692
Ninteenth- and Twentieth-Century Fronce, 1t4ry,and Spoin
which lengthens out the line, to the inversion of ideas, which confuses the
t|tt 'untt*.
rh]'me. that enslaved
sense,vq;
-of !!a!-..1t-9gtll to
_q-utll.
has a neverv€rse
that
meter;
our
of
creator
out poFql tliit
beauty
unfathomable
and
secret
of
thought,
tum
failins supph oi truth for evcrl
a
thousand
shapes,
like
Proteus,
assumes,
verse
that
meth;ds;i composition,
but changes.toi it, typ. or chalacteristics;that avoids firade; sportive in
dialogue,'everconcealingitself behind thc character;verse that is intent
befor"eall else upon keeping in its place, and that when it falls to its lot
to be beautiful,is beautiful onll- bv chance'so to speak,in spite of itself,
versethat h lyric, epic, dranatic, as occasionrequires;
and uncorsciouslr';
verse that knows cverv note in the chromatic scale of poetrl', that can
descendfrom high to lou, from the loftiest to the n.rosttrivial ideas,from
the most absurdto the rrost serious,from the nost superfrcialto the most
abstract,without once exceedingthe proper limits of a spokenscene;in a
rvord, such verseas the man rvould rvrite t'hom a benevolentfairr should
enclowrvith the soul of Corneille and the brain of \{olidre lt seemsto us
that srrclrversen'ot.ldbe quite asbeautilulasprose.
Verse of that stamp rvoulclhave nothing in common with that other
varietv upon rvhich rl'e rverebut now hoiding an autopsY The distinction
betrueenihem rvill be easl to Point out, if a certain talented gentleman,
to ufiom the author of this bo;k is personall,vindebted, rvill permit us to
borrow his tre[chant phrase;the other Poetrv rvas descriptive,this s'ould
be oicturesque.
Emile Zola $4arso2
Naturalismon the Stage r88o
In the first place,is it recessarlto explainuhai I understandt''l'JBlg3f
ism"? I have been found fault with on accountof this rvord; somepretend
l6-itrii da\ not to understandu'hat I meanbl it lt i-seasvto cut jokesabout
trandated b-v Belle l'1
Experimentdl Notel and Other Essd-"..s,
From Emile ZoIa, The
'fhe
1893'
Co
.
Publishing
Cassell
Ne* York:
Sherman.
Iimile ZoIa
693
subject. However, I rvill explain it again, as one cannot be too clear
iticism.
{y geat crime, it would seem,has been to have invented and given
re public a nerv word in order to designatea literary schoolas old as the
d. In the first place, I cannot claim the invention of this word, which
beenin usein severalforeign literatures;I haveat the most only applied
) the actual evolution in our own literature. Further, naturalism,they
re us, dates from the first written lv'orks.Who has ever said to the
rary? This sirnplv proves that it comes from the heart of humanitt.
the critics, they add, from Aristotle to Boileau, have promulgatedthis
ciple, that a rvork must be based on truth. All this delights me and
ishesme with new arguments.The naturalistic school, by the mouth
Lof those who derideand attack it, is thus built on an indestructible
rdation.It is not one man's caprice,the mad folly of a group of writers;
bom in the etemal depth of things, it startedfrom the necessilvrvhich
L rvriter found of taking nature for his basis.Very well, so far u'e are
ed.Let usstart from this point.
Vell, thev say to me, rvhy all this noise?rvhy do you pose as an rnnor and revealerof nerv doctrines?It is here the misunderstandingcom.ces.I am simply an observer,rvho statesfacts. The enpiricists alone
forth invented formulas.The savantsare content to advancestep by
, relyingon the experimentalmethod. One thing is certain,I haveno neu'
ion in mv pocket. I revealnothing, for the simple reasonthat I do not
:ve in revelation;I invent nothing, becauseI think it more useful to
r the impulsesof humanitr., the continuous evolutions which carry us
g. NIv role as critic consistsin studying from rvhencewe come and our
ent state. When I venture to foretell where rve are going it is purelv
Bv what has been,and
ulation on mv paft, a purelylogicalconclusion.
vhat is, I think I arn able to say u'hat will be. That is mY rvhole en'or. It is ridiculousto assignme any other role; to place me on a rock,
ope and prophet;to representme as the head of a schooland on farniliar
rs rvith God.
I shouldhave
iut as to this ne*'uord. this ierriblervordof naturalism?
sed mv critics better had I used the rvords of Aristotle. Fie spoke of
true in art, and thai ought to bc sufficientfor me. Since I accept the
nal basisof things and do not seekto createthe world a secondtime,
'fru11',
are they mocking me? Does
r longer have need of a ne$' tenn.
the eternal basisof things take uPon itself diverseforms, accordingto
times and the degreeof civilization?Is it possiblethat for six thousand
s eachracehas not interpretedand named,accordingto its oivn fashion,
things comingfrom a commonsource?Homer is a naturalisticpoet-I
rit that at once; but our romanticistsare not naturalistsafter his stvle;
veenthe trvo literarv epochsthere is an abyss.This is to judge from an
Ninteenth-and Twentieth'Cent!\tFrdllce,Italf, tnd Spain
)4
rsolute point of view, to eftaceall histor-vat one stroke; it is to huddle
I thingi together and keep no account of the constant evolution of the
o-"n lnind-. Onc thing is certain, that an,vpiece of rvork will alwar'sbe
olv a comer of nature as seen through a certain temPerament On'lv we
rnnot be content with ihis truth and go no further' As rve approachthe
come uPon strangeelernents,upon
istory of literature,we must necessarilv
ranners. events, and intellectual movements which modi$, arrest,
r
precipitate literature\. Mr
personal oprnion i<
thal
man. From
ates from the first line
u,e look upon
iEcessanfoundationof
the conquestof
upon
agel-5Efrf
the
@gh
and infirmitl', u'e must
re true- in spite of even' form of rvretchedness
lace writers and savants in the van. It is from this point of I'ierv tirat
,e shor.rldrvrite the historv of a universal literature, and not from that of
n absolute ideal or a comuron esthetical measure, rvhich is perfectl-v ridicu'
rus. But it must be understood that I cannot go as far back as that, nor
ndertake so colossal a vork; I canrot examine the marches and counter'
rarches of the writers of all nations, and set down through u'hat darknes
nd wliat lights they passed. I must set mvself a limit, therefore I go no
:rther back than the iast century, u'here we find that man'elous expansion
f intellieence, that wonderful novement from rvhence carne our societl
affirmation of
f todav. And it is jrut there that I discover a triumphant
'I'he
thread is
long
rvord.
meet
with
the
I
is
that
there
aturaliim, it
it
in hand
to
take
my
it
aDswers
of
thc
ages;
darkness
)st in the
PurPose
t the eightecnthcenturr' and follou' it to orrr dav Putting 2i
nd Boilca
identh' starts
decisive
c rt.
-Tet
us start, tben, at the eighteenth centun" We have at that period a
uperb outburst. One fact dominates all, the creation of a method Until
hin the savants had s'orked as thc Poets did, from individual fantasv,
n strokes of genius. A ferv discovercd truths, but thev u'cre scattered
ruths; no tie held them together, and mixed rvith them rvere the grossest
,rrors.Thev wished to creatc science at onc bound thc wa1'vou $' te a Poem;
hev joincd it on to nature bl quack formulas, bv metaphvsical consicleraions u'hich rvould astound us toda1. All at once a little circumstancc rer'
rlutionized this sterile field in u'hicli nothing grerv. One dav a savant
rroposed,before concluding,to exPeriment Hc abandoned supposedtruths'
re ieturned to first causes,to the stud] of bodies, the observation of facts'
-ike a schoolbor hc consented to beconc humble, to learn to spell nature
rfore rcading ii fluentlr'. It rl'as a revolution: sciencc detached itselt--qlgll
ine from the knortrt to the untn
"
imite ZoIa
695
'hev
started from an observedfact, they advancedfrom obsen'absen'ation,hesitating to conclude before being in possessionof
;ary elements.In one rvord, instead of setting out with stnthesis,
mencedrvith anal_vsis;
they no longer tried to draw the truth from
' means of divination or revelation; thcy studied it long and
passingfrom the simpleto the complex,until thev wereacquainted
lechanism. The tool rvas found: such a rvav of workine rras to
e and extendall the sciences.
, the benefit \l:as soort apparent. The natural sciences were estabank: to the minule and tlroroush e\actitude of obscrvation; in
' '
alone rn entrrelv ne\\' uorld \\as opened up: eacn oa) rf revealed
Lore of the r""t.t of lif.. Other sciences rvere created-chernistn,
:al philosophv.Todav the1.are still young, but thev are growing,
are bringing truth to light in a manner harassingfrom its rapiditv.
examine each sciencethus. It is sufficient to name in addition
rhv and geology, trvo sciences*'hich have dealt so terrible a
ligiousfables.The outburst$as general,
andit continues.
,erything holds together in civilization. \Vhen one side of the
ind is set working other parts are afiect€d, and ere long vou have
,.
6Jutr_.o-i:. The" sciences, * hich until then bad borrowed their
*-:->--.
,
rnaErTa-Eon
from leiterr. were fhe first to cul free frorn fantastic
rd icturn to nature: next letters were seen in their tum to follow
;es, and to adopt also the experimental method. The great philomovement of the eighteenth centu4'\',,-as a vast inquiry, often
, it is true, but which ended bv bringing into queshon again all
oblems and offering neu'solutions of them. In history, in criticism,
of facts and surroundings replaces the old scholastic rules. In the
erary rvorks nature intervenes and reigns with Rousseau and his
Le trees, the waters, the mountains, the great fotests, obtain recand take once more their place in the mechanism of the world;
o longer an intellcctual ab\iraction: nature determincs and tom
--r. DidEidI remains beronfiuestion the grand hgure ot the centun:}<H! F-t'tsr
i "it tt " trutt r, L. i, - "dua"c. olfhiiiifii-_urg,ng a-EnIiGt warre€L('ror*-4)g
cf
re worm'eaten edifice of conventions and rulJs. l{agnificent o,r,'*r2t-r}tt!v""
+teq
an epoch, colossal labor from r;hich our societr hai come forth,
rom which rvill datc the centuries into rvhich humanilv is entering,
re for a basis,method for a tool!
