Without insisting further on the merits or demerits of particular volumes, if we glance at the series as a whole we shall find it to be an unexampled achievement. It is more self-contained than "La Comédie Humaine," in writing which Balzac really had no definite plan. As M. Chaumié, French Minister of Public Instruction, has said: "In Zola's work one finds all society... with the milieux in which it displays its activity, the men composing it, the passions which stir and sway them, their vices, sorrows, and miseries, the sufferings too of the disinherited,—the whole forming so striking and so true a picture that after contemplating it those with the poorest like those with the keenest sight must realise the necessity of remedying those sufferings, contending against those vices, and assuaging those sorrows.... Thus, what might have been only an admirable literary achievement, an inestimable document on a period, an ever-living picture of a given time... acquires greater grandeur, is insured of yet loftier glory, by the generous spirit which inspired it."[11]

Maître Labori

Further, though it has been suggested here that some exaggeration and some flaws may appear in the psychology of certain individual characters, the series as a whole responds to Taine's definition of literature as "a living psychology." As M. Paul Bourget has said: "Zola regarded the novel as a kind of hypothetical experiment, attempted on positive bases, the first condition for success being that the bases should be accurate and the hypothesis logical. When the hour of justice strikes for that unwearying toiler people will recognise what immense preliminary toil and study lay beneath each of his books. They will also discern his unwavering purpose to inquire fully into the condition of contemporary France, to carry his inquiry as far as possible in order to set the social problem completely and accurately before one. His right to depict all reality (la réalité totale), which is that of every sociologist, even of every historian, will not be disputed then."

It is scarcely necessary to remind the reader that the Rougon-Macquart novels should be studied, whenever possible, in the original French, and not in translations. There have been many versions of the books in the English language; the present writer has made himself responsible for not a few of them; and certainly translations are in a measure useful, for as yet a knowledge of foreign languages is limited to a minority of the reading public. Besides, it is usually possible to transmit in a translation, at least in essential particulars, the lesson which a book is intended to convey. But at the same time much is lost, and in a good many instances translations which have even taken rank as literature do not adequately represent their originals. At the present day, with respect to contemporary works, excellence in translation is scarcely to be obtained, for commercial conditions militate against it. An author may give years to the writing of a book, whereas the English translator is compelled to prepare his version in a few months, at times even in a few weeks, for it is often stipulated by the publisher that the translation must appear at the same time as the original. It may be necessary also for the English translator to attend to some serial publication, and to provide for copyright in America, with the result that the work has to be done hastily, in a rough and ready manner. Again, the prices paid for translations are usually so low that few men of real ability are willing to undertake them. The writer, though he has had great experience in these matters, can suggest no remedy, for undoubtedly the commercial as well as the literary side of the question has to be considered, and even if a translator, regardless of gain, were to bestow on his work all the time and care it might deserve, the chances would be that no publisher would look at it, for the market would be gone—so swiftly do even very able books perish in these modern days.

With respect to the writer's own work, as translator or as editor of various English versions of Zola's novels, he is fully aware of its many imperfections, due in some instances to the time limit imposed on him, and in others to pecuniary and similar considerations. Again, British pharisaism being what it is he had never been able to give an absolutely complete version of any of Zola's books. Still he has always tried to preserve the spirit of the original, even when he has been compelled to throw off his "copy" at express speed. And in any case his versions, like those of others, will at least have served the purpose of making most of Zola's views known to thousands who are unable to read French.

But to properly appreciate and judge any one of the works of the great novelist it must be read in the original and in its entirety. That demands a good sound knowledge of French. Nothing has amazed the writer more than to receive from time to time during the last twelve years a note to this effect: "Dear Sir,—I am learning French, and in order to gain a better knowledge of it, I think of trying to read one of Zola's books with the help of a dictionary. Which volume would you recommend me to try? Which is an easy one?" Such an idea is, of course, ludicrous. Zola's style is not particularly involved, his vocabulary if large is not recondite, but to understand him properly the reader must possess more than a mere smattering of French. In some volumes, too, he deals with technical subjects, while in others he occasionally uses slang or purely Parisian expressions, in which cases dictionaries are of very little help. The present writer found it necessary to study certain subjects carefully before attempting to translate some of Zola's volumes: for it was only by doing so that he could avoid mistakes. For instance, the English version of "Travail" necessitated the perusal of several text-books on metallurgy, and a visit to some large English steel works. An American version of the same book was made by a person who did not take that precaution, with the result that it literally bristled with technical errors. When one considers the vast range of Zola's subjects, it must be obvious that the work of translating his books amounts to little less than a liberal education. The writer must confess that for his part he learnt a great deal by the work, so that if he conferred no particular advantage on his readers he at least benefited himself.

