sits in judgment on his family. You see him among his documents,
sifting evidence, explaining the heredity of one and another relative,
expounding the whole theory of atavism which underlies Zola's series.
The old ancestress, Adélaïde Fouque, is still alive, a centenarian,
mad, confined for many years in a lunatic asylum. Her son, Antoine
Macquart, also survives, still an unscrupulous knave and a confirmed
drunkard, until spontaneous combustion destroys him, while hemorrhage
carries off little Charles, the last delicate, degenerate scion of
the exhausted stock. Pascal himself would seem to have escaped the
hereditary taint; but after a long life of celibacy, spent in the
study and practice of medicine, his passions awaken, and he falls in
love with Clotilde, his niece. He strives to overcome that passion,
he wishes to marry the girl to his friend Ramond, but she will not
have it so, and in her turn becomes a temptress. Then the impetuous
blood of the Rougons masters them both, and they fall into each
other's arms. Previously, old Madame Félicité, Pascal's mother, has
tried to use Clotilde as an instrument to effect the destruction of
the documents which the doctor has collected, for the family would be
dishonoured should they ever see the light. The girl has also tried to
convert Pascal to her own religious views; but all in vain. A period
of delirious folly ensues, Pascal turns prodigal in his old age, and
is at last brought to ruin by a dishonest notary. Then Clotilde and
he have to part, and he dies, struck down by heart disease. The young
woman survives with a child, his son and hers, who, perhaps, may yet
rejuvenate the dwindling race. And we see her nursing her babe and
indulging in a thousand hopes, as the curtain at last descends on the
history of the Rougon-Macquarts.[2]
Such, then, is Zola's great series: one work in twenty volumes, in
whose pages appear twelve hundred human characters besides many
others, such as La Lison, the engine which Jacques Lantier worships
and which seems to be endowed with life; such, too, as old Bonhomme,
Pascal's horse; Bataille and Trompette, the horses of the coal-pit;
Zephyr, who falls in the great cavalry charge at Sedan; Mathieu and
Bertrand, the two big dogs; Pologne, the unlucky rabbit; Minouche,
the egotistical cat; Gédéon, the comical donkey who gets drunk in the
vintage scene of "La Terre"; César, the great bull at La Borderie; La
Coliche and her calves; Mathieu, Désirée's pig; Alexandre, her big
lusty rooster, and a score of others. Zola always loved animals; he
put them into his books, and they entered largely into his life. As
for the human characters of his great series these are of all classes,
all kinds. Napoleon III appears in various volumes, at the Tuileries,
at Compiègne, at St. Cloud, and again and again during the war of
1870. The Empress is seen also, like the Duke de Morny and other
high personages of state. Members of one and another aristocracy,
politicians and functionaries, judges and lawyers, medical men
and other scientists, bishops and priests, generals and soldiers,
company promoters, speculators and shareholders, schoolmasters and
revolutionaries, _bourgeois_ of Paris and the provinces, artists
and shopkeepers, street hawkers, peasants and miners, workmen of
innumerable callings, pass across Zola's stage. The reader enters the
homes of all those classes; he goes from the palace to the hovel,
from the dancing-hall to the coal-pit, from the cathedral to the
boozing-ken, from the artist's studio to the Chamber of Deputies,
from the great drapery shop to the harlot's boudoir; he sees Paris,
her boulevards, her slums, her promenades, her theatres, her quays,
under twenty different aspects, at dawn, at noon, at night, in shine
and rain and snow; he travels to the rocky shore of a boisterous and
predatory sea; he finds fairyland in the magic garden of the Paradou,
he roams the bleak coal country of the north; he is buffeted by the
mistral and scorched by the blazing sun of Provence; he gazes on La
Beauce, an ocean of waving corn, and on the battlefield of Sedan,
strewn with the dead and dying. Religion, politics, sociology, art,
science, trade, agriculture, military affairs, life's characteristics,
duties, functions, errors and aims, love, marriage, eating, drinking,
and a hundred other matters are discussed before him. Beautiful
friendships, confiding loves, ardent passions, terrible jealousies
and rivalries, lofty aspirations, horrid lusts, generous sacrifices,
deeds of bravery and virtue, cruelty and vengeance, greed, craft, and
cowardice,--in a word, both the nobility and the mire of life in turn
confront one, in such wise that this Rougon-Macquart series is like a
miniature world.
