"Well, I am glad that this is a wet day, or else you would very likely
have regretted losing the opportunity of going to the Bois."
Such are the _maitre's_ first words after a hearty shake of the hands.
"So you want to know _all_ about me. Now let me see what I can tell you
without repeating myself."
And Zola sinks down into a small but comfortable armchair, with a small
Turkish inlaid coffee and cigarette stand covered with books on one
side, and on the other an antique wrought iron fender placed in front of
an immense fireplace, and commences placidly the following monologue,
which I give as nearly as possible in his own words.
"My father's mother was a Corfiote, he himself a Venetian, and my mother
was a Parisian. My father and mother met in Paris, during one of my
father's numerous visits here in connection with an aqueduct which he
wanted to construct at Aix in Provence. Within a very short time of
their first meeting, they were married. It was a love match. I was born
in Paris, in 1840, and to-day I am, therefore, 53.
[Illustration: (Facsimile of M. Zola's handwriting.)]
"In 1847 my father died, and left very little behind him, except
lawsuits, which, through inexperience more than anything else, my mother
and grandmother managed to lose.
"My education only then began, but until 12, when I had finally to enter
college, I had it pretty much my own way. That means I worked very
little, and spent most of my time in the open air, running about in our
glorious southern fields, and learning how to love and admire nature.
"At college I studied with varying success.
"What I liked best were mathematics and science. I hated Greek and
Latin.
[Illustration: THE STAIRCASE.]
"It was during the last year of my college life that I made the
acquaintance of two young fellows who may have been instrumental in
making of me what I am now. As we had pretty much the same tastes it was
our passion, whenever we could indulge in it, to run out in the fields,
get on the banks of a stream, and for hours, under the shade of some
tree, read the books of fiction which came to our possession. After each
book had been gone through, we discussed its merits, chapter by chapter,
studied the characters and the plot; all this more from a metaphysical
than a literary point of view.
"I left college in 1848, and came to Paris to get work, in order to help
my mother. I found a situation which I soon had to give up, and, till
1861, I went through all the hardships that a destitute young man can
undergo in Paris.
"Often have I spent in my attic the best part of the day, lying in bed
to keep warm.
"Although, as you see, I am better off now, I often look back upon that
time regretting that it cannot return.
"_Voyez vous_, privations and suffering were my lot, but I had in me the
fire of youth. I had health, hope, unbounded confidence in myself, and
ambition.
"_Ah oui!_ It was a glorious time. I remember how I used to write for
hours and hours in my bed; how everything was then fresh to me, how my
inexperience made me look hopefully forward. _Enfin_, life seemed
bright, beautiful, and cheerful.
"After all, I really think hope is a higher satisfaction than
possession.
"But I stray from the subject.
"Let me see, you left me in bed trying to get warm, and waiting for
someone to provide the necessary number of coppers for a dinner.
"In 1861, I at last found a sufficiently remunerative situation at
Hachette's, the publishers.
"I began at 200 francs a month. I did my work so thoroughly that I was
soon raised. After a certain time I was placed in the advertising
department, and there came in contact with the writers and newspaper
men, who, in my first literary efforts, gave me a helping hand.
"During my stay in that office, I never ceased writing.
"You must know that I was all my life a very hard and conscientious
worker.
"After my day's work at the office, I used to read and write for hours
at home by candlelight. In fact, the habit of writing at night became so
inveterate that, long afterwards, when I had time in the day, I pulled
down the blinds in my room and lit the lamp in order to work.
"Towards this epoch I met my two college friends again. One had gained
some notoriety as a painter, the other was a student at the _ecole
polytechnique_. We resumed our rambles in the woods and our discussions.
This, I am convinced, was of great use to me, as our different ways of
looking at things enabled me to judge of characters, and to appreciate
differing opinions.
"Before I left college, viz., when I was 17, I had written the '_Contes
a Ninon_.' These I retouched a little, and determined to try my luck as
a writer with them.