In previous chapters some mention has been made of Zola's repeated efforts as a playwright, and as after 1893 he only penned some libretti for the music of his friend, M. Bruneau, one may here add a few words respecting his plays. None of those which he wrote without assistance proved a success, though he often claimed that some of the public were favourable to "Le Bouton de Rose," which, said he, was damned mainly by the critics. On the other hand the stage-craft of M. Busnach made a success of "L'Assommoir" and of one or two other adaptations. In all probability the correct view to take of Zola's writings for and about the French stage is that their influence, however considerable, was chiefly indirect. Realism has come to dramatic literature—on which the novel always reacts—but the younger French dramatists rightly regard M. Henri Becque as their more immediate sponsor. At the same time several things that Zola desired to see have come to pass; a good many of his philosophical and social ideas are to be found in the contemporary French drama. Now and again they appear somewhat conspicuously, as in M. Octave Mirbeau's play "Les Mauvais Bergers," and in some of the works of M. Brieux. Again, M. Gustave Charpentier's famous roman musical, "Louise," produced in 1900, was distinctly Zolaesque in its inspiration; one of its chief features, the frequent evocation of Paris, proceeding directly from "Une Page d'Amour." Further Zola's influence was at times destructive. Soon after "La Terre" had been published in Paris the Comédie Française revived George Sand's peasant-play "François le Champi," which since its first production in 1849 had been frequently played with success at the Odéon Theatre. But the revival at the Comédie proved a complete failure, the play which had lived for nearly forty years being slain in a few nights. Originally regarded as ultra-realistic, it appeared quite insipid to the generation which had just perused "La Terre." To sum up, even as the influence of Balzac (though he wrote little for the stage) was apparent in dramatic productions from 1850 to 1870, something similar though, perhaps, less pronounced may be observed with respect to the more recent influence of Zola. He, by the way, was once asked his opinion of the influence of Ibsen on the French stage, and of Tolstoï and other Russians on the French novel, and he replied that he did not attach much importance to the question, for he held that the ideas which were supposed to rain on Paris from the North were in reality French ones, which had been disseminated by French writers, and had come back to their place of origin, occasionally crystallised or intensified by the more sombre imagination of Scandinavian and Russian minds.

XII

THE MAN—HIS LIFE DRAMA—A NEW DEPARTURE.

1893-1897

Zola's personal appearance—A palmist's reading of his hand—Some of his petty manias and superstitions—His powers of observation—His memory—Characteristics of his intellect—His daily life—His orderliness—His "confession"—The drama of his life—A childless home—Birth of an illegitimate daughter and son—Some great men and the moral law—Some eminent women and the popular standard of morality—The alleged "new Zola"—Sermonising novels—"L'Attaque du Moulin" as an opera—The trilogy of "Lourdes," "Rome," and "Paris"—Faith, hope, and charity to be replaced by fruitfulness, work, truth, and justice—Attacks on "Lourdes"—Arrest of Dreyfus—Zola, his book "Rome," and Pope Leo XIII.—His stay in the Eternal City—He visits his Italian relatives—Difficulties of writing "Rome"—Its publication—Charges of plagiarism and Zola's answer—His volume "Nouvelle Campagne—His opinion of a clairvoyante"—His first defence of the Jews.

In middle age Zola was about five feet seven inches high. His trunk was short, his legs being rather long for a man of the stature indicated, but he had a broad and prominent chest, and his shoulders were well set. His left foot was sensibly shorter than the right, his instep was very arched. He had small wrists, but large though shapely hands with small round nails. According to Dr. Édouard Toulouse[1] all the diameters of his skull were distinctly above the average, but his brain was never weighed, for at the time of his death his friends resisted applications made to them by certain scientists to whom, it seems, Zola himself had almost promised that his remains would be at their disposal.

Being very short-sighted, he usually wore glasses, seen though which his eyes seemed deep and somewhat stern; but in intimacy they softened and sparkled freely. At one period he wore his hair short, at another long, and according to these variations his forehead seemed to change, assuming at one time an appearance of abnormal height. His lips were somewhat thick and sensual, inclined to pout. He had large ears, and heard better with the left than with the right. For music, in spite of his long association with M. Bruneau, the composer, he really had little ear, though he possessed a keen sense of rhythm. On looking at him the feature that most struck one was certainly his nose, which had a gradually broadening, lobulated tip. Edmond de Goncourt declared that Zola's physiognomy was summed up in this somewhat peculiar nasal organ,[2] which, he jestingly remarked, resembled the muzzle of a sporting dog, and assumed all sorts of expressions—indicating, in turn, approval, condemnation, wonder, amusement, sadness, or whatever else might be its owner's opinion or mood. While making all allowance for humoristic exaggeration, there was certainly some truth in Goncourt's words.[3]

Zola's hands, to which reference has been made above, were examined on one occasion by a "palmist"; and for the benefit of those who believe in chiromancy one may mention that the sibyl's pronouncement was to this effect: " A great change at forty years of age; a long life; a sudden death; fond of family life and travelling; proficient in art and partial to military music; confident in the future but having little confidence in himself personally; a large heart but more philanthropically inclined towards collectivities than towards individuals; possessed of a deep sense of justice, the slightest injustice exasperating him; admiring audacity, strength, and authority while fond of liberty for himself; influenced more by his mind than by sensual passion at the outset of his love affairs, but afterwards extremely ardent."[4]

The lack of self-confidence indicated by the palmist was confirmed by Zola to Dr. Toulouse, who found that the novelist's doubt of himself was excessive and unreasonable. He frequently feared that he might be unable to accomplish his daily task, finish the book he had begun, or conclude the speech he was delivering. At one period, before he could go to bed he had to satisfy a peculiar craving to touch and retouch certain articles of furniture, open and reopen certain drawers. Arithmomania pursued him: he was for ever counting the gas lamps in one or another street, and the number of the houses. He long believed multiples of three to be of good augury, but later, as he told Goncourt, multiples of seven inspired him with most confidence. Moreover, he was so susceptible to thunder and lightning that whenever a storm burst over Médan all the shutters had to be closed and all the lamps lighted, after which he would often bandage his eyes with a handkerchief. Even when there was no storm and he found himself in absolute darkness, he was occasionally troubled by what seemed to be luminous phenomena.

