Émile Zola
Chapter Eleven
A stash of crinkled papers on my floor, a frustrated moan from Zola, and I knew we were in for a long night. To be safe, with peace and quiet, he asked to draft his article at my home. “Of course.” I was happy to accommodate him and be current on the unfolding scene.
“How does this sound?” he asked, and without waiting for my answer began reading. “And it is to you, Mr. President, that I shall proclaim this truth.”
To hear “Mr. President” out loud was sobering. It distressed me to contemplate what President Felix Faure’s response would be. I nervously tapped my hand to my thigh as he continued to tell me what he wrote.
“Knowing your integrity, I am convinced that you do not know the truth,” he read. “But to whom if not to you, the first magistrate of the country, shall I reveal the vile baseness of those who truly are guilty?”
How could I be so close to this man and not know the depth of his rage about this matter? Only when I heard the lack of euphemism and harsh words pour from him did I understand the degree of the impact this perversion of justice had had on Zola. Admiration for him mixed with my own cowardice. I had never thought of myself as spineless until he shared this with me and I knew I’d not have had the nerve to speak so honestly, with so much passion, or to make such a convincing case as he was doing. My face flushed red with heat. I excused myself to get something to drink. I couldn’t help fearing for him.
When his voice started cracking and his throat went dry from reading aloud and he needed to rest, he handed me pages to read to myself. I sweat as I read, “At the root of it all is one evil man, Lt. Colonel du Paty de Clam, who was at the time a mere major. He is the entire Dreyfus case, and it can only be understood through an honest and thorough examination that reveals his actions and responsibilities. He appears to be the shadiest and most complex of creatures, spinning outlandish intrigues and stooping to the deceits of cheap novels. It was he who came up with the scheme of dictating the text of the bordereau to Dreyfus. He was the one who had had the idea of observing him in a mirror-lined room. And he was the one that Major Forzinetti caught carrying a shuttered lantern that he planned to throw open on the accused man while he slept, hoping that, jolted awake by the sudden flash of light, Dreyfus would blurt out his guilt. I need say no more. Let us seek and we shall find. I am stating simply that Major du Paty de Clam, as the officer of justice charged with the preliminary investigation of the Dreyfus case, is the first and most grievous offender in the ghastly miscarriage of justice that has been committed.”
My hand cramped and I had to stop to shake it. Zola was outside getting fresh air. I knew I had to finish and tell him what I thought before he came back. The text continued with castigation. Accusations came forth of how Dreyfus was set up. No name was left out. No one went unscathed from the initial rush to accuse Dreyfus through to his court-martial. By the time I came to the part involving Lucie Dreyfus, I was on the edge of my chair.
I couldn’t be prouder of what I read next, nor could I have imagined Zola including it in his indictment. I held the poor woman’s image and that love letter in my mind as I read, “Ah, that first trial! What a nightmare it is for those who know its true details. Major du Paty de Clam had Dreyfus arrested and placed in solitary confinement. He terrorized Mrs. Dreyfus by telling her that if she talked, her husband would be ruined. Meanwhile, the unfortunate Dreyfus was tearing at his flesh and proclaiming his innocence.”
Nothing was beyond mention as I ventured on, glued to the page. The words, the story that unfolded, were more compelling than Hugo’s Les Misérables or Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities. I continued. “But now we see Dreyfus appearing before the court-martial. Behind closed doors, the utmost secrecy is demanded. Had a traitor opened the border to the enemy and driven the German Emperor straight to Notre Dame, the measures of secrecy and silence could not have been more stringent. The public was astounded; rumors flew of the most horrible acts, the most monstrous deceptions, lies that were an affront to our history. The public, naturally, was taken in. No punishment could be too harsh. The people clamored for the traitor to be publicly stripped of his rank and demanded to see him writhing with remorse. Could these things be true, these unspeakable acts, these deeds so dangerous that they must be carefully hidden to keep Europe from going up in flames? No! They were nothing but demented fabrications.”
