Émile Zola, Novelist and Reformer: An Account of His Life & Work

by Ernest Alfred Vizetelly

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.