A dreadful idea came to him now and then: it was that his heart had moved into his arm or his thigh, and that he could feel it beating there. It must be said, too, that he was most sensitive to physical pain[5] and extremely subject to emotion, which brought on attacks of a form of angina from which he suffered, periodically, over a period of thirty years. The insults levelled at him by unscrupulous journalists, as much with respect to the alleged obscenity of his writings as to his share in the Dreyfus case, constantly led to such attacks, but his mind being always superior to his body, he never swerved from what he regarded as his duty—the enunciation of inconvenient truths—even though he knew he would be savagely denounced for it and that his ailment would necessarily return. Briefly, as Dr. Toulouse has said, his émotivité, although morbid, always left his mind in a state of perfect lucidity and equilibrium. To the psychologist and the physician his example demonstrated, in the most unimpeachable manner, the authority of the mind over the body, the power of the will over disease.

His powers of observation were exceptionally keen. Dr. Toulouse, in the course of an experiment he made with him, placed a photograph of an idiot child before his eyes for a few moments. He immediately noticed certain anatomical peculiarities which as a rule would only strike a medical man, and he noticed them although they were scarcely perceptible in the photograph, which had greatly faded. But, adds Dr. Toulouse, as soon as Zola ceased to observe consciously, his attention flagged, and at times he did not even recognise acquaintances whom he met in the street. "They think," he said to the doctor, "that when I forget to acknowledge them I am absorbed in deep meditation about my next novel, but as a matter of fact I am not thinking of anything." It was the same with his memory. When he wished to remember any object or scene, the details became printed on his mind as clearly and fully as if they had been photographed. But unless he made a voluntary effort, his memory did not serve him. When he was Président de la Société des Gens de Lettres three months elapsed before he could repeat the names of the twenty-four members of the committee. If he had been as deeply interested in those gentlemen as he was in the facts he collected for his books, he would certainly have recalled their names at once.

Some novelists note everything around them,—people, places, and occurrences,—and store them up for subsequent use in one or another book; but that was not Zola's system. If he were writing about peasants, other matters scarcely interested him. You might have told him something curious about soldiers or financiers, he would have given it little heed. He isolated his mind, as it were, concentrated it entirely on the subject he had in hand. Moreover, his imagination was as systematic as his memory. As stated in a previous chapter, he first decided on the general ideas he would illustrate, then, by deduction, he imagined the characters likely to illustrate those ideas. A thousand concrete facts thereupon arose in his mind, grouped themselves in his system, and imparted life to his philosophical abstractions. That faculty, that power of assembling affinitive images, tending to a logical end, was preponderant in Zola. By its means the psychical processus is canalised, mental effort and waste are diminished, and the will is able to act in a well-defined manner. In Zola such power was developed to the highest degree, and therein will be found the reason of his intellectual superiority. It links him with all the great creators possessed of systematic minds, the men who have gone, not groping darkly, but with patient effort and in full light, towards their objects. Hugo and Balzac showed by their writings that their brains were organised in the same manner. The quick and inconsiderate mind, so unequal in its inspirations, which is often attributed to artists, does not seem compatible with great creative power, the latter acting in a much more uniform manner. Zola's particular mentality explains both his life and his work. He systematised in literature the realistic tendencies of the philosophy of Comte and Taine; and he carried that systematisation to its farthest limit by creating the novel of complete observation (le roman d'observation intégrale), in which he studied heredity under all its aspects, recoiling from no audacity either of observation or of expression.

By mere reasoning, adds Dr. Toulouse, whom we still follow,[6] Zola's systematic mind traced for itself a course of action which was often at variance with his instincts, yet he followed it perseveringly, sustained merely by his conception of duty. His tendency to gout and corpulence (which last he overcame by sheer determination) must have predisposed him to laziness, but he mastered any such inclination by compelling himself to do a certain amount of work every day. As a rule he then wrote quite sufficient "copy" to form three pages of one of his books, in addition to occasional newspaper articles. He also carried on an extensive correspondence, yet the only time when he had recourse to secretarial help was the period of the Dreyfus case. Nulla dies sine linea was a motto he had adopted early in life, and lest it should be forgotten it was graven in letters of gold over the fireplace of his large study at Médan, where most of his books were written.

At Médan he rose at eight o'clock, went for an hour's stroll, seating himself at his writing table at nine and writing till one o'clock, usually on an empty stomach, for after he had resolved to conquer his corpulence his first meal consisted generally of a mere crust of bread, though now and again he might partake of a couple of eggs "on the plate," which to please him had to be cooked to a nicety. At one o'clock he lunched; and then, perhaps, came a short nap, after which he either read the papers or worked at an article or went out walking, cycling, or boating. If he were at home in the afternoon, he drank a cup of tea, and this carried him on till dinner, which was served at half-past seven. Afterwards, if friends were staying with him, there might be a game of billiards or a quiet chat over another cup of tea. For some years he drank nothing at all with his meals, at which he preferred his fish fried and his meat grilled; but later he allowed himself a glass of water, and on a hot afternoon, if he were thirsty, he now and then indulged in a little white wine and eau de Seltz. Red wine he did not touch from 1887 till the time of his death; but occasionally, after a meal or in the evening, he treated himself to a thimbleful of old cognac or some liqueur. This happened perhaps once a week, not more frequently, so it will be seen that he was almost a total abstainer.

