His Masterpiece, Emile Zola [read ebook pdf .TXT] 📗
- Author: Emile Zola
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Even Dubuche Added, 'You'll See More Clearly Into It To-Morrow. Come
And Dine.'
For A Moment Claude Refused To Surrender. He Stood Rooted To The Spot,
Deaf To Their Friendly Voices, And Fiercely Obstinate.
Part 2 Pg 41
What Did He Want To Do Then, Since His Tired Fingers Were No Longer
Able To Grasp The Brush? He Did Not Know, But, However Powerless He
Might Be, He Was Gnawed By A Mad Craving To Go On Working Still And To
Create In Spite Of Everything. Even If He Did Nothing, He Would At
Least Stay There, He Would Not Vacate The Spot. All At Once, However,
He Made Up His Mind, Shaken The While As By A Big Sob. He Clutched
Firmly Hold Of His Broadest Palette-Knife, And, With One Deep, Slow
Sweep, He Obliterated The Woman's Head And Bosom. It Was Veritable
Murder, A Pounding Away Of Human Flesh; The Whole Disappeared In A
Murky, Muddy Mash. By The Side Of The Gentleman In The Dark Jacket,
Amidst The Bright Verdure, Where The Two Little Wrestlers So Lightly
Tinted Were Disporting Themselves, There Remained Naught Of The Nude,
Headless, Breastless Woman But A Mutilated Trunk, A Vague Cadaverous
Stump, An Indistinct, Lifeless Patch Of Visionary Flesh.
Sandoz And Dubuche Were Already Descending The Stairs With A Great
Clatter, And Claude Followed Them, Fleeing His Work, In Agony At
Having To Leave It Thus Scarred With A Gaping Gash.
Part 3 Pg 42
The Beginning Of The Week Proved Disastrous To Claude. He Had Relapsed
Into One Of Those Periods Of Self-Doubt That Made Him Hate Painting,
With The Hatred Of A Lover Betrayed, Who Overwhelms The Faithless One
With Insults Although Tortured By An Uncontrollable Desire To Worship
Her Yet Again. So On The Thursday, After Three Frightful Days Of
Fruitless And Solitary Battling, He Left Home As Early As Eight In The
Morning, Banging His Door Violently, And Feeling So Disgusted With
Himself That He Swore He Would Never Take Up A Brush Again. When He
Was Unhinged By One Of These Attacks There Was But One Remedy, He Had
To Forget Himself, And, To Do So, It Was Needful That He Should Look
Up Some Comrades With Whom To Quarrel, And, Above All, Walk About And
Trudge Across Paris, Until The Heat And Odour Of Battle Rising From
Her Paving-Stones Put Heart Into Him Again.
That Day, Like Every Other Thursday, He Was To Dine At Sandoz's, In
Company With Their Friends. But What Was He To Do Until The Evening?
The Idea Of Remaining By Himself, Of Eating His Heart Out, Disgusted
Him. He Would Have Gone Straight To His Friend, Only He Knew That The
Latter Must Be At His Office. Then The Thought Of Dubuche Occurred To
Him, But He Hesitated, For Their Old Friendship Had Lately Been
Cooling Down. He Felt That The Fraternity Of The Earlier Times Of
Effort No Longer Existed Between Them. He Guessed That Dubuche Lacked
Intelligence, Had Become Covertly Hostile, And Was Occupied With
Ambitions Different From His Own. However, He, Claude, Must Go
Somewhere. So He Made Up His Mind, And Repaired To The Rue Jacob,
Where The Architect Rented A Small Room On The Sixth Floor Of A Big
Frigid-Looking House.
Claude Was Already On The Landing Of The Second Floor, When The
Doorkeeper, Calling Him Back, Snappishly Told Him That M. Dubuche Was
Not At Home, And Had, In Fact, Stayed Out All Night. The Young Man
Slowly Descended The Stairs And Found Himself In The Street,
Stupefied, As It Were, By So Prodigious An Event As An Escapade On The
Part 3 Pg 43Part Of Dubuche. It Was A Piece Of Inconceivable Bad Luck. For A
Moment He Strolled Along Aimlessly; But, As He Paused At The Corner Of
The Rue De Seine, Not Knowing Which Way To Go, He Suddenly Recollected
What His Friend Had Told Him About A Certain Night Spent At The
Dequersonniere Studio--A Night Of Terrible Hard Work, The Eve Of The
Day On Which The Pupils' Designs Had To Be Deposited At The School Of
Arts. At Once He Walked Towards The Rue Du Four, Where The Studio Was
Situated. Hitherto He Had Carefully Abstained From Calling There For
Dubuche, From Fear Of The Yells With Which Outsiders Were Greeted. But
Now He Made Straight For The Place Without Flinching, His Timidity
Disappearing So Thoroughly Before The Anguish Of Loneliness That He
Felt Ready To Undergo Any Amount Of Insult Could He But Secure A
Companion In Misfortune.
The Studio Was Situated In The Narrowest Part Of The Rue Du Four, At
The Far End Of A Decrepit, Tumble-Down Building. Claude Had To Cross
Two Evil-Smelling Courtyards To Reach A Third, Across Which Ran A Sort
Of Big Closed Shed, A Huge Out-House Of Board And Plaster Work, Which
Had Once Served As A Packing-Case Maker's Workshop. From Outside,
Through The Four Large Windows, Whose Panes Were Daubed With A Coating
Of White Lead, Nothing Could Be Seen But The Bare Whitewashed Ceiling.
