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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 in paying tribute to the greatness of
his soul； at the grave which received his body already buried
under an avalanche of flowers。 The government has not been so
prompt as the mob； but with the history of France in mind；
remembering how official action has always responded to the
national impulses in behalf of humanity and justice； one cannot
believe that the representatives of the French people will long
remain behind the French people in offering reparation to the
memory of one of the greatest and most heroic of French citizens。
It is a pity for the government that it did not take part in the
obsequies of Zola； it would have been well for the army； which he
was falsely supposed to have defamed； to have been present to
testify of the real service and honor he had done it。 But； in
good time enough； the reparation will be official as well as
popular； and when the monument to Zola； which has already risen
in the hearts of his countrymen； shall embody itself in enduring
marble or perennial bronze； the army will be there to join in its
consecration。
V
There is no reason why criticism should affect an equal
hesitation。 Criticism no longer assumes to ascertain an author's
place in literature。 It is very well satisfied if it can say
something suggestive concerning the nature and quality of his
work； and it tries to say this with as little of the old air of
finality as it can manage to hide its poverty in。
After the words of M。 Chaumie at the funeral； 〃Zola's life work
was dominated by anxiety for sincerity and truth； an anxiety
inspired by his great feelings of pity and justice；〃 there seems
nothing left to do but to apply them to the examination of his
literary work。 They unlock the secret of his performance； if it
is any longer a secret； and they afford its justification in all
those respects where without them it could not be justified。 The