Both at Médan and in Paris (unless he were spending the evening in society or at a theatre) Zola retired to his bedroom between ten and eleven o'clock, but he generally remained reading there for some hours before he actually went to bed. His mornings in Paris like those at Médan were given to writing; and as he could not boat or conveniently cycle in the metropolis, his afternoon outings resolved themselves into visits or strolls to sundry places which he might wish to describe in some forthcoming book. Six o'clock in the evening was the hour usually appointed for receiving newspaper interviewers or those who brought him letters of introduction. His Sundays were spent much like his week-days, except that instead of working at a book he then often gave the morning to letter-writing. Glancing through a large collection of his letters we find some scores of them written on one and another Sunday. These particulars will show the general orderliness of his life, which was further exemplified by his extremely tidy habits, the regularity with which he changed his clothes directly he came home, substituting a loose flannel shirt, a working jacket, and slippers for his linen, his black coat, and his boots. And he never left the slightest litter of papers in his workroom, such documents as he might be using were set out tidily on various tables; the newspapers he read were always neatly folded directly he had finished perusing them; the very string of the parcels he received was at once rolled up and put aside in a drawer; he liked to have everything spick and span, and it was he himself who attended to virtually all the ménage of his Parisian and country workrooms.

About 1893 a "confession" of the drawing-room order was extracted from Zola, and on consulting it one finds him stating that his favourite colour (like Daudet's) was red and his favourite flower the rose, though he also had a taste for peonies and dahlias, which he grew in profusion at Médan. Contrary to Daudet, who expressed a liking for no animals or birds whatever, he declared that he liked them all. Work, he wrote, was his favourite occupation, while his dream of happiness was to do nothing. The quality he preferred in man was kind-heartedness, in woman tenderness. His favourite authors, painters, and composers were those who saw and expressed things clearly. His favourite heroes and heroines in fiction were those who were not heroes or heroines; in real life, those who earned their bread. The greatest misfortune he knew was to remain in doubt respecting anything; the historical characters he most despised were traitors; the gift he most desired to possess was eloquence; and the way he would like to die was "suddenly."

Of one longing which possessed Zola for several years there is no mention in the "confession"; neither is it indicated in Dr. Toulouse's "Enquête." But its nature and its consequences must be stated here. Eminent writers have more than once laid down the rule that if in writing an account of any living individual it is best to preserve reticence and avoid everything offensive, on the other hand it is essential that the biographer of one who is dead and gone should tell the truth respecting him. Of course it may prove advisable, and indeed justice itself may require, that one should be kind to his virtues and a little blind to his faults, for the former may be many and exemplary, and the latter few and unimportant; but if one were to ignore the last completely a very erroneous impression would be conveyed, the suppressio veri being equivalent to the suggestio falsi. Nevertheless in this present age, when so many agree to shun the truth because it offends the superfine delicacy of their degenerate natures, one is constantly confronted by so-called biographies of eminent men, and notable women also, in which a variety of facts are suppressed, the world at large being taught to look at these people through deceptive glasses which show them perfect, whereas, in reality, their flaws were often great. At times, indeed, one is invited to contemplate such beings as can never have existed, and though the falsity of the picture may merely irritate the scholar, it utterly misleads the uninitiated, tending to absolutely erroneous conceptions and adding yet another lie to the many on which present-day society is based.

In the case of Zola, he was such an impassioned servant of truth that to conceal the truth concerning him, to paint him in false colours, would be doing him a wrong. Besides, he never claimed that he was perfect, he knew that he was very human. Further, the facts which must now be mentioned were written about more or less accurately, but openly, in several Parisian newspapers at the time of his death, the present writer also had occasion to refer to them in a newspaper article; and some American journals likewise gave them currency. Thus the omission of all mention of them here would be as ridiculous as misleading. At the same time it is quite unnecessary to go beyond the essential facts, which may be recounted with comparative brevity.

When Zola married, about the time he began his Rougon-Macquart novels, he certainly looked forward to a life of unalloyed happiness. But though he achieved celebrity and became possessed of comparative wealth, though his wife was all love and devotion, there remained a great void in his existence. He had no child, and the desire for paternity was strong within him. One can trace it through many of his books, and there is no doubt whatever that it became a fixed idea with him, was responsible for some of his petty superstitions, and entered even into that dread of death which the loss of his mother and of his friend Flaubert at one time suggested. He would die and would leave no posterity. Of what value was life, then? He had always regarded transmission as being its first essential function; and it tortured him at times to think that he was famous, that he was rich, and that he would leave no offspring behind him.

It may be said that this happens to many men, that some become more or less reconciled to it; that some go, quietly grieving, to their graves. Others, however, are egotistical enough to experience no desire for paternity. There are also instances of men to whom an extreme culture imparts a kind of self-sufficingness: for example, all the unmarried philosophers, from those of Greece to those of our own times. Even among the great men who have married one will find many unblessed with offspring. Scientists have occasionally tried to explain this in one way or another, but no explanation seems to be of general applicability. In that connection one must remember that there have also been many men, distinguished by the exceptional activity of their minds, who have left large families. Occasionally they may have survived their children, as in the case of that untiring worker, Victor Hugo, but none the less, even if they have had the grief of losing both sons and daughters, they have known the happiness of paternity.