Having Pushed The Door Open, Claude Remained Motionless On The
Threshold. The Place Stretched Out Before Him, With Its Four Long
Tables Ranged Lengthwise To The Windows--Broad Double Tables They
Were, Which Had Swarms Of Students On Either Side, And Were Littered
With Moist Sponges, Paint Saucers, Iron Candlesticks, Water Bowls, And
Wooden Boxes, In Which Each Pupil Kept His White Linen Blouse, His
Compasses, And Colours. In One Corner, The Stove, Neglected Since The
Previous Winter, Stood Rusting By The Side Of A Pile Of Coke That Had
Not Been Swept Away; While At The Other End A Large Iron Cistern With
A Tap Was Suspended Between Two Towels. And Amidst The Bare Untidiness
Of This Shed, The Eye Was Especially Attracted By The Walls Which,
Above, Displayed A Litter Of Plaster Casts Ranged In Haphazard Fashion
On Shelves, And Disappeared Lower Down Behind Forests Of T-Squares And
Bevels, And Piles Of Drawing Boards, Tied Together With Webbing
Straps. Bit By Bit, Such Parts Of The Partitions As Had Remained
Unoccupied Had Become Covered With Inscriptions And Drawings, A
Constantly Rising Flotsam And Jetsam Of Scrawls Traced There As On The
Margin Of An Ever-Open Book. There Were Caricatures Of The Students
Themselves, Coarse Witticisms Fit To Make A Gendarme Turn Pale,
Epigrammatic Sentences, Addition Sums, Addresses, And So Forth; While,
Above All Else, Written In Big Letters, And Occupying The Most
Prominent Place, Appeared This Inscription: 'On The 7th Of June, Gorfu
Declared That He Didn't Care A Hang For Rome.--Signed, Godemard.'*
* The Allusion Is To The French Art School At Rome, And The
Competitions Into Which Students Enter To Obtain Admission
To It, Or To Secure The Prizes Offered For The Best Exhibits
Which, During Their Term Of Residence, They Send To Paris.--Ed.
Claude Was Greeted With A Growl Like That Of Wild Beasts Disturbed In
Their Lair. What Kept Him Motionless Was The Strange Aspect Of This
Place On The Morning Of The 'Truck Night,' As The Embryo Architects
Termed The Crucial Night Of Labour. Since The Previous Evening, The
Whole Studio, Some Sixty Pupils, Had Been Shut Up There; Those Who Had
No Designs To Exhibit--'The Niggers,' As They Were Called Remaining To
Part 3 Pg 44Help The Others, The Competitors Who, Being Behind Time, Had To Knock
Off The Work Of A Week In A Dozen Hours. Already, At Midnight, They
Had Stuffed Themselves With Brawn, Saveloys, And Similar Viands,
Washed Down With Cheap Wine. Towards One O'clock They Had Secured The
Company Of Some 'Ladies'; And, Without The Work Abating, The Feast Had
Turned Into A Roman Orgy, Blended With A Smoking Competition. On The
Damp, Stained Floor There Remained A Great Litter Of Greasy Paper And
Broken Bottles; While The Atmosphere Reeked Of Burnt Tallow, Musk,
Highly Seasoned Sausages, And Cheap Bluish Wine.
And Now Many Voices Savagely Yelled: 'Turn Him Out. Oh, That Mug! What
Does He Want, That Guy? Turn Him Out, Turn Him Out.'
For A Moment Claude, Quite Dazed, Staggered Beneath The Violence Of
The Onslaught. But The Epithets Became Viler, For The Acme Of
Elegance, Even For The More Refined Among These Young Fellows, Was To
Rival One's Friends In Beastly Language. He Was, Nevertheless,
Recovering And Beginning To Answer, When Dubuche Recognised Him. The
Latter Turned Crimson, For He Detested That Kind Of Adventure. He Felt
Ashamed Of His Friend, And Rushed Towards Him, Amidst The Jeers, Which
Were Now Levelled At Himself:
'What, Is It You?' He Gasped. 'I Told You Never To Come In. Just Wait
For Me A Minute In The Yard.'
At That Moment, Claude, Who Was Stepping Back, Narrowly Escaped Being
Knocked Down By A Little Hand-Truck Which Two Big Full-Bearded Fellows
Brought Up At A Gallop. It Was From This Truck That The Night Of Heavy
Toil Derived Its Name: And For The Last Week The Students Who Had Got
Behindhand With Their Work, Through Taking Up Petty Paid Jobs Outside,
Had Been Repeating The Cry, 'Oh! I'm In The Truck And No Mistake.' The
Moment The Vehicle Appeared, A Clamour Arose. It Was A Quarter To Nine
O'clock, There Was Barely Time To Reach The School Of Arts. However, A
Helter-Skelter Rush Emptied The Studio; Each Brought Out His Chases,
Amidst A General Jostling; Those Who Obstinately Wished To Give Their
Designs A Last Finishing Touch Were Knocked About And Carried Away
With Their Comrades. In Less Than Five Minutes Every Frame Was Piled
Upon The Truck, And The Two Bearded Fellows, The Most Recent Additions
To The Studio, Harnessed Themselves To It Like Cattle And Drew It
Along With All Their Strength, The Others Vociferating, And Pushing
From Behind. It Was Like The Rush Of A Sluice; The
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