To Live Out Loud: A Novel

by Paulette Mahurin

  Once again my response to him was, “Wait it out and occupy yourself with writing and your photographic cycling outings. The lapse with anything happening concerning the Dreyfus case is a storm on the horizon. Your presence might exacerbate and confuse hostilities. Let happen what will and, for the time being, stay where you are.”

  “You’re right,” he responded. “I cannot help but want to return to Paris. But for now, I shall carry her with me while I keep busy.” The next letter he sent to me indicated that he’d seen in a London paper that Lt. Colonel Picquart had sent communications to the Minister of Justice concerning certain forgeries involving Dreyfus. Zola wrote, “To my mind, the report is decisive and revision is certain.”

  Two days later General Zurlinden, who had stubbornly opposed revision, resigned his post in the office of the Minister of War and resumed the duties of Military Governor of Paris. One of his first actions in this position was to throw Picquart in military prison. A sad letter arrived from Zola stating, “I am rather poorly today, it is one of those nervous crises that torture me.”

  As if this turbulent wave wasn’t enough, Zola received news that his dog, a toy Pomeranian named Pinpin, which he had to leave in Paris, had taken ill. He insisted on being kept informed on his beloved pet. The dog had been Zola’s constant companion. Pinpin had pined for his master since his departure after the trial. Alexandrine tried everything possible to calm the dog but it was of no use. Pinpin died. Zola, deeply attached to his little friend, was devastated. Pinpin’s death threw him into bouts of angina, a chronic condition from which he suffered. When he refused to see a doctor, medicine was sent to him from France.

  A friend who was there to console him relayed to me, “He broke down and cried. Then as quickly as he sank with pain, he stood straight, shook a fist and screamed, ‘The scoundrels! It was they who killed him!’” referring to the anti-Dreyfusites.

  The helplessness I felt over Zola’s grief for little Pinpin was alleviated when I received word that the Dreyfus case had been referred to the Court of Cassation for review. I rushed a message to Zola. The news acted like an elixir, fortifying and mending him. He decided that whatever the court’s decision, which he felt would be favorable, he would return to France upon the rendering of the judgment.

  Not long after, on June 3, 1899, word arrived that the appeal was decided in favor of Dreyfus. He would appear before a new court-martial. Concurrent with this, the political climate was changing benevolently in the French Senate.

  On the following night, Sunday, June 4, with two friends escorting him, Émile Zola returned to France. On June 5, I sat beside my tired friend as he wrote a declaration to be published in L’Aurore. Recalling the circumstances under which he had been obliged to leave France, he mentioned how he had been threatened and insulted and how cruelly he had suffered both before and during his exile. And, he continued, "Now, as truth has been made manifest and justice has been granted,” referring to the Dreyfus case, “I return. I desire to do so as quietly as possible, in the serenity of victory, without giving any occasion for public disturbances. Even as I remained quiet abroad, so shall I resume my seat at the national hearth like a peaceful citizen who wishes to disturb none, but only desires to go on with his usual work without giving people any occasion to occupy themselves further about him.”

  Turning to me, he asked if I would get him a glass of wine and help myself. I gladly obliged.

  Continuing to put pen to paper, Zola was peaceful when he scribed, “Moreover, my reward I have already; it is thinking of the innocent man whom I have helped to extricate from the living tomb in which he was plunged in agony for four long years. Ah! I confess that the idea of his return, the thought of seeing him free and of pressing his hands in mine, overwhelms me with extraordinary emotion, fills my eyes with happy tears!”

  He took a drink from his glass of red wine, thanked me, and continued unburdening as he addressed the writing of J’Accuse. He went on to say he harbored no anger or resentment and that in the public interest, some example should be made of the wrong doers, for “otherwise the masses would never believe in the immensity of the crime.” Then came an impassioned plea on behalf of Lt. Colonel Piquart to undo the injustice served to him. Courageously, he stated the fact that, “All former political parties have now collapsed,” and that only two camps of the reactionary powers of the past remain. “Let the men who hold truth as important march toward the future.”