The facts were laid out: everything that had leaked, everything the Dreyfus family gave to Zola, and what had been learned from liberal political friends involved in secret conversations. All of it had to be presented because Zola knew that he was setting the stones for a court case, his own libel trial. In doing that, the facts that were needed to exonerate Dreyfus could be introduced.
Rapidly vacillating emotions moved through me as I focused on the facetious way Zola satirized Dreyfus’s trumped-up crimes. A man languished on Devil’s Island for knowing several languages, occasionally visiting his birthplace, working hard and striving to be well-informed—preposterous! Zola mocked the handwriting experts, who apparently could not agree. This further justified the pathetic ridiculousness of the case revolving around the bordereau, which lacked professional validation. I laughed at the brilliant innuendo but also knew it was going to anger the establishment.
I glanced down. “It is a lie, all the more odious and cynical in that its perpetrators are getting off free without even admitting it. They stirred up France, they hid behind the understandable commotion they had set off, and they sealed their lips while troubling our hearts and perverting our spirit. I know of no greater crime against the state.” I’d read enough and needed a break. Zola was still outside.
Zola’s pain pierced me and I couldn’t help wondering what issues from his past had surfaced. My own wounds came forth, and I felt for what my friend must be experiencing. Feeling inadequate, I wondered if Zola’s beloved father, François, was speaking from his grave to his son, to offer what I could not?
The thought is a deed. Of all deeds, she fertilizes the world most.
Émile Zola
Chapter Twelve
I found Zola sitting in my garden. Looking at the nearly full moon, I asked, “Do you need to return to your home for dinner?” The turmoil had suppressed my appetite but I knew I needed to eat. And so did he.
“I am not expected…” his head jerked in the direction of my fence. “What’s that?” he stuttered.
“Relax.” Referring to a scratching sound, “The neighbor’s cat likes to sharpen his claws on the wood posts. How about that walk to the bistro down the road? We need to eat.”
Omitting any mention of food, he nodded, “A walk sounds like a good idea.” Rapidly stroking his beard, “How far did you get?” he asked, referring to his written indictment.
“I just started on the Esterhazy case,” I laughed.
Quelling the edge in his tone, he made eye contact. “You find it humorous?”
“Tension. And look at you pulling at your beard. We could use a laugh.”
“Yes, we could. That betraying pig of a man is something to scoff at.”
“Do you plan to bring in Scheurer-Kestner?”
“Very gently. There is no need to chronicle the doubts and conclusions reached by him when I can take care of that myself.”
“What about Piquart?”
“Most definitely. He is an integral part in the cover-up.”
As we walked, Zola went on to detail what he had spared me from reading, starting with Mathieu Dreyfus denouncing Esterhazy as the real author of the bordereau. When Scheurer-Kestner handed over a request for the revision of the Dreyfus court-martial to the Minister of Justice, Esterhazy had panicked. The rest of that debacle was sealed information but one had to wonder who Esterhazy’s protectors were.
“And you’re going to name names?”
“Yes. Nothing will be left out.” He went on to say, “Right down to the handpicked judges, the Minister of War, the War Office, and the Chief of S
taff.” What he told me he also intended to include buckled my knees. “And what a nest of vile intrigues, gossip, and destruction that sacred sanctuary that decides the nation’s fate has become! We are horrified by the terrible light the Dreyfus affair has cast upon it all, this human sacrifice of an unfortunate man, a ‘dirty Jew.’ Ah, what a cesspool of folly and foolishness, what preposterous fantasies, what corrupt police tactics, what inquisitorial, tyrannical practices! What petty whims of a few higher-ups trampling the nation under their boots, ramming back down their throats the people’s cries for truth and justice, with the travesty of state security as a pretext.”
“You’re not going to tone down any of that?”
“No,” he adamantly responded.
Offering him support, I put an arm on his back and we continued in silence until the restaurant was before us. Thankfully, the walk gave us both some mental distance from the disquiet, and an appetite.
