emile zola-第2章

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devastating　one's　experience　of　them　may　be；　it　leaves　no　doubt

of　their　having　been。　

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　



III　



It　is　not　much　to　say　of　a　work　of　literary　art　that　it　will

survive　as　a　record　of　the　times　it　treats　of；　and　I　would　not

claim　high　value　for　Zola's　fiction　because　it　is　such　a　true

picture　of　the　Second　Empire　in　its　decline；　yet；　beyond　any

other　books　have　the　quality　that　alone　makes　novels　historical。　

That　they　include　everything；　that　they　do　justice　to　all　sides

and　phases　of　the　period；　it　would　be　fatuous　to　expect；　and

ridiculous　to　demand。　　It　is　not　their　epical　character　alone

that　forbids　this；　it　is　the　condition　of　every　work　of　art；

which　must　choose　its　point　of　view；　and　include　only　the　things

that　fall　within　a　certain　scope。　　One　of　Zola's　polemical

delusions　was　to　suppose　that　a　fiction　ought　not　to　be

selective；　and　that　his　own　fictions　were　not　selective；　but

portrayed　the　fact　without　choice　and　without　limitation。　　The

fact　was　that　he　was　always　choosing；　and　always　limiting。　　Even

a　map　chooses　and　limits；　far　more　a　picture。　　Yet　this　delusion

of　Zola's　and　its　affirmation　resulted　in　no　end　of

misunderstanding。　　People　said　the　noises　of　the　streets；　which

he　supposed　himself　to　have　given　with　graphophonic　fulness　and

variety；　were　not　music；　and　they　were　quite　right。　　Zola；　as　far

as　his　effects　were　voluntary；　was　not　giving　them　music；　he

openly　loathed　the　sort　of　music　they　meant　just　as　he　openly

loathed　art；　and　asked　to　be　regarded　as　a　man　of　science　rather

than　an　artist。　　Yet；　at　the　end　of　the　ends；　he　was　an　artist

and　not　a　man　of　science。　　His　hand　was　perpetually　selecting　his

facts；　and　shaping　them　to　one　epical　result；　with　an　orchestral

accompaniment；　which；　though　reporting　the　rudest　noises　of　the

street；　the　vulgarest；　the　most　offensive；　was；　in　spite　of　him；

so　reporting　them　that　the　result　was　harmony。



Zola　was　an　artist；　and　one　of　the　very　greatest；　but　even　before

and　beyond　that　he　was　intensely　a　moralist；　as　only　the

moralists　of　our　true　and　noble　time　have　been。　　Not　Tolstoy；　not

Ibsen　himself；　has　more　profoundly　and　indignantly　felt　the

injustice　of　civilization；　or　more　insistently　shown　the　falsity

of　its　fundamental　pretensions。　　He　did　not　make　his　books　a

polemic　for　one　cause　or　another；　he　was　far　too　wise　and　sane

for　that；　but　when　he　began　to　write　them　they　became　alive　with

his　sense　of　what　was　wrong　and　false　and　bad。　　His　tolerance　is

less　than　Tolstoy's；　because　his　resignation　is　not　so　great；　it

is　for　the　weak　sinners　and　not　for　the　strong；　while　Tolstoy's；

with　that　transcendent　vision　of　his　race；　pierces　the　bounds

where　the　shows　of　strength　and　weakness　cease　and　become　of　a

solidarity　of　error　in　which　they　are　one。　　But　the　ethics　of　his

work；　like　Tolstoy's；　were　always　carrying　over　into　his　life。　

He　did　not　try　to　live　poverty　and　privation　and　hard　labor；　as

Tolstoy　does；　he　surrounded　himself　with　the　graces　and　the

luxuries　which　his　honestly　earned　money　enabled　him　to　buy；　but

when　an　act　of　public　and　official　atrocity　disturbed　the　working

of　his　mind　and　revolted　his　nature；　he　could　not　rest　again　till

he　had　done　his　best　to　right　it。　

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　



IV

　