  His voice cracking, he cleared his throat. “Thenceforward, France a free country, France a dispenser of justice, the harbinger of the equitable society of the coming century, will once more find herself a sovereign among the nations. I,” he sipped from his glass, “am at home. The public prosecutor may therefore signify to me, whenever he pleases, the sentence of the Versailles Assizes condemning me by default to a year in prison and a three-thousand francs fine. And we shall once more find ourselves before a jury. In provoking a prosecution, I only desired truth and justice. Today they are here. My case can now serve no useful purpose; it no longer even interests me. Justice simply has to say whether it be a crime to desire truth.”

  I raised my glass, silently hoping that this article, unlike Zola’s first one, would be received favorably for all of our sakes.

  Don’t go looking at me like that because you’ll wear your eyes out.

  Émile Zola

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Zola remained undisturbed in seclusion, while on August 8 Alfred Dreyfus was transported back to France for his new court-martial. At first hope abounded. Then a despicable assassination attempt was made on Labori, creating doubt that a positive future outcome would be achieved. Zola’s silence on the matter was broken when the luckless Dreyfus was again found guilty of the crime for which he was innocent. “I am shocked by the verdict,” professed Zola. Amazement at the decision spread far and wide, with the international press sharing Zola’s reaction.

  Newspapers around the globe contacted Zola for comment, which he declined. The astonishment on the verdict was extreme in Great Britain, and an editor of a London paper offered Zola two shillings to write what would most likely be a ten-thousand-word article. Again, he politely abstained by stating, “My dear friend, I do not take payment in France for commentary on the Dreyfus case, and still less would I accept money from a foreign newspaper.”

  When I inquired about why he didn’t want to do interviews or write an article for the press that were asking, he told me, “For now, I have said all I want to.” I never fully understood why he, who before had been so forthcoming in the press about the injustice to Dreyfus, now wanted to remain silent. I wondered if the past attempts with disastrous results had caused this reserve in him.

  Shortly after the debacle of the second court-martial ended, liberal politicians brought pressure to bear on the eighth president of France, Émile Loubet. Having the facts of both court-martials, and along with the full approval of his cabinet, he offered Alfred Dreyfus a pardon. President Loubet had to weigh the protestations of the military against the possibility of throwing the country into further tumult and stirring up a civil war. This meant that he, as the executive official of the country, could set aside the punishment for a criminal act. Dreyfus was not found innocent of his supposed crimes, nor was reputation restored. This pardon, this act of clemency, only forgives the wrongdoer and restores the individual’s civil rights. After this long battle with so many losses, this felt to me like a victory. I doubt if it did to those on the front lines of the fray. And what of those on the other side? Would this fan the flames of hatred once more? A shiver ran down my spine.

  Five days later, and against the advice of most of his staunch supporters, bone-tired and drained after four years of solitary confinement, Alfred Dreyfus unhappily accepted the offer. He had one condition upon which he insisted: he would continue to fight to prove his innocence.

  Zola’s disappointment at the offering of a fig leaf, instead of a retrial and exoneration, prompted him to write
a poignant letter to the poor martyr’s wife, Lucie. “You have my assurance and that of my friends that we shall continue the battle until both your husband and France are fully rehabilitated.”

  Listening to him read his passionate words out loud to the few of us surrounding him, I was relieved to see Jacques. Knowing he was loyal to the core and was carrying a gun once again put my mind at ease. The Dreyfus pardon was by no means vindication, and even if it were, that would never have been enough to stop the escalating contempt of those roaming the streets close by. Having developed a full-fledged ulcer, I took to drinking milk. I could only imagine what was going on inside Zola’s body. Although his stomach troubles resolved while in England, he suffered with angina and on multiple occasions gave me a fright when suddenly he’d grab for his chest. I wish he was as forthcoming with his personal feelings as he was with sharing his emotions concerning others and their grand-scale situations.