That a craving for such happiness should have become intense in a man like Zola, with all the emotional tendencies of his temperament, was natural, perhaps fatal. It was one of the sufferings that made him seek a refuge in steady, all-absorbing work, and for years, by immersing himself in his task, he contrived to dull his pain and silence all the suggestions of a rebellious nature. Goncourt, one day after returning from a visit to Médan, jotted down in his diary some remarks about the gloom, the emptiness of that spacious abode. There were plenty of dogs, but there were no children, and children were necessary to such a home. It is evident that Goncourt with his keen penetration had divined the secret grief of its master and mistress. But years rolled on, and hopes first fondly cherished, then clung to with despairing tenacity, remained unfulfilled. The moralist will say undoubtedly that resignation was the one right course, but human nature seldom resigns itself willingly to anything, and certainly Zola's nature was not one to do so. As he approached his fiftieth year it began to assert itself, as Goncourt shows us in another passage of his "Journal"; and then, after long years of battling, however strong the spirit might still be, the flesh finally triumphed over it.

It is unnecessary to review what the Bible and Buckstone, Taylor and Kent, Montesquieu and Potier have to say respecting the violation of the marriage vow, and the distinctions which may be drawn between the action of husband and of wife. Nor need there be any defence on the lines of the théorie des deux morales as interpreted by Nisard. One may allow that there is strictly only one moral law for both sexes and for all stations in life, royal as well as plebeian. At the same time one is entitled to indicate whatever extenuating circumstances may exist. One may think of the position of Thomas and Jane Carlyle, as enunciated by the supporters of the former, and then picture a very different sequel, for in Zola's case a time came when he was carried away from the path of strict duty, and in the result a child was born to him, a daughter called Denise. Later came the birth of a son, called Jacques. An echo of what happened—the tempestuous passion of a man of ripe years for a young woman—resounded through the pages of "Le Docteur Pascal," while "Fécondité," published much later, revealed many of the sufferings, much of the yearning, that had led to this crisis in Zola's life.

Those who are perfect may now throw stones. Many who are not will, of course, do so, regardless of permission, and with the greater alacrity as the dead man cannot answer them. But he was forgiven long ago by the one person who was entitled to complain. There was much suffering, much unhappiness, of which the world heard nothing, but at last her broad nobility of mind rose above the personal wrong and the common prejudice, and in these later days she has transferred much of the devotion with which she encompassed her husband to the children whose birth followed the crisis which, at one time, threatened to sweep the home away.

Let us remember, too, that the case of Zola was in no wise exceptional. Our great men have to be taken with their faults as with their virtues. Englishmen will remember that Nelson, Wellington, and Lord Melbourne violated the popular standard of morality, and yet rendered great services to their country. Americans will remember the same of Franklin, Daniel Webster, and Henry Clay. A recent President of the United States was not above reproach when he was elected to the supreme magistracy. There is an English statesman of commanding abilities, on one page of whose career a blot appears and who for that reason has been pursued with unrelenting hatred by canting Pharisees—those to whom one owes the monstrous and inhuman doctrine that an error in a man's life must never be forgiven, that if he stumble but once he must always remain damned. With their narrow bigotry those people arrogate to themselves a greater righteousness than that of the Christ whose precepts they pretend to follow. To love one another, to forget and to forgive, are no maxims of theirs. Though the name of the Deity is so constantly on their lips, they really seem to be men after the devil's own heart, for they play the part of his imps, ever intent on persecution.

If the world were to reject all the great men who have erred, would not the pantheons of the nations be well-nigh empty? If it were to reject the works of every writer whose life was not absolutely immaculate, what literature would be left? Masterpieces of the human mind, writings that have wrought an infinity of good, would be cast aside. One may remind the reader that a good many English authors even of that age of specious respectability, the Victorian era, were by no means perfect in their private lives. In France, no doubt, more laxity has prevailed. Take that champion of Christianity, Chateaubriand, and remember the many liaisons of his married life; take that great deist, Victor Hugo, also a married man, and with no such excuse as Chateaubriand and Zola may have had, and remember his long connection with Madame Juliette Drouet. And as examples of moral laxity among men outside the matrimonial pale, take Alfred de Musset and both the Dumas, particularly the elder. Old Parisians, like the writer, will remember the day in or about 1869 when even the boulevards were scandalised by the sight which confronted one and all in the windows of every shop where photographs were sold. There was the portrait of the prince of romancers with Adah Isaacs Menken, the circus-rider, seated, in her fleshings, on his knees, her arms cast lovingly about his neck. Happily in the afternoon the son appeared upon the scene and carried off all such photographs that he could find, and thereupon Paris, which had been laughing a pornographic laugh, applauded him, recalling the story of Japhet and his father Noah.