It has been previously shown that Zola began to study and plan the
series in the middle of 1868, and commenced his first volume in May,
1869. For some seven or eight months, during the war of 1870-1871, he
had been obliged to set his work aside, but apart from that break it
had occupied the greater part of his attention during all the years
that elapsed until "Le Docteur Pascal" appeared in 1893. Every year, as
a rule, some months were occupied in framing a new volume, then several
were given to the actual writing of it. In the first instance it was
usually necessary to visit places and people, and in some cases certain
branches of the chosen subject had to be studied in books, chiefly of
a technical nature. This brings one to the consideration of a legend
which has grown up around Zola and much of his work. It has been
assumed, and repeated _ad nauseam_, by some critics, that he was a very
ignorant man with little or no real experience of life, one who, aided
by a little imagination, concocted his books out of others, basing
his narratives entirely on printed documents. But that assumption
is fallacious. It was helped on, certainly, by some of Zola's
friends, notably by Paul Alexis, who in his account of the earlier
Rougon-Macquart volumes expatiated at length on some of the novelist's
sources of information.[3] This Alexis did with Zola's sanction, in a
spirit of literary honesty, but his insistence on the subject perverted
the judgment of several critics, in such wise that Zola has been
largely described as a writer who acquired his information merely by
cramming. That such a view of the man and his work is erroneous may be
easily shown.
He certainly had to study certain subjects in books, and rely,
occasionally, on information given him by friends, but few writers ever
put more actual experience and personal knowledge into their works.
Even his original acquaintance with "society" was more considerable
than some have admitted. In Michelet's drawing-room, which was the
first he frequented, he met, it is true, only serious men, while
Flaubert's was but a superlative Bohemia; but in Madame Meurice's
_salon_, to which, whatever his poverty, he had his _entrée_ during
the last years of the Empire, he found not only republicanism and
literary culture, but many of the graces of life, a high standard of
comfort if not luxury, charming women who added a touch of pleasant
frivolity to the serious talk of the older men, and young fellows in
good circumstances, whose minds were more intent on amusement than
politics or literature or art. After the Empire his favourite _salon_
became for a time that of Madame Charpentier, a lady of culture, whose
circle of acquaintance extended far beyond literary men and their
wives. Among the former, be it noted, were academicians, but there
were also statesmen,--Gambetta, Jules Ferry, and numerous others, with
many people who, in one way or another, represented the new Republican
society. Another drawing-room of high standing in Republican Paris
which Zola frequented, was that of Madame Menard-Dorian.
Besides, his experiences during the Franco-German war, when he
became secretary to Glais-Bizoin, his participation in newspaper
life, his position as parliamentary correspondent to "La Cloche," as
general Paris correspondent of "Le Sémaphore" of Marseilles, made
him acquainted with scores of people, instructed him in a hundred
different ways. Further, his dramatic efforts brought him in contact
with the stage; his artistic friendships carried him among painters,
sculptors, and their critics; his intercourse with the Goncourts
led him occasionally into peculiar company, like that of Nina de
Villars, and other semi-literary women of questionable repute; the
dinner parties with the Goncourts, Flaubert, and Daudet took him to
restaurants and cafés where he elbowed the flash set; and we know also
that the circumstances of his early manhood had brought him in touch
with the poor. Finally, it is obvious that his actual experience of the
emotions was large: he had known sorrow in many forms; the pangs that
come from defeat and contumely, the gloom which hope deferred casts
over the spirit, followed by the delight which arises at an unexpected
success. No doubt, when he first planned "Les Rougon Macquart," in
1868, he was still very imperfectly equipped for his selected task;
and the fact that he should have attempted it under such circumstances
shows that he possessed more than the usual amount of confidence that a
young man usually places in his powers. But his experiences during the
next four or five years altered everything, for they greatly increased
his equipment and rendered the successful prosecution of his task a
possibility.