  A constant edge crept into our daily lives as to what would become of his most recent declaration in the press. He all but urged the public prosecutor to come and serve him with papers to appear in court. As of yet that had not happened, and the dashing of hopes on the outcome for Dreyfus offered no guarantee for Zola. And so we waited.

  The tenuousness of life came knocking when we received sad news that Scheurer-Kestner, who had been battling cancer, died on the same day that Dreyfus accepted the pardon. “I didn’t know he was ailing,” I sorrowfully responded upon hearing it.

  “He was a brave man,” Zola shook his head, “and it wouldn’t have been his nature to bring his illness into the struggle with the Dreyfus case.”

  “He fought for another human being to bring light to truth while he was suffering his own ill fate.” At my age, I wondered about my own destiny. I had been lucky to rise from my unfortunate beginning and live with the good nuns. And to be educated and connect with the Zolas had given me purpose. It occurred to me that it was a fortuitous thing when a man can love another, and from that relationship learn what it is to manifest the best of the human condition. I fell short of the likes of Scheurer-Kestner and Émile Zola. I am but a mere friend who has been placed by the grace of God in the best of relationships. Even with the dread of violence that Zola lives with, and by contagion spreads to us befriending him, I wouldn’t trade my life with anyone.

  “I have to think that his efforts in the name of truth put him to rest at peace,” said Zola.

  I looked at him, and with a grateful heart responded, “Yes.” And wondered, what will history make of Zola?

  It is not I who am strong, it is reason, it is truth.

  Émile Zola

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Heading into 1900, the trepidation we lived with concerning the charge against Zola of having libeled the Esterhazy court-martial still had not been addressed. In consequence of the government bringing a general Amnesty Bill before the legislature, Zola’s trial had been repeatedly postponed. The tides had changed with the new government in power. We welcomed the friendlier regime. At the same time, we could not help but notice the irony when comparing Zola’s treatment by the government then and now: it was like night and day. Then there was a rush to delete anything incriminating against the military and expedite Zola to a guilty verdict to appease the anti-Semitic screams and the army’s hubris. Still, avoiding another debacle of injustice was in the forefront now. Also changing the political and economic climate was the fact that the World’s Fair was being held in Paris. Police were already overtaxed. The government did not have the resources to waste on a divisive or sensational miscarriage of justice.

  The time was favorable for an amnesty.

  Zola was not in favor of (and repeatedly protested against) the Amnesty Bill. Writing letters to both the Senate and President Loubet he proclaimed, “I do not wish to be amnestied but judged.” He told me he thought it despicable that the same law would be applied to him and other defenders of the truth as well as to all the wrong-doers persecuting Dreyfus.

  The president had more to contend with than keeping the peace while the World’s Fair was ongoing. There was also the Church: the clerical menace that had in its sights to capture France. The Dreyfus case was its weapon and under furtive direction it had gained a stronghold in dividing France. The president, with urging from his cabinet, knew it necessary to remove the fuel igniting the divisiveness. Amnesty was the answer to douse the fire. The Dreyfus Affair had to be put to rest before dealing with the Church.

  In November 1900, every criminal action in the Dreyfus Affair was ceased by the Amnesty Bill, which became law. Liberties and privileges of parties were returned, while Dreyfus maintained the right to fight for revision.

  Zola had lost his battle to bring the information to court and make known the wrong done to Dreyfus. The evidence was out, in the press, in conversations, and in people’s minds. The facts of the case, however, hadn’t been validated as truth, which was what he had hoped to achieve. Not only had he lost in court, but Zola was also out considerable sums of money. In addition to profits from book sales, he had to sell belongings from his home to pay his bills. It is estimated that in 1897 his income was eight-thousand francs. After J’Accuse it was a third of that.