:the evolution which I have called naturalisur,and I contend that
u s e n o b e t t e r u o r d . N a t u r a l i s m ,i h a t i s , a r e t u m l o n a t u r e :i t i s
rtion rftrich the savants performed on the da,v shen thev decided
: from the studl of bodies and phenomena, to build on exPeriment,
roceed bv analvsis. Natura'lism in letters is equallv the:eturn to
rd t.' man, direct observation, exact anatomy, the accePtance and
696
Ninteenth- and Twentieth-Century France, IILI/-, and. Spdin
depicting of rvhat is. The task was the same for the rwiter as for the savant.
O"e an.l the other replaced abstractions b,v realities, empirical formulas
by rigorous analysis. Thus, no more abstnct characters in books, no more
lying inventions, no nore of tlre absolutq but real characters, the true historv
of each one, the stor.vof daily life. It rvas a question of commencing all
over agaiu; of knowing uran down to the sourcesof his being before coming to such conclusions as the idealists reached, rvho invented t,vpesof
character out of tire s,hole cloth; and rvriters had onlv to start the edifice
at the foundation, bringing together ihe greatestnumber of human data
arrangedin iheir logical order. This is naturalism;starting in the first thinking brain, if you rvish; but rvhose greatest evolution, the definite evolution,
without doubt took place in the last centurr'.
So great an evolution in the human mind could not take Place without
ReYgiution rvas-this overihrlri',
bringing on a social overthrou'. T@1511h
to grve placc to the new.
$'ipe
the
old
world,
rvas
to
out
this tempest which
olglqral
rvorld,
\vg_eIg_4.9d!gqJbtl&9q
We are the beginning of this neu'
in
literature
as
iu
science
in
philosophv,
politics as
isirfjn 3U-tUlS;.-rn
in
realiti
because
naturalisn
and in art. I extend the bounds of this word
intelligence,
it includesthe entire centurl,,t'he movement of contemPoraneous
the force which is sweeping us onu,ard, and u'hich is working tor, ard the
'fhe
historv of these last one hundred and fiftv
moldins of future centudes.
u " r , , p i o u " . i t , a n c l o n c o f t h e r r r o q tl l p r c a l p h e n o n t e n ai s t h e m o m e n r a n
rebound of the minds which succeede<lto Rousseauand Chateaubriand;1
that singular outburst of romanticisrtt on the ven tl.rresholdof a scientific
age. I rviil stop here for an instant, for there arc some verv imPortant observationsto make on this subject.
It is rarcly the case that a revolutiort breaks out calmi,v and sensibh
Brains become deranged, imaginations becone frightened, gloom-r',and
peopled rvith phantoms. After the rttde shocksof the last century, and ttnder
thc tender and restlessinfluence of Rousseatt,s'e find poets adopting :r
melancholy and fatal stvle. Thev know not u'here thel are going. They throrv
thenselves into bitterness,into conten.rplation,into the most extraordinarr'
dreans. Hou'eyer, thel' also lrave been breathed upon bv the spirit of the
Revojution. Thel also are rebels.Thel bring about a rebellion of color, of
passion, of fantasy; thel' talk of breaking outright rvith rules, and thev
renew the languagebv a burst of lvrical poetry, sparkling and superb.trIoreover, truth has touched then.i, thev exact local coloring, thev believe in
resurrectingthe dead ages.This is ronanticism. It is a violent reactionagainst
classical literature, it is the 6rst revolutionarl use rvhich the writers make
of ihe reconqueredliterarv libertr'. Thev smashrvindo* s, thel becone intoxicated; maddened *'ith their cries thev rush into evervthing extrene frorr,
I \riconteFranQois
(1768-1848
RenddeChateaubriand
) , poetandessayisi
Em e Lola
697
mere necessitvof protesting. The movement is so irresistible that it
:s evervthingwith it, not only the flambovantliterature,but painting,
rture,music,even;they all becomelomantic; romanticismtriumphs and
For one moment, in view of so powerful and so
ps itself everyr.vhere.
ial a manifestation,one could almost believe that this literary and
:ic formula had come to remain for a long time. The classicalst,vle
lasted at least trvo centuries;why should not the romantic style, which
taken its place, remain an equal length of time? And peoplewere surd when, at the end of a quarter of a century, they found romanticism
s last agony,slowly dying a beautiful death.Then truth came forth into
light. The romantic movement was Ulthout qu$Fon-.lq!-qjliiiln$h.
r, nou"liit, of great talents,a whole generationfull oI magniflcenteniasm had been able to start a wrong scent. But the century did not
rg to theseoverexciteddreamers,to thesechildren of the dawn, blinded
he light of the rising sun. They representednothing definite; thev were
the advance guard, charged with clearing arvav the debris, and inThe century be'longsto the
rg the future conquestby their excesses.
ralists,to the direct sonsof Diderot, rvhosesolid battalionsfollowed,and
rvill finally found a true state. The ends of the chain came together
r more;naturalismtriumphed rvith Balzac.2After the violent catastroPhes
:s infanc1,,the century at last took the broad path marked out for it.
romantic crisiswas bound to be produced,becauseit correspondedto
social catastropheof the French Revolution in the same manner that
Ilinglv compare iriumphant naturalism to our actual republic, wliich
andreason.
fair to be foundedby science
Romanticism, which correspondedto
todav.
his is where we stand
restlessregret of the o1d world and
the
u'as
siurplv
ring durable,which
naturalism,which rose up stronger
before
gave
awa)r
buglecall to battle,
of
rvhich it is in realiiy the breath'
centun'
more powerful, leading the
It
to exhibit it evenv'here? arisesfrom the earth on which
r necesaary
,valk;it grorvsevery hour, Penetntes and animatesall things. Ii is th€
rgth of our productions,the pivot upon which our society turns. It is
td in th. sciences,r,i,hichcontinued on their tranquil rvav during the
,of romanticism;it is found in all the manifestations
of human inof romantrinfluences
the
gence,disengagingitself more and more from
it.
It reneu's
submerged
r which once for a moment seemedto have
freld
of
criticism
the
it
extends
arts, sculpture,and, aboveall, painting;
qovgL
novel,
means
of
the
it
is
by
and
history;it makesitself feltiLthe
above
romanticism,
,neans'ofBa*l"acind-S-i6dhal, that it lifts itself
; visibly relinking the chain with the eighteenth century' The novel
:s domain, its field of battle and of victorv. It seemsto have chosen
Honor€ de Balzac I 1799-1850) , noveiistaDd plavwright
698
Ninteenth- and Twentieth-Centuo France, Itah, and. Spain
the novel in order to demonstrate the porver of its method, the glory of the
truth, the inexhaustiblenovelty of human data. Todal'it takes possession
of the stage, it has commenced to transform the th€atre, rvhich is the last
fortress of conventionalitv. When it shall triumph there its evolution will
be completc; the classical formulas will find thernselves definitelv and
solidlv replaced b),the naturalistic formula, which should b1, right be the
formula of the neu'socialconditiorr.
It seemed to rrlre necessaryto insist upon and to explain at length the
meaning of this word naturalism, as a great manv pretend not to under,
stand me. But I u'ill drop the question norv; I simpll' wish to studv the
naturalistic movement on the stage. But I must at the same tirne speak
of the contenporaneous novel, for a point of comparison is indispensable
to me. We will see u,here the novel stands and u'herc the stage stands.
The conclusion u,ill thus be easierto reach.
II
I have often talked u'ith foreign u'riters, and I have found the same
astonishment expressed bv them all. Thev are better. able than we ar€ to
judgc of the drift of our literature, for thel' see us frour a distance, and
the,v arc outside and arvav from our dailv quarreis. They express great
astonishment
that th
rel and the stage. No parallcl exists among
our neighbors. In France it seems that for half a centun' literature has
becn divided in two; the noyel has passedto one side, the stage remains on
the other; and between is dug a decper and deeper ditch. Let us examine
this situation for a moment; it is ven' crrious and ven, instructive. Our
current c ticism-I speak of ne\\6paper critics, rvhose hard task is to judge
fron dav to dav new pieces-our criticism lavs dosn the principle that
there is nothing in common betseen a nolel and a dramatic rvork, neither
the frame nor the development; it e\€n goes so far as to sav that there are
two distinct st1'les, the theatrical str'le and the novelist's stvlc, and a subject u'hich could be put in a book could not be placed upon the stage. Whv
not sav at once, as stnngers do, that te have two literaturcs?It is but too
true; such criticism has but stated a fact. It onlr, remains to be seen if ii
does not aid in the deiestabletask of transforming this fact into a larv br,
saying that this is so, becauseit cannot be othenvise. Our continual tendency
is to drau' up rules and codifl eventhing. The rvorst of it is that, after we
have bound ourselves hand and foot u.ith rules and conventions. we have
to usesuperhuman efiorts to break the fetten.
In fact, we have trvo literatures entirelr" dissimilar in all things. Once a
novelist rvishes to wite for the stage thev mistrust him; thev shrug their
shouiders. Did not Balzac strand himself? It is true that N{. Octave
Emile ZoIa
699
illet3 has succeeded.I am going to take up this quesfion ai the
nning in order to solve it logicall,v.But first let us study the contemPoousnovel.