"As usual, with young and unknown writers, publishers received me and
politely returned my manuscript. I tried my employer, but, although he
encouraged me, and showed his sense of appreciation, by giving me a
more responsible position, he refused to publish my story. Finally, I
presented it to Mr. Hetzel, and to my indescribable joy he accepted it.
"The book was very favourably reviewed, but sold very poorly.
"Soon afterwards, I began contributing to the _Vie Parisienne_ and the
_Petit Journal_, and thus got launched in journalism.
[Illustration: THE BEDROOM.]
"As my evenings alone did not enable me to do all the work I had in
hand, I resigned my situation in 1867, and devoted myself exclusively to
literature.
"This did not improve my position, and I was obliged, for a certain
time, to suffer new hardships and privations.
"It is needless to follow my career step by step. You know what I am
now--you see I have succeeded."
"Well, _mon cher maitre_, not many men can boast of a success equal to
yours. Indeed, there is evidence enough in this very room of that
success."
"That implies, of course, that you think I have an enormous account at
the bank. You are mistaken. Every centime I get comes from the sale of
my books, the rights of translation, etc. My royalty is 60 centimes per
volume. This brings me about 300,000 francs a year, and I am not a man
to economise. All this furniture, and the articles you see scattered
about, I have slowly accumulated. I began to purchase with the first
economies I ever made.
[Illustration: EMILE ZOLA.]
"This passion which obliged me frequently to change residences in order
to find room for the ever increasing number of objects was acquired by
me through reading Victor Hugo in my childhood. It is not so ardent now,
I regret to say."
As he got up to show me round, the light fell full on his face. I
thought I noticed a look of melancholy, and made a remark to that
effect.
With a sigh he replied, "_Mon cher monsieur_, I repeat I always think
with pleasure of my garret. I had then no cares. I was, what I call,
absolutely independent."
"But in what way are you dependent now?"
"More than you think. I was then my own reader and my only critic. I
lived in my writings, and thought them perfect. Since then I belong
to the public, upon whose judgment my success depends, upon whose
appreciation my reward lies. Do not imagine that I do not frequently
suffer deeply, that I am not wounded, and that I do not feel mortified
and become discouraged by the misinterpretation of my motives. These are
passing clouds, but they are not pleasant, I can assure you."
As he was unburdening his sorrows, we visited the apartment. It would be
impossible to describe it in the short space of an article, as I must
admit I seldom found such a mass, and at the same time such a variety,
of objects collected.
The accompanying photos will be more eloquent than my pen.
Taste presides in everything; choice, disposal, grouping, and colouring.
The southern nature of the host reveals itself in its love for bright
colours, education and refinement in the subdued tones and harmonious
_ensemble_.
He did not hesitate to show me everything; unfortunately, however, had I
seen less, I would have remembered more.
As we walked back to the studio I returned to the previous subject, and
asked him whether, as was generally supposed, he dashed through his
books after a painstaking preliminary work.
He denied this.
"It is an error; I work very hard."
"What way do you proceed then, _cher maitre_?"
"Well, I never prepare a plot. I cannot do it. I have frequently
meditated for hours, buried my head in my hands, closed my eyes, and got
ill over it. But no use. I finally gave it up. What I do is to make
three kinds of studies for each novel. The first I call a sketch, viz.,
I determine the dominant idea of the book, and the elements required to
develop this idea. I also establish certain logical connections between
one series of facts and another. The next _dossier_ contains a study of
the character of each actor in my work. For the principal ones I go even
further. I enquire into the character of both father and mother, their
life, the influence of their mutual relations on the temperament of
the child. The way the latter was brought up, his schooldays, the
surroundings and his associates up to the time I introduce him in my
book. You see, therefore, I sail as close to nature as possible, and
even take into account his personal appearance, health and heredity. My
third preoccupation is to study the surroundings into which I intend to
place my actors, the locality and the spot where certain parts may be
acted. I enquire into the manners, habits, character, language, and even
learn the jargon of the inhabitants of such localities.