Each time he turned to a fresh volume of his series he began by
preparing an _ébauche_, or as he generally preferred to say in his
letters, a _maquette_, that is a rough model of the intended work.
The Rougon or the Macquart who was to figure most prominently in it
had been previously chosen; he knew what was to be that character's
environment, and the philosophical idea which was to govern the volume.
Taking his pen in hand, he now pictured such secondary characters
as the proposed _milieu_ suggested, and set down such facts and
incidents as might logically ensue from the chosen characters and their
surroundings. Briefly, in a broad and somewhat vague way, he built up
a subject. Those general notes having been placed in a portfolio by
themselves he next took his characters in hand, one by one, noting
their respective histories, ages, health, physical appearance and
nature, disposition, habits, and associations. That work having been
completed was placed in a second portfolio, and Zola next passed to
the question of environment, collecting a variety of information
respecting the different localities where the scenes of his narrative
were to be laid. Next he started an inquiry into the professions or
trades of his characters, and such other technical matters as might
be useful to him, and his notes on those subjects were also gathered
together in portfolios. They were often based on personal observation,
but naturally enough Zola consulted technical works and friends whom
he knew to be well informed on certain points. Their letters and
quotations from the books he had consulted were added to his personal
memoranda.
By the time all this was done his materials were often in excess of
what he required. Nevertheless he based himself upon them in planning
his book. He decided on the number of chapters the volume should
contain, and distributed the materials among them. This entailed much
minute labour. For instance, he took his first rough draft of his
subject, and distributed the principal incidents mentioned in it among
the proposed chapters; then he took his notes on his characters and
apportioned them in a similar manner; in one chapter, for instance,
the appearance of some individual must be described; in another some
particular characteristic must be brought to the front; in yet another
the changes effected in the same personage by environment or other
causes must be dealt with. Thus borrowing notes from one and another of
his first portfolios, and distributing them as the narrative and its
situations might suggest, Zola gradually planned his chapters from the
first to the last.
All this was still rough work, and before committing a chapter to
paper, Zola re-examined his materials, set them in what seemed the
best order, both with respect to what he might have said in previous
chapters and with respect to the effect he desired to produce in the
new one. Now and again he would find some note superfluous, and reject
it altogether; at other times he might transfer it to a subsequent
chapter, where the fact, incident, problem, or theory it enunciated
would have a more logical place. Moreover, while he was writing, it
occasionally occurred to him that some incident he was describing,
or some remark he attributed to one of his characters, would have a
certain effect farther on; and thereupon he at once made a note of the
circumstance, and, his chapter finished, transferred all such notes to
their proper places. "It will be seen," says Alexis, from whom these
particulars have been borrowed,[4] "that this method of proceeding from
the general to the special is complicated, but logical and safe. A
friend of Zola's (M. Bruneau?) told me that it reminded him of Wagner's
learned and novel orchestration. I do not know how far that comparison
may be accurate; but it is certain that Zola's works, when read for
the first time by the profane, must have a little of the disconcerting
effect of the Wagnerian operas. The first impression is one of great
confusion; the reader is on the point of exclaiming that there is no
sign of composition or rule; but on penetrating to the structure of
the work you find that everything is mathematical; you discover a
deep science, and recognise that the outcome is really the result of
prolonged labour fraught with strenuous patience and determination."
Edmondo de Amicis, in an appreciation of Zola, included in his
"Recollections of Paris," mentions that the novelist showed him a
number of notes he had prepared for "L'Assommoir," and as Amicis's
account of them throws light on Zola's methods of work, a quotation
from his pages may be added to the particulars taken from Alexis.