/ictor Hugo wrote poems,eren when he descendedto prose;Alexandre
rraspdrea was bui a prolific storyteller; George Sands gave us the
ms of her imagination in an easl'and happl flou' of language.T rvill
go back to those rvriters u'ho belong to that superb outburst of ro,ticism, and who have left us no direct descendants.I mean to sa,v
their influence is felt today''onl,-vbv our rebound from it, and in a
rner of which I will speak later. The soutcesof our contemPoraneous
:1 are found in Balzac and in Stendhal We must look for them and
;ult them there. Both escapedfrom the craze of romanticism: Balzac
rusehe could not help himself;and Stendhalfrom his superioritvas a
L. While the rvhole world was proclaiming the triumphs of the lvrics'
e Victor Hugo sas noisilv crouned kinq of literature'both died al
of the Public
t i
of the
fo-r{nula
natulalistjc
the
works
they left beirind them in their
their
to
pressing
descendants
their
-ug "nf, the iuture t'as to ihorv
and
sur'
bloodlessness,
dving
from
rvas
Ui *trit. the romantic school
the
prevented
whom
for
respect
d onl,v in one illustrious old man,
of
exis
no
Ttere
revierv.
ng of the truth. This is but a rapid
-need
They
introduced.
Stendhal
nirg the new formula t'hich Balzac and
ie ihe inquirv rvith the novel that the savantsmade with science The\
tongerimagined nor told prettv stories Their task was to take man and
gct him, to analyze him in his flesh and in his brain. Stendhal rened above all else a psychologistBalzac studied more particularlv the
peraments,reconstructedthe surroundings,gathered together human
Prire
i and assumedthe title of doctor of social sciences.Compare
'iot or Cousine Bette| lo precedingnovels,to those of the seventeenth
tury as to those of the eighteenth,and you will better understandwhat
"tomance" alone has
naturalistic evolution accomplished.The name
o kept, r'liich is rvrong,for it haslost all significance
mirst no$ choose among the descendantsof Balzac and Stendhal'
it, there is M. Gustave Flaubert,?and it is he u'ho will complete the
ral formula. We shall see in him the reaction from the romantic innce of which I have spoken to vou One of Balzac'smost bitier disVictor Hugo's brilliant form He
ointmentswas that he did not possess
OctaveFeuillet(I821-1890), novelistand dramatist
AlexandreDumai plre (1802-1870),novelistand drametist
C."ig" Srta, pen n"-'" of Amandine Aurore Lucile Dudevant (n6e Dupin) (18045l - novelistand essavist.
FatherCoiot (1814-1835)and CousinBzrf (1846)'
CustaveFlaubert( 1821-1880),novelist
700
Ninteenth- and.
'[y,cntieth-Century
France, Ita\', and Spain
was accused of writing badly, and tirat made him ven unirappl'. He son
times tried to cotrrpete with the ringing ilrics, as for instance rvhen l
wrote Ld Femrne de Trente Ans, and Lc Lis dans Ia Y aII6e:8 but in tl
he did not succeed;this great wdter never wrote better prose than whr
he kept his o\\'n strong and fluent style. In passing to M. Gustave Flaube
the naturalistic fomula was given into the hands of a perfcct adist. It w
solidified, and becane hard and shining as marble. N{. Gustave Flaube
had grorvn up in the midst of ronanticisn. All his leanings u,ere tou'a
the movement of 1830. \\&en he published Madame Boyans it was as
defiance to the realisn of that timi, which pridcd itseif on rr,riting badl
He intended to prove ihat 1'ou could talk of the little provincial bourgeois
with the same ampleness and porver rvhich Homer has emploved in speakir
of the Greek heroes. But happill, the u'ork had another result. Wheth
M. Gustave Flaubert intended it or not, he had brousht to naturalism tl
only strength u'hich rvas lacking to it. that of that periect and imperishab
style rvhich keeps rvorks alive. From that time thc formula was firm
established. There was nothing for the nervcomers to do but to walk :
this broad paih of truih aided bv art. The novelistslent on and continue
M. Balzac's inquirr, advancing morc and more in the analvsisof man r
affectcd bv the action of his surroundings;onh ther were at the same tin
artists, they had tlie originalih, and the sciencc of form, thel seemed I
have raised truth from the dead br, the intense life of their stvle.
At the same time as \{. Gustavc Flaubert, MNL Edmond and }ul,
de Goncourtlo r,rrre laboring also for this brillanq, of forrn. Thev d;
not come from the romantic school. Ther possessedno Latin, no classic
aids; thev invented their orvn language; the)')otted dorvn, with an incredib
intensity, their feelings as artists wear\ of their art. In Germinie Ittcertdaux
thev were the first to studv the people of Paris, painting the faubourgs, ti
desolate landscapes of the suburbs, daring to tell evervthing in a refrne
languagewhich gave beings and things their proper life. 'Ihev had a grer
influcnce over the groups of naturalistic novelists. If u'e found our solidit
our exact method, in N,I. Gustave Flaubert, rve must add that we wel
very much stirred b1, this new language of the IvIN,l. Goncourt: as pen
trating as a symphonv, giving that nervous shiver of our age to all object
going further than the written phrase, and adding to the words of tt
dictionarv a color, a sound, and a subtle perfume. I do not judge, I br
state mv facts. Mv only end is to establish the source of the contemporan
ous novel,and to explain what it is and rvhv it is.
sAw'a',;.anofThitty (1828-1844)
ard'fhe Lilr of theValley(t815',.
s Firstin installments
in 1E56,thenasa bookin 18i7.
10EdmondLouisAntoineHuot de Concourti1822-1896)and TulesAlfied Huot <
C o n c o u (r 1
i 8 ? 0 - 1 E 7 0n;o. v e l r : b
t sr.o t h e rc' ,o l l a b o r a l o r s
1 1( 1 8 6 4 ) .
Emile Zola
701
ese,then, are the sourcesclearlyindicated.First, Balzacand Stendhal,
riologistand a psychologist,weanedfrom the rhetoric of romanticism,
wai nothing but an uprising of wordloven. Then, between us and
we find N{. GustaveFlaubert on one side,and N{M. Edtwo ancestors,
and Julesde Goncourt on the other, giving us the scienceof stvle,
the formula in nerv rnodes of expression.In these names you have
aturalistic novel. I rvill not speak of its actual rePresentativeslt
of this novel.
Lftceto indicatethe distinctivecharacteristics
novel is sitnPlyan i"qli'v intq nature'
ravesaid that the naturalistic
-iongcr__-int.t.sts
itself in the ingenuitr-of a well
;. and thinqs.t i no
cd-sToflli6ieloped according to certain rules. Imagination has no
-Dlace. plot matiers little to the novelist, rvho bothers himself rvith
:r'developrnent,mystery, nor d6nouement;I mean that he does not
ene to taie "t"ay fiom or add to realii,v;he doesnot constructa frameout of the whole cloth, accordingto the needsof a preconceivedidea'
;tart fron the point that nature is sufficient,that you must accePt
it is, rvithout moclificationor pruning; it is grand enough, bearrtifrrl
end lnsteed of
;h to supplv its own beginning, its middle, and its
ning an airenture, of complicatingit, of arrangingslageeffects,rvhich
rvill lead to a 6nal conclusion,you sinplv take tlie life studv
br,"scene
a group of persons,rvhoseactions,vottfaithfullv depict The
o,
r"iron
becomesa report, nothing more; it has but the nerit of exact otrion, of more or lessprofound penetration and analvsis,of the logical
:ction of facts. Sometimes,even, it is not an entire life, with a comement and an encling, of rvhich r-ou te'll; it is only a scrap of an
nce.a few vearsin the lifc of a nlan or a woman'a singlepagein a
n histon, tihi.h h"r attracted the novelist in the sameu"av that the
rl studv of a mineral can attract a chemist. The novel is no longer
of all
red to one specialsphere;it has invaded and taken possession
on
all
subIt
touches
the
world.
of
master
it
ii
the
es. Like science,
highest
to
the
rises
psvcholog,v;
and
of
ph,vsiologv
history;
treats
urites
s of poeiry; studiesthe most diversesubjects-politics,social economy,
,n, "nd nonn"rr. Entire nature is its domain. It adoPtsthe form which
ss it, taking the tone *'hich seemsbest, feeling no longer bolnded by
imii. In ttis we are far distant from the novel thaf our fathers were
rinted with. It was a purelv imaginativervork, I'hose sole end rvasto
n and distract its readers,In ancient rhetorics the novel is placed at
)ottom, betw€en the fables and light poetry. Seriousmen disdained
rs, abandoned them to women, as a frivolous and cornprising recre. This opinion is still held in the country and certain academical
more on
of modern fiction
:rs. The truth is that the
man and na
n
moderntool.
702
Ninteenth- and Twentieth-Centun Frunce, Italy, and Sbain
I passto another characteristicof the naturalisticnovel. It is impenonal;
I mean to sav by that that the novelistis but a recorderl,ho is forbidden
to judge aud to conclude.The strict role of a savantis to exposethe facts,
to go to the end of analysiswithout venturing into synthesis;the facts are
thus: experiment tried in such and such conditions gives such and such
results;and he stopsthere,for if he rvishes
to go berondthe phenomena
he
will enter into hlpothesis; we shall have probabilihes,not science.Well!
the novelistshould equallv keep to knorvn facts, to the scrupulousstudy of
nature, if he does not wish to strav among lving conclusions.He himself
disappears,he keepshis emotion rvell in hand, he simpll showsrvhat he
has seen.Here is the truth; shiveror laugh beforeit, iraw from it what,
ever lessonvou please,the onlv task of the author has been to put before
vou true data. There is, besides,for this moral impersonalitvof the work
a reasonin art. The passionateor tender interventionof the writer teakens
a novel, becauseit ruins the clearnessof its lines, and introducesa strange
elenrent into the facts which destroystheir scientific value. One cannot
well imagine a chemist becoming incensedrvitl.r azote, becausethis bodr,
is injurious to life, or svmpathizingtith oxrgen for the contrary rcason.