But it is not only men who have thrust the moral law aside. The lives of George Eliot and others are known to us. They were as nothing beside that of George Sand, who in the matter of her private life was perhaps the nearest approach to Byron to be found among female writers. She passed from Baron Dudevant, her husband, to Jules Sandeau, then to Mérimée, then to Musset, then to Pagello, then to Michel de Bourges, then to Pierre Leroux, then to Chopin, and at last to Manceau, the engraver, those passions being interspersed with platonic interludes with Lamennais and Liszt. Yet Emerson, "one of the purest of men, dwelt on the rare and beautiful sentiment that runs through George Sand's 'Consuelo.' And who can deny the evidence of keen political insight, lofty ideas, and pure morality in the writings of Mary Wollstonecraft, Frances Wright, and George Eliot?"[7] People still read "Consuelo," even as they read "Les Trois Mousquetaires." They also read "Les Contemplations" and even dip into "Le Génie du Christianisme." They ostracise none of the great writers because there was error in their lives. Besides, it must be acknowledged as true that a counsel of perfection, or what we regard as perfection from our social standpoint, may well come from the imperfect. In fact it could not be otherwise, since we are all imperfect in one or another way

Thus to reject Zola's books and his teaching on the ground that there came a lapse in his life after fifty years of strenuous endeavour would be ridiculous, for it would entail the rejection of hundreds of others. The subject may be dismissed, then, without further comment from the moral point of view. Undoubtedly it will always be a source of regret to Zola's friends that this happened, even though it satisfied the great craving of his life. In spite of all our knowledge of human imperfection we always try to picture an ideal being, and we sorrow when the flaw in our ideal is discovered, even though reason tells us that we ought to have been prepared for it.

That the occurrences referred to caused great perturbation in Zola's life goes without saying; and as, about this time or soon afterwards, some change appeared in his writings, a certain co-relation between that change and his domestic troubles might be suspected. But beyond what is apparent in parts of "Le Docteur Pascal," and much later in "Fécondité" and "Travail," Zola's writings show no trace of the passing storm. It was assumed by some critics, after the completion of the Rougon-Macquart novels, that "a new Zola" had arisen, the man who wrote "Lourdes," "Rome," and "Paris" being, said they, evidently very different from the one who had penned "Nana," "Pot-Bouille," and "La Terre." It was even asserted that this novelist who had been so obscene was becoming quite moral, at least for a man with such shocking antecedents. But the inanity of that contention is demonstrated by the facts of the case. The so-called obscene books were written by one who led a life of the most rigid personal rectitude, whereas the later volumes, which were received far more favourably, were the work of one whom passion had conquered. That should suffice to show how worthless is a certain kind of criticism. Moreover, any change that was noticed in Zola's writings was in one respect more apparent than real. In some of his books he had set down horrible and loathsome things because he had found them involved in his subject. Subsequently, being confronted by less mire, he naturally gave it less prominence. At the same time "Le Docteur Pascal" certainly marked a new departure in his manner. In his previous works, as we have remarked before, he had sunk his personality and had never preached. In "Le Docteur Pascal" he began to do so, and this gradually became a habit with him. The reason is not far to seek. For more than twenty years the critics had constantly said to him: "If you must show the vileness of life, you should at least point the moral. You should deplore such terrible things, denounce them, thunder at them in your pages." Remarks of that kind having been repeated hundreds of times, it is not surprising that Zola, who had long felt annoyed at seeing his books misinterpreted, should have ended by complying with the clamour. Curiously enough, however, the very critics who had called on him for moral ejaculations, who had begged for sermons, then became mightily indignant. "This man," they said, "has no imagination left, he does nothing but preach, his books are as dull as ditch water. After all, we liked 'Nana' better." Such was the result of Zola's change of manner, a result which might have been foreseen.

After his departure from England in 1893, the present writer remained without news of him for some weeks; but in November he wrote that he had been ill and unable to attend to anything: the fact being that this was a critical time in connection with his domestic affairs. Nevertheless he gave some attention to an opera which his friend M. Alfred Bruneau based on "L'Attaque du Moulin," the libretto being partly the work of M. Louis Gallet and partly that of Zola himself. The first performance took place at the Opéra Comique, then under M. Carvalho's management, on November 23, with a result gratifying to all concerned; and Zola afterwards turned to the writing of his novel, "Lourdes," which he intended to make the first of three volumes to be called "Les Trois Villes," that is, Lourdes, Rome, and Paris.

The writing of those works was inspired by the trend of French literature and also of opinion in France at that time. A few years previously, on being interviewed on the question whether Naturalism were an expiring school or not, Zola had laughingly answered in the negative.[8] Nevertheless he had observed the rise of the Symbolist, Occultist, and Décadent schools,—a wave of returning mysticism, as it were, which, as he had remarked in an address to the Paris students, was invading art as well as literature. No little balderdash was being written about the alleged bankruptcy of science, Rome was coquetting with the Republic, there was much talk of a new Catholicism adapted to the modern world, the clergy were showing extreme activity, and a good many universitaires and normaliens, among whom the Voltairean spirit had formerly predominated, seemed won over to the Church's side and anxious to co-operate with it in securing the return of France to the fold, as if, indeed, agnosticism had been carried too far and must now be checked. The Lourdes and similar pilgrimages represented a notable phase of the agitation, and Zola, who had attended them two years running as a spectator, found in them some illustration of the first of the Christian virtues, Faith. It thereupon occurred to him that Rome would illustrate Hope, for it was in her and in her pontiff, Leo XIII, that all who desired to see the world reconquered by a rejuvenated Catholicism set their hopes. Finally Paris would afford abundant illustration of Charity in its various senses. Now the question whether religion might flourish anew in France depended, at least largely, on the practice of the aforesaid virtues and the light in which they were regarded by the community at large. Was the faith of Lourdes justified, was any real hope to be found in Rome, was the charity of Paris adequate or not? Zola returned a negative answer to all those questions; and at an early stage of the writing of "Les Trois Villes" he resolved to supplement this series by a further one which would enunciate the principles in which he himself believed, that is, Fruitfulness, Work, Truth, and Justice, all springing from the fundamental basis of Love.