That night, while Paris slept, Zola paced and wrote. He stayed the night at my home too exhausted to overcome the inertia that afforded just enough energy to complete his thoughts and put them to paper. My sleep was fitful as I heard him shuffling about. I couldn’t stop thinking of how his article would conclude and the impact it would have on Clemenceau. Would he read the harsh accusatory words and back down? I dared to follow the train of thought that ended in failure, with Dreyfus rotting on Devil’s Island and Zola ruined professionally and personally.
The morning came and Zola appeared refreshed with a second wind. He was just concluding the final editing touches on his missive. Glancing up at my approach, he waved a stack of papers. “Will this be the watershed event we had hoped for?” He handed them to me. “Have a review of this.”
I read by the sun coming through a crack in the curtained window. There was mention of Lt. Colonel Picquart being shipped off to Tunisia to an area where there was a great likelihood of him being massacred. I squirmed when I read, “It is a crime to poison the minds of the meek and the humble, to stoke the passions of reactionism and intolerance, by appealing to that odious anti-Semitism that, unchecked, will destroy freedom-loving France of the rights of man. It is a crime to exploit patriotism in the service of hatred, and it is, finally, a crime to ensconce the sword as the modern god, whereas all science is toiling to achieve the coming era of truth and justice.”
I wanted to stand and cheer but the gravity of the situation held me back. Ambivalence over the mastery of Zola’s writing and my devout respect for him as a man intermingled with fear—for him, for Dreyfus, for France. Again my heart sank when I read his direct address to the president.“It will leave an indelible stain on your presidency. I realize that you have no power over this case, that you are limited by the constitution and your entourage. You have, nonetheless, your duty as a man, which you will recognize and fulfill. As for myself, I have not despaired in the least of the triumph of right.”
Zola concluded with the named accusations for those involved: Lt. Col. du Paty de Clam for “being the diabolical creator of this miscarriage of justice,” several generals for their complicity (all specifically named), the handwriting experts (again, all named), the War Office for using the press to mislead the public in the cover-up of its wrongdoing, the first court-martial for violating the law by trying the accused with evidence kept secret from him, and the second court-marital for acquitting a guilty man with full knowledge of his guilt.
Bile rose in my throat when I read, “In making these accusations I am aware that I am making myself liable to articles 30 and 31 of the July 29 1881 law on the press making libel a punishable offense. I expose myself to that risk voluntarily.” What he wanted, he said, was to “hasten the explosion of truth and justice.” When Zola went on to espouse no ill will or hatred for those accused, that, in fact, he had never met them, I wanted to cry that it had all come to this.
If you shut up truth and bury it under the ground, it will but grow, and gather to itself such explosive power that the day it bursts through it will blow up everything in its way.
Émile Zola
Chapter Thirteen
Clemenceau was at his desk when we arrived. The room remained quiet until he completed reading the lengthy article. When he was finished he looked at Zola with sad eyes. “You know what it means that you addressed the libel articles.” He leaned back in his chair. “Are you sure you want to go ahead with this?”
Zola nodded affirmation.
“It will be the front page of tomorrow’s edition of L’Aurore.”
Zola soberly replied, “There is no other way for the poor man.”
“Then,” Clemenceau replied, “it is on our shoulders,” referring to himself as owner and Perrenx, the manager of the paper, and Zola. “If I am not named, and Perrenx is, I will ask my savvy attorney brother to join me in defending him on behalf of the paper.”
§ § § §
On January 13, 1898, Émile Zola’s communication to the President of France, entitled J’Accuse…! LETTRE AU PRESIDENT DE LA REPUBLIQUE Par ÉMILE ZOLA, appeared on the front page of the widely read international newspaper.
The letter caused quite a stir in France and abroad. The 4,000-word diatribe by the most popular writer in France, and my close friend, electrified Paris and rippled far and wide for days. Leading artists, writers, academics, and the intellectual class supported Zola’s argument by making public statements such as, “The stakes are those of democracy and justice—due process, individual rights, and justice under the law.” Those opposed to Dreyfus, the reactionary army and the Catholic Church, spewed hateful statements like, “Jews are faithless degenerates! They will destroy social stability and tradition.”