In the sameway, a novelistI'ho feelsthe need of becomingindignant with
vice, or applaudingvirtue, not onlv spoilsthe data he produces,for his intervention is as trving as it is useless,but the u,ork loses its strength; it is
no longera marblepage,hervn from the block of reality; it is matter rvorked
up, kneadedby the emotions of the author, and such ernotionsare ahvavs
subiect to prejudicesand errors.A true u'ork rvill be eternal, rvhile an impressionablei','ork can at best tickle onlr, the sentinent of a certain age.
Thus the naturalisticnovelist never interferes,any morc than the savant.
This moral impersonalit,v
of a rvork is all-irnportant.for it raisesthe question
of moralitv in a novel. Thev reproachus for being immoral, becauserve
put roguesand honest men in our books,and are as iurpartial to one as to
the other. This is the whole quarrel. Rogues are permissible,but the,v
must be punished in the wind-up, or at least we must crush them under
our angerand cortempt. As to the honestmen, they deservehere and there
a few words of praise and encouragement.Our impassabilitv,our tranquilitv in our anahsisin the faceof the good and bad, is altogetherwrong.
And they end by savingthat we lie rvhen we are most true. What! nothing
but rogues,not one attractiyecharacter?This is u'herethe theory of attractive
characterscomes in. Tlrere must be attractive charactersin order to give
a kindly touch to nature.'lJrevnot only demandthat we should have a
preferencefor virtue, but they exact that we should embellish virtue and
make it lovable.Thus, in a character,we ought to make a selection,take
the good sentimentsand passthe rvickedbr in silence,indeed, we I'ould
be more commendablestill if we iuvented a personout of the whole cloth;
if we would mold one on the conventionalform demandedbv proprietv
tlmlte
LoL.l
703
good manners.For this purpose tiere are ready-madetypes which
en introduce into a story without anv trouble. These are attractiv€
acters,ideal conceptionsof men and women, destined to compensate
the soffy impressionof true characterstaken from nature. As you can
our onlv mistakein all this is that we acceptonly nature, and that we
not willing to conect what is by what should be. Absolute honestyno
e exists than perfect healthfulness.There is a tinge of the human
t in all of us, as there is a tinge of illness.These young girls so pure,
e young men so loyal, representedto us in certainnovels,do not belong
arth; to make them mortal everythingmust be told. We tell everything,
lo not make a choice,neither do l,e idealize;and this is why they accuse
f taking pleasurein obscenity.To sum up, the questionof moraliw in
:ls reducesitself to two opinions: the idealistspretendthat it is necessary
Leto be moral; the natunlists affirm that there is no morality outside
he truth. Mormver, nothing is so dangerousas a romantic novel; such
rrk, in painting the world under false colors,confusesthe imagination,
and I do not speakof the
ws us in the midst of hair-breadthescapes;
rcrisies of fashionable societl', the abominations which are hidden
:r a bed of flowers.With us theseperils disappear.We teach the bitter
rce of life, we give the high lessonof realitr'. Here is rvhat exists;en'or to repair it. We are but sa!"nts, analvzers,anatomists;and our
<s have the certainty, the solidih', and the practical applications of
rtific works.I know of no schoolmoremoral or moreaustere.
uch today is the naturalistic novel. It has triumphed; a'll the novelists
pt it, even those rvho attempted at first to crush it in the egg. It is
sameold story; they deride, and then thev praiseand finallv irnitate it.
:essis sufficient to tun the sourceof the current. Besides,norv that
impetus has been given, we shall see the movement spreadingmore
more.A new literarvcenturyis beginningfor us.
stage.We have iust seen to what
passnow to our contemporaneous
must
nor.
endeavorto define the present
e the novel has risen; $'e
tion of dramatic literature. But before entering upon it I will rapidlv
ll to the readels mind the great evolutionsof the stagein France.
n the beginning we find unfonned pieces,dialoguesfor two characters,
or three at the most, which were given in the public square.Then halls
: built, tragedy and comedv rvere bom, under the influence of the
;ical renaissance.
Great geniusescorsecratedthis movement-Comeille,
idre, Racine.They u'ere ihe product of the agein which they lived. The
edy and comed,vof that fime, r'ith their unalterablerules,their etiquette
he court, their grand and noble air, their philosophicaldissertationsand
I
704
Ftunce,1t4ry,dnd Spain
Ninteenth-and Twentieth-Century
society.
oratoricaleloquenceare the exact reproductionof contemporaneous
And this identity, this closeaffinity of the dramatic formula and the social
surroundings,is so strong that for two centuriesthe formula remainsalmost
the same.It only losesits stiffness,it merelvbendsin the eighteenthcentun'
The ancient societvis then profoundly diswith Voltaire and Beaumarchais.
turbed; the excitementwhich agitatesit even touchesthe stage.There is
a need for greateraction, there is a sullen revolt againstthe rules, a vague
retun to nature.Even at this period Diderot and N{ercierlaid dou'n squarely
the basis of the naturalistic theatre; unfortunatelv, neither one nor the
other produced a masterpiece,and this is necessarvto establish a new
formula. Besides,the classicalstvle was so solidly planted in the soil of
the ancient monarch,vthat it was not carried awav entirelv by the temPest
of the Revolution.It persistedfor sometime longer,rveakened,degererated,
gliding into insipidity and imbecility. Then the romantic insurrection,which
had been hatching for years,burst forth. The romantic drama killed the
gave it ih -de?tb'hlo\t,ald.realer] the SEne'
elpuing-iragg\
liclqr tlugo
fits of a rictory for which nGiy- oltrEfrhad labored.lt is north noticing
ihat through the necessitiesof the struggle the romantic drama became
the antithesisof the tragedy;it opposedpassionto dut.v, action to words,
coloring to psvchologicalanalvsis,the Nliddle Ages to antiquitv. It rvasthis
sparkiing contrast which assuredits triumph. Tragedv must disappear,its
knell had sounded;for it rvasno longer the product of social surroundings;
and the drama brougirt in its train the liberty that rvasnecessaryin order
boldlv to clear arvavthe debris. But it seemstodav as though that should
have been the liimt of its role. It rvasbut a superbaffirmation of the nothingnessof rules, of the necessitvof life. Notwithstanding all this uproar,
it remained the rebelliouschild of tragedy;in a similar fashion it lied; it
costumedfacts and characterswith an exaggerationwhich makesus surile
nowadays;in a similar fashion it had its rules and its efiects-efiectsmuch
more irritating, as they rverefalser.In fact, there rvasbut one more rhetoric
rr'asnot to haveas'longa reign
on the stage,The romanticdrama,horvever,
its revoluti
as tragedr'.
Thus the history is
of this inevitable crisis in
same on the stage as in the
romanticism,the traditions of naturalismreappear,the ideasof Diderot and
Mercier come more and more to the surface.It is the new socialstate,bom
of the Revolution,rvhich fixeslittle bv little a new dramaticformula in spite
of manl' fruitless atteurptsand of advancingand retreatingfootsteps.This
work rvasineviiable.It produceditself and it will be producedagainb1'the
force of things, and it rvill never stop until the evolution shall be complete
The naturalistic formula will be to our centurv what the classicalformula
hasbeento pastcenturies.
Norv we have arrivedat our own period. Here I find a considerableactiv'
Emile Zota
705
Ln extraordinaryoutlay of talent. It is an immenservorkroomin which
one works with feverish energy.All is confusion,as yet, there ts a
deal of lost labor, very few blows st ke out direct and strong; still
;pectacleis none the less marvelous.One thing is certain, that each
er is rr'orking toward the definite triumph of naturalism, even those
'fhey
are, in spite of everything, borne
appear to fight against it.
1bv the current of the tine; the]' go of necessityrvhereit goes.As none
e theatre has been of large enough caliber to establishthe formula at
oke by the sheerforce of his genius,it would almost seem as if thev
divided the task, each one giving in turn, and n'ith referenceto a
ite point, the necessarvshove onward. Let us norv see who are the
rnou'nrvorketsamongthem.
the first place, tliere is \{. \rictorien Sardou.l! He is the actual reptative of the comed,vwith a plot. The true heir of N{. Scribgl3 he has
nted the old tricks and pushedsccnicaft to the point of prestidigitation.
kind of plaf is a continuousand ever more stronglv ernphasizedren againstthe old-tine classicalstage.The moment that factsare opposed
'ords, that action is placed above character,the sure tendency is to
nplicated plot, to marionettesled bv a thread, to sudden changes,to
The reign of Scribewasa notableeveutin dramahc
pectedd6nouements.
ture. He exaggeratedthis neu' principle of actiou, making it the
ripalthing, and he alsodisplavedgreatability in producingextraordinary
ts, inventing a code of lats and recipesall his oln. This was inevitable;
ions are alwars extreme. What has been for a long time called the
onabie stagehad then no other sourcethan an exaggeratedprincipal
:tion at the expenseof the delineationof characterand the analysisof
ion. The truth escapedthem in their eftort to gmsP it. Thev broke
;et of rulesto invent others,which u'erefalserand more ridiculous.The
rvritten play-I mean by that the plal u.ritten on a s)'mmetricaland
pattern-has become a curious and amusing plavthing, which diverts
,vholeof Europe. From this datesthe popularit,vof our repertoirewith
gners.Todal it has undergonea siight change;M. Victorien Sardou
<s lessof the cabinetrvork,but though he has enlargedthe frame and
ln
Dore stresson legerdemain,he still remainsthe grcat representatlve
dominating
and
quality
action,
this
theatre of action, of armorous
:owering evervthing else. His great qualih is movement; he has no
he has only movement,which carriesawat'the characters,and rvhich
r throrvsan illusive glamour over them; 1'oucould almost believethem
: living, breathingbeings;but they are in realitv only lell-stagedPuPPets,
ing and going like piecesof perfect mechanism.Ingenuitl, dexteritv,
\,'ictorienSardou(1831-1908),dramatist.