"Lourdes" gave him occupation throughout the winter of 1893-1894. It appeared first in the "Gil-Blas," which paid fifty thousand francs for the serial rights, and early in the autumn of 1894 it was issued as a volume,[9] whereupon a prelate of the papal household, a certain Monseigneur Ricard, vicar-general of the diocese of Aix, in Provence, arose to answer Zola, which he did in a very blundering way.[10] The fathers of the Lourdes grotto also attempted some direct denials of Zola's accusations of greed and imposture, and being all powerful in the town prevented the sale of the book there, while as a crowning stroke of condemnation it was deferred to Rome and promptly placed, like some of Zola's previous works, in the famous "Index Librorum Prohibitorum." Once again, also, abusive letters rained upon the author, some emanating from deluded believers in the Lourdes miracles, and others from angry priests and monks. Several of those correspondents interlarded their effusions with the language of the gutter, while others contented themselves with briefly cursing the man who presumed to doubt the sanctity of the unfortunate Bernadette, and the virtues of the spring which the Assumptionist Fathers had turned into a river of gold. That money was used in part for the purpose of subsidising Leo XIII, but the bulk was employed in fighting the French Republic with the object of restoring a monarchy under which the Church, and particularly its monks, would have been all powerful.

Soon after "Lourdes" was finished Zola turned to "Rome," which necessitated a great deal of study. He was immersed in it when there came an incident fraught with grave future consequences for France. An artillery captain named Alfred Dreyfus, attached to the General Staff of the army, was arrested on a charge of communicating military secrets to the German embassy. The arrest took place on October 15, 1894, but did not become known until the end of the month, when it was divulged by two newspapers, "La Libre Parole" and "L'Éclair." Zola gave little or no heed to it, for quitting his books and papers he was at that very moment preparing for a visit to Rome, which he had projected for some time past.

About the middle of October he had told Vizetelly, who was then with him at Médan, that he had some hope the Pope would receive him, and that he certainly intended to apply for an audience. Vizetelly gave publicity to this statement, which was quoted on all sides. But almost immediately afterwards, Vizetelly having returned to England, Zola on talking the matter over with some friends found that no audience with the Pope was possible. The reason was simple enough. "Lourdes," "La Faute de l'Abbé Mouret," and several other volumes of his writings—just like the novels of Dumas père, that "accursed Garibaldian"—were in the "Index," and accordingly, before even applying for an audience, he would have to withdraw and annihilate those books so far as lay in his power, and make a full submission to Holy Church.

Such were the facts. A little investigation of the subject showed peremptorily that the popes made it an inflexible rule to receive no authors whose writings figured among the prohibited books unless and until those authors had withdrawn their writings and submitted. Abbé Alfred Loisy, the author of "La Question Biblique" and "L'Évangile et l'Église," has of more recent times discovered the procédure to be such as is here stated. He, like Zola's Abbé Pierre Froment, repaired to Rome to plead his cause, but though cardinals may have received him, he was not allowed to approach the Pope. Zola, in his "Rome," used a novelist's license when he brought Abbé Pierre face to face with Leo XIII; and all readers of the book are aware that the interview is pictured as a secret one, obtained by surreptitious means, such as Zola could never have employed. Had he asked for an audience he must have done so through the usual channel, that of the French embassy to the Vatican; and we have before us that embassy's express statement that no such application was ever made. Thus, contrary to the assertions which went the round of the world's press, Zola did not ask to see the Pope, and the Pope did not have occasion to refuse him.

Leaving Paris at the end of October, he remained in Rome till December 15. He applied for an audience at the Quirinal, and was received with a gracious cordiality by King Umberto. Both the French ambassador to the Italian court and the ambassador to the Vatican placed themselves at his disposal, and furnished him either personally or through their attachés with a quantity of information. Some of the Italian ministers took a similar course. He was welcomed, too, in several drawing-rooms. M. Hébert, the great French painter, accompanied him on his visits to the Palatine, the Sistine Chapel, the stanze of Raffaelle, and the Vatican Museum. Signor Bernabei, director-general of the excavations, accompanied him on other occasions, and supplied him with a quantity of notes. As for the foolish tale that he bribed Vatican servants for information, a tale which went the round of the press, it was purely imaginative. With two ambassadors, half a dozen attachés, and a score of prominent Italian officials at his disposal, Zola had no need to apply to any servants whatever.

On quitting Rome he betook himself to Venice and Brescia with the object of visiting the Italian members of his family, the Venetian Petrapolis and Frattas, and particularly his cousin, Carlo Zola, then a judge of the Brescian Appeal Court. Venice gave him a public reception, and at Brescia his cousin greeted him with open arms. Unfortunately, though the novelist, assisted by his knowledge of Latin and Provençal, was able to read Italian fairly accurately, he could not speak it; and as on the other hand the judge knew no French, an interpreter had to be provided. In spite of this drawback the intercourse was very pleasant, and when after a sojourn of some days at Brescia Zola set out on his journey to Paris, he repeatedly promised to return. He was never able to do so, but his wife, who revisited Italy on more than one occasion subsequently, took care to keep up the family intercourse which had been renewed after the lapse of so many years.