The　other　day　Zola　died　（by　a　casualty　which　one　fancies　he　would

have　liked　to　employ　in　a　novel；　if　he　had　thought　of　it）；　and

the　man　whom　he　had　befriended　at　the　risk　of　all　he　had　in　the

world；　his　property；　his　liberty；　his　life　itself；　came　to　his

funeral　in　disguise；　risking　again　all　that　Zola　had　risked；　to

pay　the　last　honors　to　his　incomparable　benefactor。



It　was　not　the　first　time　that　a　French　literary　man　had　devoted

himself　to　the　cause　of　the　oppressed；　and　made　it　his　personal

affair；　his　charge；　his　inalienable　trust。　　But　Voltaire's

championship　of　the　persecuted　Protestant　had　not　the　measure　of

Zola's　championship　of　the　persecuted　Jew；　though　in　both

instances　the　courage　and　the　persistence　of　the　vindicator

forced　the　reopening　of　the　case　and　resulted　in　final　justice。　

It　takes　nothing　from　the　heroism　of　Voltaire　to　recognize　that

it　was　not　so　great　as　the　heroism　of　Zola；　and　it　takes　nothing

from　the　heroism　of　Zola　to　recognize　that　it　was　effective　in

the　only　country　of　Europe　where　such　a　case　as　that　of　Dreyfus

would　have　been　reopened；　where　there　was　a　public　imagination

generous　enough　to　conceive　of　undoing　an　act　of　immense　public

cruelty。　　At　first　this　imagination　was　dormant；　and　the　French

people　conceived　only　of　punishing　the　vindicator　along　with

victim；　for　daring　to　accuse　their　processes　of　injustice。　

Outrage；　violence；　and　the　peril　of　death　greeted　Zola　from　his

fellow…citizens；　and　from　the　authorities　ignominy；　fine；　and

prison。　　But　nothing　silenced　or　deterred　him；　and；　in　the　swift

course　of　moral　adjustment　characteristic　of　our　time；　an

innumerable　multitude　of　those　who　were　ready　a　few　years　ago　to

rend　him　in　pieces　joined　in　paying　tribute　to　the　greatness　of

his　soul；　at　the　grave　which　received　his　body　already　buried

under　an　avalanche　of　flowers。　　The　government　has　not　been　so

prompt　as　the　mob；　but　with　the　history　of　France　in　mind；

remembering　how　official　action　has　always　responded　to　the

national　impulses　in　behalf　of　humanity　and　justice；　one　cannot

believe　that　the　representatives　of　the　French　people　will　long

remain　behind　the　French　people　in　offering　reparation　to　the

memory　of　one　of　the　greatest　and　most　heroic　of　French　citizens。



It　is　a　pity　for　the　government　that　it　did　not　take　part　in　the

obsequies　of　Zola；　it　would　have　been　well　for　the　army；　which　he

was　falsely　supposed　to　have　defamed；　to　have　been　present　to

testify　of　the　real　service　and　honor　he　had　done　it。　　But；　in

good　time　enough；　the　reparation　will　be　official　as　well　as

popular；　and　when　the　monument　to　Zola；　which　has　already　risen

in　the　hearts　of　his　countrymen；　shall　embody　itself　in　enduring

marble　or　perennial　bronze；　the　army　will　be　there　to　join　in　its

consecration。

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　



V

　