Eugine Scribe( 1791-1861), dramatist
706
France,Itab, and.Spain
Ninteenth-and Twentieth-Century
iust a suspicionof actuality, a great knowledgcof the stage,a particulr
talent for episode,the smallestdetaiisprodigallvand vividll' brought fonvar
-such are IVI. Sardou'sprincipal qualities.But his observationis superficia
the human data which he produceshave dragged about everlr'here an
are only patched up skillfully; the world into rvhich he leads us is a past
board l'orld, peopled by' puppets. In each one of his works vou feel tl
solid earth giving rvav beneath lour feet; there is alwa,vssoure far-fetche
plot, a false emotion carried to the last extreuritv,rvhich servesas a pivr
for the whole pla1,,or else an extraordinarycomplication of facis, which
magrcalword is supposedto unravelat the end. Real life is entirelv difteren
Even in acceptingthc necessarv
exaggerations
of a farce,one looks for an
wants more breadthand more sirnplicitvin the means.Theseplavsare nevr
anvthing more than vaudevillesunnecessarilvexaggerated,whose com
strengthpartakesaltogetherof caricature.I mean bv thai that the laughtl
evokedis not spontaneous,
but is called forth bv the grimacesof the actor
It is uselessto cite examples.Evervonehas seenthe village which M. Vi
torien Sardoudepicts in Les Bourgeoisde Pont-Arcy:rathe characterof h
observation is here clearlv revealed-silhorretteshardly rejuvenated,tt
stale jokes of the day, stich are in evervone'smouth. Con.rparedr.it
Balzac, for instance, of horv lorv an order are these plavs. Rabcgas,fr
instarce, the satire in rvhich is excellent, is spoiled b,v a very inferir
amorous intrigue. La Fanille Benoitonli in rvhich certain caricaturesar
very amusing,has also its faults-the famousletters, these letters r\,'hichar
to be found throughoutN{. Sardou'swritings,and rvhichare as necessan't
him as the jugglen'and the prestochangeto the conjurer.He has ha
immensesuccess,a fact easl' of explanation,and I am verr' glad he ha
Remark one thing, that, though he verv often runs counter to the truth, l:
has nevertheless
been of great serviceto naturalism.He is one of the worl
men of rvhom I spokea short time ago, who are of their period, who rvor
accordingto their strength for a formula rvhich thev have not the genir
to carv out in its entiret\,.His personalrole is exactness
in the stagesettinl
the most perfect material representationpossibleof evervdal existence..
he falsifiesin filling out the frames,at least he has the frames themselve
and tliat is alreadv somethinggained. To me his reasonfor being is thz
aboveall things.He has cone in his hour, he has giventhe public a tast
for life and tableauxheu'n from realitr,.
I nou turn to M. AlexandreDumas fls. Trulr'. he has done better wor
still. He is one of the most skillful workmen in the naturalistic rvorkroon
Little remainsfor hirn but to find the completc formula, and then lei hir
realizeit. To him we orve the phvsiologicalstudies on the stage;he alonr
rt The Boureeois
of PonrArcy (1878).
's Rabagas(1872) and.The Benoiton Farnill ( 1865).
Emile ZoIa
707
to the preseDttime, has been brave enough to show us the sex in the
Lnggirl, the beastin the man. La Yislte de Noces,and certain scenesin
Demi-Monde and the Fils N aturel,16possessanall'siswhich is abso:ll' remarkableand rigorouslytruthful. Here are human data which are
,, and excellent;and that is certainly ven, rale in our modern repertoire.
r see I do not make any bones about praisingM. Dumas fZs. But I
nire him rvith refererce to a group of ideas rvhich later will causeme
appearvery severeupon him. According to my way of thinking, he has
Ia crisisin his life, he has developeda philosophicvein, he manifests
eplorabledesirefor legislation,preaching,and conversion.He has made
rself God's substitute on this earth, and as a result the strangestfreaks
imaginationspoil his faculties of observation.He no longer makesuse
human observationsave to reach superhunan results and astonishing
ations,dressedout in full-blown fantasr'.Look at I-a Femme de Claude,
',trangdre,r1
and other piecesstill. This rs not all: clevernesshas spoiled
A
Dumas. man of geniousis not clever,and a man of genius is neces'to cstablishthe naturalisticformula in a nrasterlvfashion.M. Dumas
imbued all his characterswith his rvit: the men. t}re women. even the
dren in his plavs make wittv remarks,these famous rvitticismswhich so
:n gir,e a play success.Nothing can be falser or more fatiguing; it
troysall the truth of the dialogue.Again, M. Dumas,u'ho before everr''
rg is a thorough playwriter,never hesitatesbetrveenreality and a scenic
lenc1';he sacrificesthe reality. His theorv is that tmth is of little consa
nce providedhe can be logical. A plav becomesrvith him a problem to
solved;he starts out from a given point, he must reach another point
:rout tiring his public; and the victorv is gained if you have been agile
ugh to jump over the break'neckplaces,and have forced the public to
orv vou in spite of I'ourself. The spectatorsmay protest later, cry out
inst the want of the realiq', fight againstit; but neverthelessthev have
xged to the author during the evening. All M. Dumas's plavs are
:ten on this theorv. He rvins a triumph in spite of paradox,unrealitl,,
most uselessand risqud thesis,through the mere strength of his rwists.
who has becn touched by the breath of naturalism,who has rvritten
:r clearlvdefined scenes,never recoils,horvever,before a fiction when he
ds it for the sake of argument or simplv as a matter of construction.
s the most pitiable mixturc of imperfect realitl and whimsicalinvention.
ee of his pla,vsescapesthis double current. Do you rememberin the
' N aturel the incredible story of Clara Vignot, and in L'Etrangire the
-aordinarvstoryof I? Vierge du Mal?18I cite at haphazard.It would seem
a The \Yedd.ing Visif (translated as A Cd1 Vief (1871),'fhe Demi-Monde (1853),
)
Illegitimate Son ( 18- 8 ) .
7 Claltd.e's
Wile (18711,The Foreigner(18761.
a The \rirein of Evil.
708
Ninteenth-
and
'I'wentieth-Centltrt
Frdnce, ltalf,
and. Spdill
as though M. Dumas never made use of truth but as a springboardwith
which to jump into emptiness.He neverleadsus into a lvorld that we knol,;
the surroundingsare ahvavsfalse and painful; the characterslose all their
natural accent,and no longer seemto belong to the earth. It is no longer
life, rvith its breadth, its shades,and its good nature; it is a debate, an
argument, something cold, dry, and rasping in which there rs no arr.
The philosopherhas killed the observer-suchis mv conclusion,and the
dramatic rvriter has finished the philosopher.It is to b€ deepll regretted.
. ; . , ,
Now I cometo Emile Augier.loHe is the realnasterof our Frenchstage.
His $'as the most constant, thc most sincere,and the most regular effort.
It must be rememberedhorv ficrcelv he rvas attacked bv the romanticists;
they called hirn the poet of good sense,thel' ridiculed certain of his verses,
though the,vdid not dare to ridicule versesof a similar characterin Molidre.
The truth rvasthat NI. Augier worried the romanticists,for they feared in
him a powerful adversary,a rvriter rvho took up anew the old French tradi
tions, ignoring the insurrectionof 1830.The nen fonnula grervgreaterwith
hin; exact observation,real life, true picturesof our societt-in correct and
quiet language,rvereintroduced.M. Emile Augier's first rvorks,dramas
and comedies
in verse,had the greatmerit of appearingat orrr classical
theatrc; thev had the samesimplicitvof plot as the best classical
plavs,as in
Philiberte,2o
for example,wherethe ston of an uglv girl ri'ho becamecharming, and uhom all the world courted,wassufficientto fill three acts,r,i'ithout
the slightestcomplication;their main point rvasthe elucidatingof character,
and thev possessecl
also a spirit of genial good nature and the strong, quiet
novement that u'ould naturallv arise an.rongpeople rvho drew apart and
then came togetheragain as their cnotions impelled them. N4vconvictionis
that the naturalistic formula will be but the developmentof this classical
formula, eniarged and adapted to our surroundings.Later Irl. Emile
Augier made his own personalih' more stronglv felt. He could not help
emploving the naturalistic formula rvhen he began to rvrite in prose,and
depicted our contemporaneoussocietv more freeh'. I mention more particularly Les Lionnes Pauwes, Le Mariage d'Olympe, Maitre Cuein, Le
Cendle de M. Poirier, and those two comediesu{rich createdthe most talk,
Les Eflrontds,and Le Fils de Giboyer.2r
Theseare verr remarkable
works,
rvhich all, more or less, in some sceues,realizethe neu' theatre, the stage
of our time. The bold, unrepentant effrontery, for instance, with which
Guerin, the notarv, dies, so novel and true in its efiect; the excellentpicture of the newly enrichedbourgeoisin the Gendre d.eM. Poirer; both of
r! I 1820-1889l. dramatistand Doet.
, o( 1 8 r)3.
zrThe FalseSfets (]it., The Poor Lionesses),
written with EdouardFoussier(1858);
Olymhia'sW edding (1855); Masfer Guerin (1864); Mr. Paierer'sSon-in-Ldr, written
witlr JnlesSandeau| 1854 ) ; F acesof Brass( l86l ) ; Ciboyer'sSon ( I 862).
Lmlle
LOkt
709
;e are admirablestudies of human nature; Giboyer, again, is a cunous
Ltion,quite true to life, living in the midst of a societydepictedu'ith a
rt deal of excellentsarcasm.M. Augier'sstrength, and what makeshim
lv superiorto N{. Dumas fls is his more human quality.This human
: placeshim on solid ground; we have no fear that he will take those
I leaps into space;he remainswell balanced,not so brilliant, perhaps,
much mote sure. What is there to prevent M. Augiet from being the
ius waited for, the genius destined to make the naturalistic formula a
wisestand the
TC?
