Courtesies,  Not To Be

Dispensed With,  Resumed Her Conversation With Christine.

 

Jory Had Shaken Hands With Claude And Sandoz,  And,  Standing Near Them,

In Front Of The Fireplace,  He Apologised For An Article Slashing The

Novelist's New Book Which Had Appeared That Very Morning In His

Review.

 

'As You Know Very Well,  My Dear Fellow,  One Is Never The Master In

One's Own House. I Ought To See To Everything,  But I Have So Little

Time! I Hadn't Even Read That Article,  I Relied On What Had Been Told

Me About It. So You Will Understand How Enraged I Was When I Read It

This Afternoon. I Am Dreadfully Grieved,  Dreadfully Grieved--'

 

'Oh,  Let It Be! It's The Natural Order Of Things,' Replied Sandoz,

Quietly. 'Now That My Enemies Are Beginning To Praise Me,  It's Only

Proper That My Friends Should Attack Me.'

Part 11 Pg 243

The Door Again Opened,  And Gagniere Glided In Softly,  Like A

Will-O'-The-Wisp. He Had Come Straight From Melun,  And Was Quite

Alone,  For He Never Showed His Wife To Anybody. When He Thus Came To

Dinner He Brought The Country Dust With Him On His Boots,  And Carried

It Back With Him The Same Night On Taking The Last Train. On The Other

Hand,  He Did Not Alter; Or,  Rather,  Age Seemed To Rejuvenate Him; His

Complexion Became Fairer As He Grew Old.

 

'Hallo! Why,  Gagniere's Here!' Exclaimed Sandoz.

 

Then,  Just As Gagniere Was Making Up His Mind To Bow To The Ladies,

Mahoudeau Entered. He Had Already Grown Grey,  With A Sunken,

Fierce-Looking Face And Childish,  Blinking Eyes. He Still Wore

Trousers Which Were A Good Deal Too Short For Him,  And A Frock-Coat

Which Creased In The Back,  In Spite Of The Money Which He Now Earned;

For The Bronze Manufacturer For Whom He Worked Had Brought Out Some

Charming Statuettes Of His,  Which One Began To See On Middle-Class

Mantel-Shelves And Consoles.

 

Sandoz And Claude Had Turned Round,  Inquisitive To Witness The Meeting

Between Mahoudeau And Mathilde. However,  Matters Passed Off Very

Quietly. The Sculptor Bowed To Her Respectfully,  While