There　is　no　reason　why　criticism　should　affect　an　equal

hesitation。　　Criticism　no　longer　assumes　to　ascertain　an　author's

place　in　literature。　　It　is　very　well　satisfied　if　it　can　say

something　suggestive　concerning　the　nature　and　quality　of　his

work；　and　it　tries　to　say　this　with　as　little　of　the　old　air　of

finality　as　it　can　manage　to　hide　its　poverty　in。



After　the　words　of　M。　Chaumie　at　the　funeral；　〃Zola's　life　work

was　dominated　by　anxiety　for　sincerity　and　truth；　an　anxiety

inspired　by　his　great　feelings　of　pity　and　justice；〃　there　seems

nothing　left　to　do　but　to　apply　them　to　the　examination　of　his

literary　work。　　They　unlock　the　secret　of　his　performance；　if　it

is　any　longer　a　secret；　and　they　afford　its　justification　in　all

those　respects　where　without　them　it　could　not　be　justified。　　The

question　of　immorality　has　been　set　aside；　and　the　indecency　has

been　admitted；　but　it　remains　for　us　to　realize　that　anxiety　for

sincerity　and　truth；　springing　from　the　sense　of　pity　and

justice；　makes　indecency　a　condition　of　portraying　human　nature

so　that　it　may　look　upon　its　image　and　be　ashamed。



The　moralist　working　imaginatively　has　always　had　to　ask　himself

how　far　he　might　go　in　illustration　of　his　thesis；　and　he　has　not

hesitated；　or　if　he　has　hesitated；　he　has　not　failed　to　go　far

very　far。　　Defoe　went　far；　Richardson　went　far；　Ibsen　has　gone

far；　Tolstoy　has　gone　far；　and　if　Zola　went　farther　than　any　of

these；　still　he　did　not　go　so　far　as　the　immoralists　have　gone　in

the　portrayal　of　vicious　things　to　allure　where　he　wished　to

repel。　　There　is　really　such　a　thing　as　high　motive　and　such　a

thing　as　low　motive；　though　the　processes　are　often　so

bewilderingly　alike　in　both　cases。　　The　processes　may　confound

us；　but　there　is　no　reason　why　we　should　be　mistaken　as　to

motive；　and　as　to　Zola's　motive　I　do　not　think　M。　Chaumie　was

mistaken。　　As　to　his　methods；　they　by　no　means　always　reflected

his　intentions。　　He　fancied　himself　working　like　a　scientist　who

has　collected　a　vast　number　of　specimens；　and　is　deducing

principles　from　them。　　But　the　fact　is；　he　was　always　working

like　an　artist；　seizing　every　suggestion　of　experience　and

observation；　turning　it　to　the　utmost　account；　piecing　it　out　by

his　invention；　building　it　up　into　a　structure　of　fiction　where

its　origin　was　lost　to　all　but　himself；　and　often　even　to

himself。　　He　supposed　that　he　was　recording　and　classifying；　but

he　was　creating　and　vivifying。　　Within　the　bounds　of　his　epical

scheme；　which　was　always　factitious；　every　person　was　so　natural

that　his　characters　seemed　like　the　characters　of　biography

rather　than　of　fiction。　　One　does　not　remember　them　as　one

remembers　the　characters　of　most　novelists。　　They　had　their　being

in　a　design　which　was　meant　to　represent　a　state　of　things；　to

enforce　an　opinion　of　certain　conditions；　but　they　themselves

were　free　agencies；　bound　by　no　allegiance　to　the　general　frame；

and　not　apparently　acting　in　behalf　of　the　author；　but　only　from

their　own　individuality。　　At　the　moment　of　reading；　they　make　the

impression　of　an　intense　reality；　and　they　remain　real；　but　one

recalls　them　as　one　recalls　the　people　read　of　in　last　weeks's　or

last　year's　newspaper。　　What　Zola　did　was　less　to　import　science

and　its　methods　into　the　region　of　fiction；　than　journalism　and

its　methods；　but　in　this　he　had　his　will　only　so　far　as　his

nature　of　artist　would　allow。　　He　was　no　more　a　journalist　than

he　was　a　scientist　by　nature；　and；　in　spite　of　his　intentions　and

in　spite　of　his　methods；　he　was　essentially　imaginative　and

involuntarily　creative。　

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　



VI　



To　me　his　literary　history　is　very　pathetic。　　He　was　bred　if　not

born　in　the　worship　of　the　romantic；　but　his　native　faith　was　not

proof　against　his　reason；　as　again　his　reason　was　not　proof

against　his　native　faith。　　He　preached　a　crusade　against

romanticism；　and　fought　a　long　fight　with　it；　only　to　realize　at

last　that　he　was　himself　too　romanticistic　to　succeed　against　it；

and　heroically　to　own　his　defeat。　　The　hosts　of　romanticism

swarmed　back　over　him　and　his　followers；　and　prevailed；　as　we　see

them　still　prevailing。　　It　was　the　error　of　the　realists　whom

Zola　led；　to　suppose　that　people　like　truth　in　fiction　better

than　falsehood；　they　do　not；　they　like　falsehood　best；　and　if

Zola　had　not　been　at　heart　a　romanticist；　he　never　would　have

cherished　his　long　delusion；　he　never　could　have　deceived　with

his　vain　hopes　those　whom　he　persuaded　to　be　realistic；　as　he

himself　did　not　succeed　in　being。



He　wished　to　be　a　sort　of　historiographer　writing　the　annals　of　a

family；　and　painting　a　period；　but　he　was　a　poet；　doing　far　more

than　this；　and　contributing