:n it is because
belittled by figtres " executis
:hic,"22as they say in the studio. Thus it is rarelv that you do not find,
equally heroes of honor and lo,valty, sobbing when ther' leam thatl
r fathers made their monev unscrupulouslr'.In a word, the interesting
racterpredominates;I mean the ideal tlpe of good and beautiful senti'
rts alq'avscast in the same mold, that mere svmbol, that hieratic perfication outside of all true observation.This conmandant Guerin, this
lel of militan men, whoseuniform aids in the ddnouement;
Gibover's
that archangelof delicacv,born of a nan of ill repute,and Gibover
self, so terder in his baseness;Henri, the son of Charrier in Les
ontds,who goesbond for his father rvhenhe has dabbledin an equivocal
ir. and who finaliy induces the latter to reimbursethe men rvhom he
are ven, beautifui, r,en'
as human
. Nature is n'dt-so
nor
evil. You cannot
characterseKceptas a conhast
a consolation.This is not all; M. Augier often modifiesa characterb-va
ke of his wand. His reasonis easi'lvseen;he l,ants a ddnouement,
and
:hangesa characterafter an effectivescene.For instance,the climax in
Cendre de M. Poiier. Reallv it is very accommodating;
tou do not make
gL! man out of a dark o"" so easily. Consideredfrom the point of
uine observationsthese brusquechangesare to be deplored;a temperart is the sameto the end, or at least is only changedbv slowly working
ies,apparentonly to a ven,minute analrsis.NI. Augier'sbest characters,
;e which rvill remain longest,becausethel are the most complete and
:al, to my thinking, are Guerin the notary, and Pommeaui,n Les Lionnes
vrss.The climax in both playsis verv good.Readinglas LionnesPauwes
'I bethoughtme of IUme. I,Iarnefid,marriedto an honestman. Compare
Lphineto Mme. Marneffd,place NI. tmile Augier and Balzacface to
:Done without a model. that is. not coDiedfrom real life.
7\0
Ninteenth-and Twentieth-Century
Ftdncc, ltalf, dnd Spain
face for one instant, and vou rvill undentand wh1,, nothwithstanding lris
good qualities, N{. Emile Augier has not firmly established the new formuia
on the stage. His hand u-as not bold enough to rid himself of the conventionalities u'hich encumber the stage. His plavs are too much of a mixture; not one of theur stands oui with the decisiveorigilalitv of genius.He
softens his lines too much; still he will remain in our dramatic literature
as a pionecr, rvho possessedgreat and strong intelligence.
I rvould like to have spoken of N,l. Eugdne Labiche,z3 rvhose comic vein
is verr refreshing; of NI. Nleilhac and NI. Haliw,ra these sharp obseners of
Parisian life; of \I. Gondinet,,s rvho bv his witiv scenes.depicted without anr, action, has given the last blorv to the dounfall of the formula of
Scribe.
But it must be sufficient for me to explain myself bv means of the three
dranatic authors ryhose work I have just analvzed and rvho are reall_vthe
most celebratcd. Their talent and their diferent gifts I greatlv admire.
Onlv I must sa;1,once more, I judge them from the plint of iieu, of a group
of ideas and the place which their works rvill hold in the literan, movement
of the centurr'.
IV
Nos, that all the elements are knorvn I have ir nv hands all the data
rvhich l need for argument and conclusion. On one side, we have seen u.hat
the naturalistic novel is at the present tine; on the othcr, rve have just
ascertained u'hat the first drautatic authors have made of our stage. It re,
m a i n sb u t t o e s l a b l i s h
a parallel.
No one contests the point that all the difterent forms of literan cx,
pressionhold together and advanceat the same time. \\/hen thev have been
stirred up, rvhen the ball is once set rolling, there is a geleral pLrsh torvar<1
the same goal. The romantic insurrection is a striking example of this
unitv of movement under a definite influence. I havc shown that the force
of the currcnt of the age is torvard naturalism. Todav this force is making
i l s e l f f e l t m o r e a n d l n o r e : i t i q r u r h i n g o n r r " . a n c Je r e n l h i n g m u s f o b e r . i i
The novel and the stage are carried au'av bv it. Onlv it has happened that
the evolution has been much more rapid in tire novel; it triumphs there
l,hile it is just beginning to put in an appearunce on the stage. This was
bound to be. The theatre has ahvavs been the stronghold of conventron
for a multiplicitv of reasons,I'hich I rrill erplain Jater.I simplv u,ish, then,
to come dorvn to tliis. The naturalistic fornula, however complete and
3 3( 1 8 1i - 1 8 8 8) , d r a r n a t i s t .
,rHenrv N,leilhac
(1831-1897)and LudovicHaliw (1834-1908),
dramarists,
coilab
orators.
25EdmondGondinet( 1829-l88El.dramatist.
Ilmile ZoIa
7ll
red in the novcl, is very far fron being so on the stage, and I conclude
r that that it rill be completed, that it will assumc sooner or later there
cientific rigor, or else the stage will become flat, and more and more
'1()r.
"But
what
:me peopie are verv much irritated \\'ith ure; they cr! out:
'ou ask? what evolution do lou want? Is the evoiution not an accomecl fact? Have not N,l. Emile Augier, M. Dumas fls, and N.. Victorien
ou pushed the studv. and the painting of our society to thc farthest
ible lengths? Let us stop v'here we are. \\re have alread,v too much of
realities of this rvorld." In the first place, it is verv naive in these people
'ish to stop; nothing is stable in a society, evervthing is borne along bv
ntinuous movemcnt. Things go in spite of evervthing rvhere they ought
o. I contend that the evolution, far from being an accomplished fact
he stage, is hardl,v commenced. Up to the present time we havc taken
the first stcps. We must wait until certain ideas have wedged their
in, and until the pub'lic becomes accustomed to them, and until the
: of things abolishesthe obstaclesone bv one. I have.tried, in rapidlv
:ing over NINI. \/ictorien Sardou, Dumas fls, and Enile Augier, io
lor u'hat reasons I look upon them as simply laborers rvho are clearing
paths of dibris, and not as creators, not as gertiuses who are building
-llg!-jtj!51_]ft11_!_4Jtt\4j!!!€_f
'nunrenl.
or sorrrcthing elre.
his sonething else lvhich arouses so much indignation and drau's forth
ran,vpleasantries is, bowever, verv sinplc. \Ve have onlv to read Balzac,
lustave Fiaubert, and N{NI. dc Goncourt again-in a word, the natural'
nor.elists-to discover rvhat it is. I am v'aiting for them, in the first
l to put a uan of flesh and bones on the stage, taken from realitl-,
rtificallv anallzed, \\,ithout one lie. T am laiting for them to rid us of
ious charlcters, of conventional svnbols of r,'irtue and vice, which
:ss no valuc as human data. I arl rvaiting for the surroundingsto deine the characters, and for characters to act according to the logic of
, combined n'ith the logic of their orvn temperament. I am waiting unti'l
: is no more jugglen of anv kind, no more strokes of a magical u'and,
Lgirlgin oDe minute penons and things. I am [aiting for the time to
s whcn thev will iell us no more incredible storics, r'hen thev rvill no
er spoil the effects of just obsen'ations br romantic incidents, the result
g to dcstrov even the good parts of a plar'. I am u'aiting for them to
rdon the cut-and-dried ruies, the rvorked out fornulas, the tears and
cheap laughs. I am rvaiting until a drauratic work free from declanations,
,rords, and grand sentinents has the high moraliq of tmth, teachcs the
ble lesson that belongs to all sincerc inquin'. I am rvaiting, 6nal1y, until
evolution accomplished in the novel takcs place on the stagc; until they
:n to the sourcc of science and modern arts. to
he anatomv of man. to thc
exact
ting of
'712
Ninteenlh- and T wenl.klh-Centul
Francc. Ildly. and Spain
anv one has so far
the lnards.
this is what I am waiting for. They shrugtheir shouldersand reply to me
that I shall wait forever.Their decisiveargumentis that you must not expect
these things on the stage.The stageis not the novel. It has grven us what
it couldgiveus.That endsit; we mustbe satisfied.
Now rve are at the pith of thc quarrel.*LjI_l+ilg-lo=Lrlrcall!1vll1
conditions of existenceon the stase. What I ask is impossible,which
amounts to saving that fictions are necessanon the stage; a plav must
have some romantic corners,it must turn in equilibrium round certain
situations, which must unravel themselvesat the proper time. The,v take
up the businessside; first, anv analvsisis u,earisome;ihe public demands
facts, alu'aysfacts; tiren there is the persPectiveof the stage;an act must
be plaved in three hours, no matter what its length is; then the charac'
ters are endorvedwith a particular value, r'hich necessitatessetting up
fictions. I will not put forth all the arguments.I arrive at the interventionof
the public, which is realll' considerable;the public rvishesthis, the public
rvill not have that; it rvill not tolerate too much truth, it exactsfour attrac'
tive puppets to one real charactertaken fron life. In a word, the stageis
the domain of conventionalih';everyihing is conventional,from the dec'
orations to the footlights which illuminate the actors, even down to the
characters,r''ho are led bv a string. Truth can onl,v enter b,v little doses
adroitlv distributed.Thev evengo so far as to swearthat the theatrewill cease
to exist the dalt that it ceasesto be an amusinglie, destinedto consolethe
spectatorsin t'hecveningfor the sadrealitiesof the dav.
and I shall trv to respondto them Presenth',
I know all thesereasonings,
rvhen I reach mv conclusion.It is evident that each kind of literature has
its orvn conditionsof existence.A noi'cl, v'hich one readsalone in his roour,
with his feet on his andirons, is not a plav which is acted before h,'o
thousandspectators.The novelist has time and spacebefore him; all sorts
of liberties are permitted him; he can use one hundred pages,if it plezses
him, to anah,zeat his leisure a certain character;he can describehis surroundings as much as he piarses;he can cut his storv short, can retracc
his steps,changingplacestwcntl' times-in one rl'ord, he is absolutemaster
of his matter. The dramatic author, on the contrarr', is inclosedin a rigid
He movesonlv in the midst of
frame;he must heedall sortsof necessities.
obstacles.Then, aboveall, there is the question of the isolated readerand
the spcctators taken en masse; the so
rl'here he is led- -even rvhcn he is di
reader tolerates
I rvhile thc
ti[att
it'ii;l-t'u.,
"nd r!r!_plggsej)' fol-tlrs reasontha! the $ASe U_jhe last citadel of conveltiol atiir,._aiT-itaGd f uft 1''e; b;ck. ia th e;a tuithstii mol'emenf hi?