While Zola was visiting Rome the French military authorities had been busy with the case of Captain Dreyfus, but the latter's court-martial did not begin till December 19, that is, about the time of the novelist's return to Paris; the degradation of the unfortunate officer following on January 5, 1895. Zola, however, was now busy classifying all the materials he had brought from Rome and revolving in his mind the tremendous task which lay before him. Thus, once again, he gave comparatively little attention to the proceedings against Dreyfus. Moreover there was nothing in the newspapers to indicate any probability of a miscarriage of justice. Like everybody else,—except the members of the Dreyfus family, whom he did not know,—Zola assumed that the convicted officer was guilty, and thereupon dismissed the matter from his mind.

Writing to Vizetelly on January 11, he said that he hoped to make "Rome" a work of European interest, and if possible he should include in it some account of the wonderful progress which the Catholic Church claimed to be effecting in Great Britain and the United States of America. He hoped the book would be shorter than "Lourdes," and he intended to keep it "absolutely chaste, though very passionné, for while Abbé Froment would be the central figure, a very tragic drame passionnel would be unfolded beside him." However, the historic, descriptive, and controversial parts of the work expanded in Zola's hands, and far from "Rome" proving shorter than "Lourdes," it exceeded that book in length by a hundred and fifty pages. The drame passionnel which was to have been so prominent a feature, became nearly lost among the surrounding matter, so that by the time the work was finished little suggested that it was intended to be a novel. At the same time it was certainly one of the books on which Zola expended most time and study He had begun to examine his subject in the summer of 1894, and his proofs were not finally passed for press till the end of February, 1896. It may be said that he gave the whole of 1895 to the writing of "Rome." As he had not been able to remain very long in the Eternal City, Madame Zola returned thither to collect further information on various points, and a perfect mountain of documents at last encompassed the struggling novelist, who had no little difficulty in shaping his course. In December, 1895, the work began to appear as a feuilleton in "Le Journal," the organ of Zola's friend, M. Fernand Xau, and about the same time an English translation was issued by various provincial and colonial journals, Vizetelly having to perform a tour de force in order to ensure this early publication. In the case of "Lourdes" he had been assisted by his personal knowledge of the spot, and a similar knowledge helped him with "Rome," the actual translation of which had to be made in about nine weeks in order to meet commercial requirements. That little fact will serve to illustrate the remarks made in a previous chapter concerning the imperfection of the translations issued under the conditions which nowadays prevail in the publishing world.

When "Rome" appeared as a volume early in the spring of 1896,[11] M. Gaston Deschamps, writing in "Le Temps," roundly accused Zola of plagiarism, and it is certain that here and there "Rome" contained sentences taken from Firmin Didot's publication, "Le Vatican," and Gaston Boissier's "Promenades archéologiques." Zola, on being accused, replied in "Le Figaro" to the effect that when he was writing a book he invariably consulted every available work bearing on his subject. He passed several of his former novels in review, mentioning the books by others which had been useful to him, and also naming the politicians, merchants, scientists, lawyers, architects, and others who had provided him with detailed memoranda on various points. For instance Jules Ferry had given him some information about the Haussmannization of Paris for "La Curée," M. Chauchard, the director of the "Grands Magasins du Louvre," had largely assisted him with "Au Bonheur des Dames," M. Edmond Perrier, the scientist, had helped him with the passages about seaweed and bromide of potassium in "La Joie de Vivre," M. Frantz-Jourdain, the eminent architect, had constantly befriended him in architectural matters, M. Henri Céard had supplied him with notes on music, and M. Thyébaut with consultations on points of law, while the theory of an "elixir of life," embodied in "Le Docteur Pascal," had been built for him by his friend Dr. Maurice de Fleury. Indeed Zola claimed that he had never discussed a scientific question or written about an illness in his books without first taking the opinion of scientists and medical men. But he claimed that he had assimilated, adapted, and in a sense transmuted all the information he had derived from persons and books. As for "Rome" he was charged with having borrowed some sentences from two or three well-known works, but, in fact, he had consulted some scores of volumes, the titles of many of which he gave. Briefly, he pictured himself as an architect or a sculptor, and his materials as building stones or modelling clay; suggesting also the example of those masters of the Renaissance who employed a swarm of workers to prepare their paints, their "grounds," and so forth. And he contended that what he had done was perfectly legitimate, the only question being whether he had so used his materials as to produce a substantial, harmonious result, and had infused into it the spirit of life. "If it were usual," he added, "to indicate one's authorities in a novel, I would willingly stud the bottom of my pages with foot-notes. And if a line from a fellow-writer remains intact in one of my pages, this simply proves that I am not hypocrite enough to hide my borrowing, which it would be so easy to conceal"

In spite of that last remark there is reason to believe that, in the case of "Rome," Zola had a difficulty in wrestling with his mountain of "notes," and that when confronted by some memorandum made many months previously, he sometimes imagined its phraseology to be his own and not the actual language of one of his authorities. It seems quite likely that if the latter had been patent to him he would have paraphrased the memorandum. With respect to the actual principle for which he contended it is obvious that the novelist possessed of any conscientiousness ought often to read up certain subjects and consult a variety of authorities. It is indeed a pity that the practice is not followed more generally, for one would then be spared the thousands of blunders in elementary questions of law, science, history, precedence, titles, etc., which appear in so much contemporary fiction.