"On the first sheets of paper were sketches of the
personages, notes about their appearance, temperament,
and character. I found the _miroirs caracteristiques_ of
Gervaise, Coupeau, Mother Coupeau, the Lorilleux, the
Boches, Goujet, and Madame Lerat. All the figures of the
book were there. The notes were laconic, like those of a
court registrar, but free like those of a novelist, and
sprinkled with short arguments, such as this: 'Born under
those circumstances, educated in that manner, he must conduct
himself in such or such a way.' In one place was the query:
'What else can a rascal of this stamp do?'... I was struck
by a sketch of Lantier's character, which was nothing but
a string of adjectives, each stronger than the other, such
as 'gross, sensual, brutal, egotistical, smutty.' In some
places appeared the words: 'Use So and So,' meaning somebody
known to the author. And the whole was penned in proper
sequence in a large, clear handwriting. Then I saw sketches
of places outlined in ink, and as accurate as the drawings
of an engineer. There were a number. The whole book was
drawn: the streets of the district in which the plot was
laid, with their corners and indications of their shops;
the zigzags which Gervaise made to avoid her creditors,
the direction taken by Nana in her Sunday escapades, the
tipplers' peregrinations from music-hall to boozing-ken, and
the hospital and slaughter-house, between which one terrible
evening the poor ironing woman went maddened by hunger. Then
Marescot's big house was drawn in minute detail; there was
the whole of the top floor with the landings, the windows,
the mute's den, old Bru's hole--all those dark passages in
which one detected the gasp of death, those walls which
resounded as if only empty paunches were within, those
doors through which came an everlasting music of blows and
the cries of little ones dying from starvation. There was
also a plan of Gervaise's shop and home, room by room, with
indications of the beds and tables, and here and there
erasures and corrections, which suggested that Zola had
amused himself by the hour, perhaps quite forgetting his
story, immersed in his creation as if it were something he
actually remembered. On other pages were notes of various
kinds. I recollect two particularly--'twenty pages of
description of such a thing, twelve pages of description of
such a scene, to be divided into three parts.' One could
divine that Zola had the description in his head, formulated
before it was set on paper; that he could hear it resounding
rhythmically within him, like music which only lacked words.
This system of working with the compasses, as it were, even
at things of the imagination, is not so rare as some may
imagine. Zola, for his part, is a great mechanic. One can
see how his descriptions proceed, symmetrically, spaced
out, separated at times by some padding to give the reader
breathing time, and divided into almost equal sections, like
that of the flowers of the Paradou in 'La Faute de l'Abbé
Mouret,' that of the thunder storm in 'Une Page d'Amour,' and
that of the death of Coupeau in 'L'Assommoir.' One might say
that for his mind to work at ease it is necessary Zola should
first trace the precise limits of his work, know exactly at
what points he may rest, and what will be the extent and
aspect of his work when printed. When his materials are too
large he cuts them down in order to get them within those
limits; when they are small he makes an effort to spin them
out to the allotted point. He has an unconquerable passion
for due proportions which may occasionally tend to prolixity,
but which frequently, by compelling his mind to dwell on his
subject, renders his work deeper, more complete."
Zola's books were written on small, unruled quarto paper, almost
invariably of a very stout quality and highly glazed. Though his
handwriting was large and bold he did not use a quill like Hugo and
others, but the French equivalent of the J pen, and for some thirty
years he invariably employed the same thick ivory holder, so heavy a
one that the present writer, who had occasion to use it now and again
when Zola was in England, could not help remarking that the hand might
well feel tired after carrying it to paper for three or four successive
hours. But with Zola it was a question of habit; he could hardly write
at all unless he had a weight of nearly three ounces in his hand, and
he would be in quite a state of distress if an urgent letter had to be
written and he lacked his usual implement.
