emile zola-第2章

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always　most　terribly；　most　pitilessly　moral。　　I　am　not　saying　now

that　they　ought　to　be　in　every　family　library；　or　that　they　could

be　edifyingly　committed　to　the　hands　of　boys　and　girls；　one　of

our　first　publishing　houses　is　about　to　issue　an　edition　even　of

the　Bible　〃with　those　passages　omitted　which　are　usually　skipped

in　reading　aloud〃；　and　it　is　always　a　question　how　much　young

people　can　be　profitably　allowed　to　know；　how　much　they　do　know；

they　alone　can　tell。　　But　as　to　the　intention　of　Zola　in　his

books；　I　have　no　doubt　of　its　righteousness。　　His　books　may　be；

and　I　suppose　they　often　are；　indecent；　but　they　are　not　immoral；

they　may　disgust；　but　they　will　not　deprave；　only　those　already

rotten　can　scent　corruption　in　them；　and　these；　I　think；　may　be

deceived　by　effluvia　from　within　themselves。



It　is　to　the　glory　of　the　French　realists　that　they　broke；　one

and　all；　with　the　tradition　of　the　French　romanticists　that　vice

was　or　might　be　something　graceful；　something　poetic；　something

gay；　brilliant；　something　superior　almost；　and　at　once　boldly

presented　it　in　its　true　figure；　its　spiritual　and　social　and

physical　squalor。　　Beginning　with　Flaubert　in　his　〃Madame

Bovary；〃　and　passing　through　the　whole　line　of　their　studies　in

morbid　anatomy；　as　the　〃Germinie　Lacerteux〃　of　the　Goncourts；　as

the　〃Bel…Ami〃　of　Maupassant；　and　as　all　the　books　of　Zola；　you

have　portraits　as　veracious　as　those　of　the　Russians；　or　those　of

Defoe；　whom；　indeed；　more　than　any　other　master；　Zola　has　made　me

think　of　in　his　frankness。　　Through　his　epicality　he　is　Defoe's

inferior；　though　much　more　than　his　equal　in　the　range　and

implication　of　his　work。



A　whole　world　seems　to　stir　in　each　of　his　books；　and；　though　it

is　a　world　altogether　bent　for　the　time　being　upon　one　thing；　as

the　actual　world　never　is；　every　individual　in　it　seems　alive　and

true　to　the　fact。　　M。　Brunetiere　says　Zola's　characters　are　not

true　to　the　French　fact；　that　his　peasants；　working…men；

citizens；　soldiers　are　not　French；　whatever　else　they　may　be；　but

this　is　merely　M。　Brunetiere's　word　against　Zola's　word；　and　Zola

had　as　good　opportunities　of　knowing　French　life　as　Mr。

Brunetiere；　whose　aesthetics；　as　he　betrays　them　in　his

instances；　are　of　a　flabbiness　which　does　not　impart　conviction。　

Word　for　word；　I　should　take　Zola's　word　as　to　the　fact；　not

because　I　have　the　means　of　affirming　him　more　reliable；　but

because　I　have　rarely　known　the　observant　instinct　of　poets　to

fail；　and　because　I　believe　that　every　reader　will　find　in

himself　sufficient　witness　to　the　veracity　of　Zola's

characterizations。　　These；　if　they　are　not　true　to　the　French

fact；　are　true　to　the　human　fact；　and　I　should　say　that　in　these

the　reality　of　Zola；　unreal　or　ideal　in　his　larger　form；　his

epicality；　vitally　resided。　　His　people　live　in　the　memory　as

entirely　as　any　people　who　have　ever　lived；　and；　however

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