"I frequently take pencil sketches and measurement of rooms, and know
exactly how the furniture is placed. Finally, I know the appearance of
such quarters by night and by day. After I have collected laboriously
all this material, I sit down to my work regularly every morning, and do
not write more than three pages of print a day."
"How long does it take you to produce that?"
"Well, not very long. The subject is so vivid that the work proceeds
slowly, but without interruption. In fact, I hardly ever make any
erasures or alterations, and once my sheet is written and laid aside, I
do not look at it again. The next morning I resume the thread, and the
story proceeds to the end by logical progression.
[Illustration: THE DINING ROOM.]
"I work like a mathematician. Before I begin I know into how many
chapters the novel shall be divided. The descriptive parts have an
allotted space, and if they are too long for one chapter I terminate
them in another. I try also to give some rest to the mind of the reader,
or rather remove the tension caused by too long and stirring a passage,
by interlarding something which diverts the attention for a time.
"Finally, I repeat, I have no preconceived plot. I do not know at the
beginning of a chapter how it will end. Situations must logically follow
one another, that is all."
Of course, after this, the conversation rolled on some of his principal
works, particularly "La Terre."
In reply to the objection taken to that book, one of his arguments is
that progress and science have made of man a being distinct from that of
last century, and insisted that nowadays we must abandon the study of
the metaphysical man of years gone by for an enquiry into the
physiological creature of our days. That is my opinion, and it is in
defence of this conviction that I worked for years.
[Illustration: EMILE ZOLA.]
The next subject upon which I thought I might tackle him was the
"Debacle."
"How did I prepare my 'Debacle'? Well, in the same way as all my other
books. You know I went over most of the battlefields described by me.
Moreover, I received innumerable letters on the subject. The most
interesting ones came from the professors of Paris schools, who, being
left without employment, enlisted. These letters, coming from educated
men, contain, without one exception, the same lamentations, and give
similar accounts of privations and suffering. They all describe how for
days they had to go without food, and ragged; and how fast their numbers
were thinned. Each had in his memoirs accounts illustrating the
blundering ignorance of the commanders! I was violently attacked when
the 'Debacle' appeared. Everything was criticised as usual, and many
details declared inaccurate. But I ask you whether it is always possible
to be as absolutely accurate in small details in a novel as in a
history?
[Illustration: THE DRAWING ROOM.]
"Some dates have been misplaced, and some details relating to the colour
of the troopers' collars were not right; but criticism of such absurd
details cannot affect the treatment and the development of the subject,
and the conclusions arrived at. I am told that Marshal MacMahon is wild
against me, and that he is preparing a reply to my book. It has always
been my object to avoid personalities. I never once accused MacMahon,
but the facts prove that he acted ignorantly. History will be severer,
and when those who write it consult documents as I did, they will not
treat him with the deference I used.
"General Gallifet is also my enemy. Do you know why? Because I have not
mentioned him."
"How does your 'Debacle' sell now, _cher maitre_?"
[Illustration: STUDY CORNER.]
"Not so well as at the beginning, and the cause of it is the Panama
scandal. When the unscrupulousness of a certain class of men was made
bare, the initiators of the enquiry were accused by a section of the
nation with want of patriotism. Curiously enough, the same accusation
was levelled against my book, therefore, instead of being thanked for
the courage I had of disclosing the evils, I am punished for it. The
same influences acted against me in the last Academy elections. Before
the Panama affair, I was certain to have a chair."
"Will you continue presenting yourself?"
"Certainly, until I get a seat. There is no reason why I should be
excluded from that body, and if I abstain from presenting my
candidature, it might be construed as an admission on my part that I
considered justified the action of the academicians against me."
"When is your novel about 'Lourdes' going to appear?"
"Later than you think. I am working at present at Dr. Pascal, which
closes my series of the Rougon Macquart novels."
"Would it be indiscreet to ask you what subject you intend treating this
time?"
"No. It will be a philosophical and scientific defence of the principal
work of my life--the twenty volumes of the Rougon Macquarts. You see I
attach the greatest importance to this, and therefore give special
attention to my work, which is meant to be a justification of my
theories and _hardiesses_. After this I'll take 'Lourdes' in hand.
