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.