LfilIE
LOI'I
717
encounteredon the boards a difficult ground, filled with obstacles,it
Lld alreadl' have taken root there with the intensity and with the sucwhich have attended the novel. The stage, under its conditions of
tence, must be the last, the most laborious,and the most bitterly dis'
:d conquestof the spirit of truth.
will remark here that the evolution of each centurv is of necessity
Lrnatedin a particular forn of literature. Thus the seventeenthcentury
lentlv incarnateditself in the dramatic formula. Our theatre threw forth
r an incomparableglitter, to the detriment of lvrical poetry and the
el. The reason$as that thc stag€then exactlvrespondedto the sPirit of
period. It abstractednan from nature, studied him with the philorical tool of the time; it has the swing of a Pompous rhetoric, the
te manrers of a societr rvhich had reached perfect maturitv. It is
fruit of the ground; its formula is rvritten from that point rvhere the
r civilization flou'ed rvith the greatestcase and perfection. Compare
eDoch to that. and vou rvill understand the decisive reasonsrvhicl
le Balzaca great novelistinstead of a great dramatist.The spirit of the
rteenth centun, with its return to nature,v'ith its need of exact inquiry',
:ted the stage,where too much conventionalit! hampered it, in order
;tampitself indeliblvon the novel,l,hose field is limitless.And thus it
nat screnti
the
--i.-
ettsIs
novel has become the form,
th in uhich natrrrlliim uas to
Todav it is the
the language,
; thev possess
Pnnces
,' hold the method, thev u'alk in the front rank, ljj_lyidgtglh-t5lgg
:he seventeenth centurv was the centun' of the stage, the nineteenth
belong to the novel.
-et us adrnit for one noment that criticism has some shou of reason
:n it assertsthat naturalism is impossible on the stage. Here is u'hat thev
rt. Conventionalitv is inevitable on the stage; there must ahvavs be
g there. We are condemned to a continuance of 1\'1.Sardou's juggling:
he theories and witticisms of M. Dumas fls; to the sentimenta'l charrs of \I. Emile Augier. We shall produce nothing finer than the genius
hese authors;we must accept them as the giorv of our time on the stage.
:v are l'hat thet are because the theatre wishes them to be such. If
y-have not advanced further to the front, if thel have not obeyed more
rticitlv the grand current of truth rvhich is carrving us onu'ard, it is the
rtre x*rich forbids them. That is a rvall lhich shuts the wav, even to
strongest.Verv t'ell! But then it js thc t]r:lEe+ hieb-fo-u-coldepg-1t _
.Itl:l:jl-g9gjfe
r_!1tg_!J3s_e_.thal,Lo_rr_
!svq. g11'e1lli? mqt4l]ggf
rpilers of human data, if vou prove to us that there we cannot make use
it4
Ninteenth-and.Twentieth-Century
France,Itab, afld Sbain
of our tools and our methods? Realll'l The theatre lives only on conventionalities; it must lie; it refuses our experimental literature! Oh, well,
'4...
^rr{' then. the centun will nut tlrc
one side, it will abandon it to tne
3--,i---r_----,
er1
anruserr.shile rt rrill-pSrforn
r_Sl:et\herq il' gre;i;ia
-hen<].of thg_p_uUic
\.
glolgrrlng$. Yorl \ourselve\pronouncetl)e \crdrl^l xnd kill the stage
It is ven'evidentthat the naturalisticevolutionrvill extenditself more and
more, as it possesses
the intelligence of the age. While the novelists are
digging ahvavs further forrvard, prodncing nev'er and more exact data, the
stage will flounder deeper even da1.in the nidst of its romantic frctions.
its worn-out plots, and its skillfulnessof handicraft. The situation rvill be
the more sad because the public will certainly acquire a taste for realitv in
reading novels. The moyement is making itself forciblv feit even non.. There
rr,ill coure a time r'"'hen the public rvill shrug its shoulden and demand an
innovation. Either the theatre n'ill be naturalistic or it rvill not be at all:
such is the formal conclusion.
And even nol, todav, is not this becoming the situation? All of the nerv
literarr generation turn their backs on the theatrc. Question the voung men
of trventv-five vears-l speak of those u'ho possessa real literarv temperament;
thev u'ill shos great contenpt for the theatre; thev rdll spcak of its suc,
cessful authors with such faint approval that vou rvill become indignant.
The,r' look upon the stage as being of an inferior rank. That comes solelr'
from the fact that it does not offer them the soil of rvhich thev have need:
the,v find neithcr enough libertr nor enough truth there. Tlel all veer
torvard the novel. Sbould the stage be conquered bv a stroke of genius to,
morrow you s,ould see rvhat an outpouring would take place. \Mten I rvrote
elsewherethat the boards were emptr I mereh meant thev had not let
produceda Balzac.You could not, in good faith, compareNI. Sardou,Dumas,
or Auger to Balzac; all the dramatic authors,put one on top of the other,
do not equal him in stature.The boardslill remain emph,, from this point
of vieu', so long as a naster hand has not, bv embodring the formula in a
u'ork of undving genius,drau,naftcr him tomonours qencrations.
I have perfect faith in the future of our stage. I r;r,illnot admit that
the critics are right in saving that naturaiism is impossible on the stage, and
I am going to explain under what conditions the movement wjll without
questionbe brought about.
It is not true that the stage must remain stationan,; it is not true that
its actual conventionalitiesare the fundamental conditions of its existence.
Evervthing marches, I repeat; evervthing marches fonvard. The authors
of todav will be overridden; thcv cannot have the presumption to settle
dramatic literature forcver. \Vhat thev have lisped forth others rvill cn.
Lm
e LO@
/r>
r the house top; but the stagewill not be shakento its foundationson
account; it will enter, on the contnry, on a wider, straighter path.
rle have ahvavsdenied the march fonvard; they have denied to the
:omers the porver and the right to accomplishu'hat has not been perred bt their elders.The socialand literarv evolutionshave an irresistible
l; they trave$e ri'ith a slight bound the enormousobstaclesrvhich v'ere
ted impassable.The theatre mav rvell be u'hat it is today; tomorrorvit
be rvhat it should be. And rvhen the event takes place all the rvorld
think it perfectlynatural.
.t this point I enter into mere probabilities,and I no longer pretend to
samescientificrigor. So long as I have reasonedon facts I have demoned the truth of mv position. At present I am content to foretell. The
ution will take place,that is certain. But ri'ill it passto the left? will it
andthat is all.
to the right?I do not knou'.One canreason,
.r the first place, it is certain that thc conditions existing on the stage
ahvaysbe different.The novel,thanksto its frcedom,will remain perhaps
tool, par excellence,of the century, while the stageu'ill but follorl' it
complete the action. The wonderful power of the stage must not be
rtten, and its immediate efiect on the spectators.There is no better in'
nent for propagatinganvthing. If the novel, then, is read bv the firein severalinstances,tith a patiencetolerating the longest details, the
Lralisticdrama should proclaim before all qbe that ii has no connection
-tI
e-fi Furafstji-f ormul a is an tagonisti c to
af
ft efresr-T-db-nbT-SE€--Tfi
i6iiGness and this clearness.It is simpl,r'a questionof changingthe
position and the bodr of the rvork. The novel analyzesat great length
rvith minutenessof detail rvhich overlooks nothing; thc stage can
,vzeas briefl-vas it wishes bv actions and rvords. A rvord, a cr1, in
ac's rvorks is often sufficient to present the entire character. This
belongsessentialll to the stage.As to the acts,thev are consistentwith
vsisin action, which is the most striking form of action one can makc.
en rve have gotten rid of the child's play' of a plot, the infantile game
ving up complicatedthreads in order to have thc pleasureof unlving
n again; ylpq a plal' shall be nothing more than 4 real and logical
then enter
ers over facts,
double influence
'liat has led me to sav so oJten that the naturalistic formu'la carnes us
. to the source of our national stage, the classical formula. We find this
inuous analvsis of character, rvhich I consider so necessary,in Corneille's
edies and Nlolidre's comedies; plot takes a secondarv place, the work is
ng dissertation in dialogue on man. Only instead of an abstract man I
ild make a natural man, put him in his propcr surroundings, and anallze
the phvsical and social causes which make him what he is. In a word,
716
Ninteenth-and
'I
||entieth-Centtn^France,1t4ry,|nd Spdin
tlre.classicalformula is to me a good one. on condlllon that the scientificmethod is ernp]oved in the stud]' of actual society, in the sane wa]' that the
chcmist
studieqmincrrls and tlreir l-rroperties.