The script of his books was as a rule beautifully clear and open. On
each slip he left a margin about two-thirds of an inch in width; his
lines, on an average one and twenty per slip, were very straight and
regular. The general character of his handwriting is shown by the
fac-simile of a letter given in this volume, the concluding portion
being more like his book "copy," for on the first page the script is
rather smaller than usual. It will be noticed that the writing is
of a distinctly personal character. On consulting a large number of
autographs we have found little like it, but the disconnected letters
and syllables recall the writing of Boileau, Chateaubriand, Michelet,
Jules Janin, and Victor Hugo. Some specimens from Hugo's pen seem to
indicate that if, instead of a sloping, he had written an upright hand,
it might well have resembled Zola's. The latter, it may be remarked,
never departed from his upright hand, whereas in autographs of some
French authors--Dumas _père_ and George Sand, for instance--one finds
now an upright and now a sloping writing, the former being used in
formal letters, the latter in notes to intimate friends, when the
writers were not _en représentation_, but allowed their feelings full
play. In Zola's case the upright hand appears in the most intimate
letters as well as in his "copy" for the press, and thus it would
seem to have been with him a natural, not an artificial, writing. One
may add, without asserting any particular faith in graphology, that on
applying its rules, without prejudice, to Zola's writing, the latter
will be found to indicate despotivity, stubbornness, insight, and
orderliness, combined with poetry. Perhaps, then, there may be some
truth in that alleged science.
Here and there in Zola's book "copy" one finds words crossed out
with double lines, and there are some interlinear corrections,
with occasionally a marginal addition, but these alterations are
surprisingly few. If one judged Zola by his manuscripts only, one
would take him to be a man who wrote _au courant de la plume_, without
the slightest effort. But should his manuscripts ever be open to
public inspection[5] it will be found that they differ largely from
his printed works. His proof corrections were most extensive, whole
sheets of his first proofs were sometimes cut to pieces, and numerous
additional corrections and alterations appeared in his first revises.
It was from second revises that the translations of his books were
usually made, but further corrections often ensued. One has not yet
reached his novel "Paris," nevertheless one may mention here that he
modified the names of several characters in it at the last moment,
altering Harn to Harth, Duthil to Dutheil, Sagnier to Sanier, and so
forth; and as, amid the great rush of the Dreyfus affair, he forgot
to send any warning of what he had done, the English version appeared
with the names unaltered. It may be added that Zola always welcomed
suggestion and correction. The writer pointed out to him that two
characters in "La Débâcle" had the same Christian names, and that
some confusion might arise respecting them. Forthwith--in this case
also at the last moment--he altered one of the names, delaying the
printing of the book for some days in order that the correction might
be made. Again, on reading the proofs of "Rome" the writer detected a
few topographical errors and called attention to them. Zola consulted
his plans of the city and, finding he had erred, altered what he had
written, at the same time requesting his translator to point out any
further slips he might notice. Those were trifling matters, and are
only mentioned here as instances of Zola's desire to make his books as
perfect as possible.
Naturally enough, they contain some blunders. For instance, Zola was
in error when, at the outset of "Son Excellence Eugène Rougon," he
pictured an official of the Corps Législatif reading the minutes of a
previous sitting, whereas the minutes were always taken as read, for
otherwise hours would have been consumed in their perusal. He also
erred with respect to the betting odds on a horse in "Nana," which was
not surprising, the turf being virtually _terra incognita_ to him.
Again,--and this was a bad blunder,--in "La Faute de l'Abbé Mouret,"[6]
he spoke of lizards hatching their eggs on the rocks, instead of
depositing them there and leaving them to be hatched by the warmth
of the atmosphere. Critics made much of that unfortunate slip, which
reminds one of a curious mistake made by Alexandre Dumas _père_, who
relates in a novel that the peritonitis (!) of one of his characters
was perforated by a sword thrust. Dumas certainly wrote rapidly, at
times anyhow; but we must remember that the most painstaking works
often fall short of perfection. Mérimée rewrote "Colomba" sixteen
times before he sent it to the press; nevertheless several slips have
been found in it. Flaubert devoted six years to "Madame Bovary," and
yet pictured one of its characters paying another exactly eighty-five
francs in two-franc pieces. Briefly, lapses are to be found in the most
carefully written books as well as in the best-regulated families.[7]