  A personal benediction came from men helping to fight the good fight and the newspapers supporting them. Over ten-thousand francs were collected and a gold medal was made for Zola. On the heavy, sizeable medallion was his effigy. When it was originally offered to him as recognition of his courage, he refused it, saying, “The victory is not yet won.”

  Shortly after Dreyfus was pardoned, a ceremony was held and he consented to wear the gold medallion. A powerful speech echoing through the throngs came from Zola that day. “Undoubtedly, if the question had only been one of saving an innocent man from his torturers, of restoring Dreyfus to his wife and children, our victory would be complete. The whole world holds him to be a martyr; his legal rehabilitation will soon follow. That frightful story is surely ended! But there was another dear to us, one who was poisoned, in peril of death, and that dear and great and noble one was France. We dreamt of seeing her freed from ancient servitude, rising, with her artisans, her savants, her thinkers, to a new ideal, reconquering old Europe, not indeed by arms but by the ideas that liberate. Never had there occurred such an opportunity to give her a sound practical lesson, for we had set our hands upon the very rottenness that was eating into the cracking, decaying edifice; and we thought if we pointed it out that would be sufficient, that the house would be cleansed, rebuilt, properly and substantially. But in that respect we have been beaten. Those against us have decided merely to pass a sponge over the rottenness, so that the timbers will continue to crack and decay till the house at last comes down.” In the crowd that day were Labori and Piquart.

  Zola’s war had been taken from him, and it took time for him to let it go. Eventually, in a calmer conscience, he settled into the comfort that he had done his duty as a man. Sympathy had come to him from all over the world (including France), yet under hushed dissents, harmful acts were talked about to shut up “the Italian” who had stained France. Along with Zola, Dreyfus was the victim of acts of violence and near misses. Replaced windows were broken, writing on the walls of their homes and screaming disturbed them in their houses, and public displays brought the police to their rescue on numerous occasions. And when a stone to Zola’s head brought him to the hospital, I urged him to consider a change of residence. He refused.

  Steadfast to exist without fear abusing his spirit, he went about his duties with Jacques, myself, and other friends at his side. But the Dreyfus Affair had changed him. His writing reflected that change. Zola wrote of declining faith, the delusion of hope and the travesty of charity. At the same time as he abandoned those leading principles, he replaced them with others: work, truth, and justice. Starting out believing that the individual is more important than the needs of the whole society or the group, he now adhered to a socialistic utilitarian stance. “The social edifice of men
in power is more rotten than it was previously thought to be,” he shared with me. The Dreyfus Affair had cemented that there was no less a call for exposure than remedial measures. He enumerated reforms, such as that every man must work for his keep, and rights should be distributed equally among citizens and not be influenced by religion. He urged that the inequity of brute force imposed from the military be balanced with civilians in the legislature, and closed doors to injustice be left opened, unless it was a matter of national security. “Should things change along this line,” he smiled and continued, “then there may be a chance that another anti-Semitic debacle will not be repeated.”

  “That sounds very fair to me,” I said.

  “Yes, fair is a good word, my friend.”

  “Thank you.”

  In a spontaneous gesture, he stood and his arms surrounded me in a hug, “No, Charles, thank you. For all the years, through this horrible stain on France’s history, there were always the friends, you at the top, who kept me sane.”

  Filled with warmth, “I am humbled but you didn’t need to stand to do that,” spilled from my mouth. I was concerned for his overexertion. Even at my age, my attention went to his body and not to the fact that I had fewer days ahead than behind me.

  “Yes,” his weary eyes dug deep into my soul, “I did.”

  Little did I know, his days ahead were even fewer…

  Now look at me, I was well away dreaming like a fool and seeing visions of a nice friendly life on good terms with everybody, and off I went, up into the clouds. And when you fall back into the mud it hurts a lot. No! None of it was true, none of those things we thought we could see existed at all. All that was really there was still more misery—oh yes! as much of that as you like—and bullets into the bargain!