,
-r.d-",As to the long descriptionsof the novelist, thev cannot bc put upon the
j.r'u stage;that rs elident. The naturalisticnovelistsdescribea great deal, not for
the pieasure of describing, as some reproach them rvith doing, bui becauseit
is part of their formula to be circumstantial, and to complete the character
bv means of his surroundings.\{an js no longer an intellcctual abstraction
for them, as he s,as lookecl upon in the seventeenth century; he is a thinking
beast, who forms part of nature, and who is subject to the multiplicitr of
influerces of the soil on which lte grorvs and rvhere he lives. This is wh-v a
climate, a country, a horizon, a room, are often of decisiveimportance.The
novelist no longer separateshis character fron the air which he breathes; he
does not describehim in order to exercisehis rhetorical po\vers,as the didactic
poets did, as Delille?6does, for example;he simplv notes the material con'
ditions in which he finds his charactersat each hour. and in l'hich the facts
arc prodnced, in order to be absolutelv thorough in order that his inquin
mar, belong to the world s great rvhole and reproduce the realitv in its en'
tiret\,.But it is not necessar\,tocarry descriptionsto the stagc;thev are found
there naturallr'. Are not the stagc settings a continua] description, u'hich
can be made nuch mote exact and startling than the descriptions in a
novel? It is onlv paintcd pasteboard,sorne sa); that mav be so, but in a
novel it is less than painted pasteboard-it is but blackened paper, notrvithstanding u'hich the illusion is produced. After the scener\',so sulprisinglt'
truc, that we have recentll scen in crur theatres,no one can denr,
t now remalns
the realitl of
the chara
I*-rrl
"'.
ancl the facts, !fu scenc painters, underlhgir dilections,lgoi$ttg. the
.-_=--_-'+.=-.
for a dramalrc
, '_
rFti-., ,. .r.r.
.,1t but
_.aa.ti
,renrains
,tu<it'butlror
<ince
to rnakeuse of h- sfrroundings;rstlre novelistsdo.
the lattcr
knowhow to introducethemand maketheurreal.
I uil] add that the theatre, being a material reproduction of life, external
surrouldings have alwavs been a necessitl there. In the seventeenthcen'
tun,, however,as nature ivas not taken into consideration,as man uas looked
upon onlr as a pureJl intellectual beirg, thc scenen was vague-a perish'le
of a temple, anl kind of :r roonr, or a public place. Today the naturalistic
rnovement has brouglrt about a urore and more Perfect exactness in the
stage settings. This uas produced little br liitle, ahnost inevitablr'. I even
find here a proof of the secret l'ork that naturalisn has accomplished in
the stage since the commencenent of thc centun. I have not time to
I must
study anv more decph this cluestionof decorationsand accessories;
, 6 T a c a uD
ee
s l i l l ci 1 7 1 8 - 1 8 1 1 . t .
Emile ZoIa
717
:nt m-vselfby stating that description is not only possible on the stage,
t is, moreover, a necessitv which is imposed as an essential condition
istence.
rere is no necessit) for me to eKpatiate on the change of place. For a
time the unity of place has not been obsewed. The dramatic arrthors
ot hesitate to cover an entire existence, to take the sPectaton to both
of the world. Here conventioralitv remains mistress, as it is also in
rovel. It is the same as to the question of time. It is necessaryto cheat.
ry which calls for fifteen davs, for example, must be acted in the three
; rvhich we set apart for reading a novel or seeing it plaved at tlie
:re. We are not the creative force uhich govems the rvorld; our power
:ation is a second-handsort; we onl,v anall'ze, sum up in a nearlv ahvavs
ng fashion, happ,v and proclairr as geniuses l,hen rve can disengage
av of the truth.
now come to the language. Thev pretend to sav that there is a
al style for the stage. Thev uant it to be a slvle altogether different
the ordinan str'le of speaking, more sonorous, more nervous, written
higher key, cut in facets, no doubt to make the chandelier jets sparkle
.rr time, for example, IU. Dumas fls has the reputation of being a great
Latic author. His mots2? are fanous. Thev go off like skvrockets, falling
r in showers to the applause of the sPectato$. Besides,all his characters
< the samc language, the language of ri,ittl Paris, cutting in its para'
s, having a good hit alu'avs in vier', and sharp and hard. I do not den,l'
rparkle of this language-not a very solid sparkle, it is true-but I denr'
erces i lt'!"""o*
;th
d rather see-m-6Gllaiticity, grcater naturalness. Thel' are at one and
;ame timc too well and not well enough rvritten. The true stYle-setten
re epoch are the novelists; to find the infallible, living, original stvle
must tum to NI. Gustave Flaubert and to NIIII. de Goncourt. When
compare N{. Dumas's stvle to that of these great prose u'riters vou
it is no longer cofiect-it has no color, no movement. What I want to
oD the stage is the language as it is spoken every day; if we cannot
uce on the stage a conversation with its repetitions, its length, and its
:ss rvords, at least the ovemcnt and the tone of the conversation could
ept; the particular turn of mind of each talker, the realitv, in a rvord,
rduced to the necessan, exteni. X,{Nl[. Goncourt have made a curious
npt at this rn Henriette l\Iardchal,28 that Plav r''hich no one would
n to, and rvhich no one knorvs anvthing about. The Grecian actors spoke
ugh a brass tube; urder Louis XI\/ the comedians sang their roles in
ranting tone to give then more poDrp; todav rve are content to sa,v
Cleverphrases.
{ 1 8 6)t.
718
Ninteenth- and Twentieth-Century France, ltdlf, and Spain
that there is a particular language belonging to the stage, more sonor-
ous and explosive.You can see by this that we are progressing.
Q191|3y
best style on the
is that which best sets
forth the
uritten excellent
of dialoque.rgducedto stricllv uselul rvords.
There now remains but the question of sentimental characters. I do not
disguise the fact that it is of princ importance. The public remain cold
and irresponsive when their passion for an ideal character, for some combination of lovaltv and honor, is not satisfied. A plav rvhich presents to
them but living characters taken from real life looks black and austere to
them, when it does not exasperatethem. It h on this point that the battle
of naturalism rages most fiercely. \Ve must leam to be patient. At thc
present moment a secret change is taking place in the public feeling; people
are coming little bv little, urged onward bv the spirit of the century, to
admit the bold reproduction of real life, and are even beginning to acquire
a taste for it. \\4ren thev can no longer stand certain falsehoods rve shall
very nearlv have gained our point. Alreadl, the novelists' work is preparing
the soil in accustoming them to the idea. An hour rvill strike u,hen it will
be sufficient for a master to reveal himself on the stage to frnd a public
readl to become enthusiastic in favor of the truth. It $'ill be a question
of tact and strength. They u'ill see then that the highest and most useful
lessons will be taught br depicting u'hat is, and not bv oft-dinncd generalities, nor bv airs of bravado, which are chanted merelv to tickie our ears.
The trvo formulas are before us: lre naturalistic formula, which makes
th" stag.a strd\,"r
unu--rtiolifi6G-uh,
u'hich makes it purely an amusernent for the mind, an intcllectual specula,
tion, an art of adjusturent and svnmetn regulated after a certain code.
In fact, it all depends upon the idea one has of literature, and of dramatic
literature in particular. If rve admit that literature is but an inguin, about
men and things entered into bv original minds, u'e are naturalists; if rve
pretend that literature is a framework superimposed upon the truth, that
a rvriter nust make use of obsen'ation merelv in order to exhibit his pou,er
of invention and arrangement,ue are idealists.and proclaim the necessitl
of conventionalitr'. I have just been verv nuch struck bv an examplc. Thel
have just revived, at the Comddie Frangaise, Le FiIs N aturel of N,1.Dumas
fls. A critic immediatelv jumps inio enthusiasn.r. Flere is rvhat he savs:
"Mon
Dieu! but that is rvell put togethert Horv polished, dove,tailed, and
compact! Is not this machinen' prettv? And this one, it comes just rn time
to r'"'orkitself into this other trick, rvhich sets all the machinery in motion."
Then he becomes exhausted, he cannot find words eulogistic enough in
u'hich to speak of the pieasure he experienccs in this piece of mechanism.
\\rould vou not think he rvas speaking of a plavthing, of a puzzle, rvith
Alexandte Dumat, Fils
719
r he amusedhimself by upsetting and then putting all the piecesrn
again?As for me, Le FiIs Natural doesnot afiect me in the least.And
Lsthat? Am I a greaterfool than the critic? I do not think so. Only I
no taste for clockwork,and I have a great deal for truth. Yes, truly,
1 prettv pieceof mechanism.But I rvould rather it had been a picture
e. I yearn for life with its shiver, its breath, and its strength; I long
e asit is.
li_feon the.stage-aswe alreadvhaveit i
e shall,vgt-hal'e
pretendedlogic of actual plavs, this equality and symmetrvobtained
'ocesses
of reasoning,r'"'hichcome from ancient metaph,vsics,
u'ill fall
e the natural logic of facts and beings such as reality presentsto us.
rd of a stageof fabrication we shall have a stageof observation.Florv
he evolution be brought about?Tomorrorv will tell us. I have tried to
:e,but I leaveto geniusthe realization.I havealreadt'givenmy conn: Our stagcu.ill be naturalistic,or it u'ill ceaseto exist.
rrv that I have tried to gather mv ideas together, mal' I hope that
rvill no longer put words into m) morth which I have never spoken?
they still continue to sec, in mv critical opinions, I know not what
I am but the most
.lousinflationsof vanitv or odious rctaliations?
;t soldierof truth. If I am mistaken,my judgnentsare therein print:
iftv yearsfrom now I shall be judged, in ml turn; I may perhapsbe
ed of injustice,blindness,and uselessviolence.I acceptthe verdict
r future.
sxandre lfumas, Fils ,uz-ruqs
w to Write a Plav nll
ith stud1, work, patience, menorv, energ-\',a lnan can gain a repur as a painter, or a sculptor, or a musician. In those arts there arc
'ial and mechanical
proccdures that he can make his or.n, thanls to
r irc can gain talent and particularlt' abilit-v,and can attain to succcss.
on. Translatedb,v Dudie,vNljles. From PdDefion Pldr-mdking,
editedbv Brander
ervs.New York: Hill and Wang Dramabook,l9;7. Reprintedb,vpermjssion
of tire
rr l{atthewsDramatic\{useumof ColumbiaUniversitv.