Included among the voices were those of the Dreyfus family. “God bless you, Mr. Zola,” Lucie wrote in a tear-stained thank you note to him.
The implication by Émile Zola of a conspiracy to frame Alfred Dreyfus infuriated General Jean-Baptiste Billot, the minister of war. A proud man, who had achieved a brilliant military career and received the Grand-Cross of the Légion d'Honneur, he would have none of it. We had heard secondhand that he puffed his chest and exclaimed, “How dare he accuse me! The military! The disrespectful, unlimited gall of that Jew-loving journalist! He will not get away with this!”
Days passed and Zola’s head pounded as he waited for the axe to fall. Yelling, rock throwing, and disgruntled crowds confronted him in the street. Windows were broken in his carriage and his home with Alexandrine, necessitating police to come out in force to protect a journalist. He was guarded twenty-four hours a day. He tried to occupy himself with writing to no avail. He ended up filling his days with visitors bringing news. The word about town was that General Billot had ordered a libel suit brought against Zola and Perrenx. It was hard for me to ignore the dark cloud hanging over him as he tried to maintain his civility. “At least Clemenceau will be protected,” he said to me.
Life was not normal and there was no use pretending that it was. The storm on the horizon loomed as we took to drink to divert our attention from the noisy, dangerous distractions outside Zola’s home. Impatiently, we awaited the expected knock on the door. Several weeks later it came from a panting messenger, short of breath from running to deliver the message. Zola had been served. The court date was set for February 7, 1898. The clouds had been summoned, and that day they gushed a downpour.
§ § § §
The trial was held in the Court of Assizes of the Seine, the principal criminal court in France. Zola and Perrenx appeared in somber dress and mood. I found a seat in the back of the crowded room. The place went silent as Judge Delegorgue entered and sat. He looked towards Zola’s attorney, Fernand Labori, and Perrenx’s attorneys, Albert and Georges Clemenceau, then out at the crowd and said, “I notify the public that we shall not begin until all are seated. I likewise warn the public that every sort of manifestation, whether for or against the accused, is formally forbidden, and that at the first sign of disorder I shall order the courtroom cleared. Please consider t
his said once and for all, for I shall not repeat it.”
The other members of the court were attorneys Lault and Bousquet. The Attorney General, Van Cassel, appeared for the prosecution.
The usual dialogue ensued between the judge and Zola.
“Your name?”
“ÉmileZola.”
“Your profession?”
“Man of letters.”
“Your age?”
“Fifty-eight years.”
“Your residence?”
“21 bis, Rue de Bruxelles.”
The drawing of the jury then proceeded, which included merchants, a roof builder, clerks, a proprietor, a seedsman, a leather dresser, a linen maker, and a butcher. I looked at them, all men, seemingly ordinary citizens, and couldn’t help wondering what their political and religious affiliations were. How would they feel about a prestigious writer coming to the aid of a Jewish officer? Feeling ill at ease, I shifted my attention away from the group of men who held my friend’s fate in their hands.
Next began the reading of the documents in the case by the clerk, the one of interest being the complaint of General Billot, referring to Zola’s letter, upon which the suit was brought. When he was done, Attorney General Van Cassel took the floor to make his statement of the case. He summarized the accusation against the Minister of War, and smugly asked the jury, “Did the first Council of War act in obedience to orders in acquitting Major Esterhazy?”
I cringed in my seat when I saw one of the jurors gently nod his head in agreement with Van Cassel. “I ask, then, that the accused may not be authorized to attempt proof thereof, either by documents or by testimony.” There it was, the request to suppress the documents that Zola desperately wanted entered into the record on behalf of Dreyfus. I sat up straighter, waiting.
To Live Out Loud: A Novel Page 4