'Lourdes' will be followed by 'Rome,' and then by 'Paris.' They will
form a triptych."
[Illustration: EMILE ZOLA.]
"Namely?"
"Well, in the first I shall try to prove that the great scientific
development of our time has inspired hopes in the mind of all classes,
hopes which it has not realised to the satisfaction of the most
impressionable, therefore the most exacting and unreasonable minds. How
such minds have returned with greater conviction to the belief in the
existence of something more powerful than science, a something which can
alleviate the evils from which they suffer, or imagine they do.
"Among these there may even be social philanthropists, who may think
that divine intercession is more efficacious to cure the suffering of
the people than anarchist theories. In my 'Rome' I shall treat of the
Neo-Catholicism, with its ambitions, its struggle, etc., as distinct
from the pure religious sentiment of the pilgrims of 'Lourdes.'
"Finally, in 'Paris' I shall endeavour to lay bare the corruption and
vice which devour that city; vice and corruption to which the whole
civilised world brings its share. I need not say that these will be
written in the shape of novels.
"For 'Lourdes' I have collected all my material. As you know, I followed
a pilgrimage, and was given the kindest assistance by the clergy, who
allowed me to consult every document in their possession. As usual, I
receive every day letters from laymen and priests, who spontaneously
supply me with information."
Zola thereupon got up, opened a drawer, and showed me piles of such
letters. Among these I read one from a priest, who seemed convinced that
before long Zola would be a convert. I asked him what he had seen at
Lourdes.
"Nothing that I did not expect, considering that before going there I
had had long conversations with eminent specialists in nervous diseases.
I saw cures which would be called extraordinary by such as ignore the
curative power of faith in hysteric complaints and its derivatives. But
I did not see limbs straightened or replaced, nor has any monk or priest
showed me or even alluded to such cures.
"But what struck me was that, contrary to what one is made to expect, I
did not find among the clergy that aggressive and ostentatious
proselytism. Everything is conducted in a dignified, quiet, unassuming
manner."
Continuing to look among the letters, I picked one from an English lady,
expressing the sincere hope that the "Debacle" would bear fruit, that
the lesson it taught would be a warning to France, and save the nation
from the errors it had fallen into during the Empire.
When I had done, Zola assured me that since the "Debacle" he was happy
to say that he receives numerous such letters from England. This shows
him that the hostile feeling against him tends to disappear.
Before withdrawing, I asked him whether he had heard any more of the
thief who, assuming the title of a journalist, had stolen some of his
bronzes.
With a laugh, Zola replied in the negative, and explained that he had to
thank "Lourdes" for the theft.
"Since it has become known that I prepare that book, the clerical papers
send me their reporters. I receive them without exception. On this
occasion, I was talking to a friend when a card was presented bearing
the title of a small such paper. I requested the servant to show the
bearer in the drawing-room.
"Five minutes later I was with the fellow, who asked a couple of
questions. Instead, however, of waiting for complete information, which
I volunteered to give, he very politely withdrew, and only the next day
did I discover that he had removed valuables for about 700 francs."
For how long I might have engaged the great and amiable novelist in
conversation I don't know; but at this point, having listened to him for
more than an hour and a half, I rose to leave.
And now that the heavy door has closed behind me, shall I attempt to
compose a picture of Zola as I have seen him there in his room in his
warm, many-pocketed Tyrolese jacket, braided with green, and buttoned up
to the throat? Perhaps it is unnecessary, for his features must by this
time be familiar to almost all.
[Illustration: ZOLA AT WORK.]
Like all Southerners, Zola helps out his voice with frequent gestures;
but he has none of the exuberant eloquence of his race. In society he is
still, to a certain degree, and must always remain the victim of
bashfulness; and his one attempt at public speaking was a complete
failure. He has in him nothing of the boulevardier, and he is happy only
when at work. Enforced idleness would mean misery to him.
_People I Have Never Met._