The Fortune of the Rougons | Page 2

signal for a general outcry on
the part of English and American reviewers that Zolaism, as typified by
the Rougon-Macquart series, was altogether a thing of the past. To my
thinking this is a profound error. M. Zola has always remained faithful

to himself. The only difference that I perceive between his latest work,
"Paris," and certain Rougon-Macquart volumes, is that with time,
experience and assiduity, his genius has expanded and ripened, and that
the hesitation, the groping for truth, so to say, which may be found in
some of his earlier writings, has disappeared.
At the time when "The Fortune of the Rougons" was first published,
none but the author himself can have imagined that the foundation-
stone of one of the great literary monuments of the century had just
been laid. From the "story" point of view the book is one of M. Zola's
very best, although its construction--particularly as regards the long
interlude of the idyll of Miette and Silvere--is far from being perfect.
Such a work when first issued might well bring its author a measure of
popularity, but it could hardly confer fame. Nowadays, however,
looking backward, and bearing in mind that one here has the genius of
M. Zola's lifework, "The Fortune of the Rougons" becomes a book of
exceptional interest and importance. This has been so well understood
by French readers that during the last six or seven years the annual
sales of the work have increased threefold. Where, over a course of
twenty years, 1,000 copies were sold, 2,500 and 3,000 are sold to-day.
How many living English novelists can say the same of their early
essays in fiction, issued more than a quarter of a century ago?
I may here mention that at the last date to which I have authentic
figures, that is, Midsummer 1897 (prior, of course, to what is called
"L'Affaire Dreyfus"), there had been sold of the entire Rougon-
Macquart series (which had begun in 1871) 1,421,000 copies. These
were of the ordinary Charpentier editions of the French originals. By
adding thereto several /editions de luxe/ and the widely-circulated
popular illustrated editions of certain volumes, the total amounts
roundly to 2,100,000. "Rome," "Lourdes," "Paris," and all M. Zola's
other works, apart from the "Rougon-Macquart" series, together with
the translations into a dozen different languages--English, German,
Italian, Spanish, Dutch, Danish, Portuguese, Bohemian, Hungarian, and
others--are not included in the above figures. Otherwise the latter might
well be doubled. Nor is account taken of the many serial issues which
have brought M. Zola's views to the knowledge of the masses of all
Europe.
It is, of course, the celebrity attaching to certain of M. Zola's literary

efforts that has stimulated the demand for his other writings. Among
those which are well worthy of being read for their own sakes, I would
assign a prominent place to the present volume. Much of the story
element in it is admirable, and, further, it shows M. Zola as a genuine
satirist and humorist. The Rougons' yellow drawing-room and its
habitues, and many of the scenes between Pierre Rougon and his wife
Felicite, are worthy of the pen of Douglas Jerrold. The whole account,
indeed, of the town of Plassans, its customs and its notabilities, is satire
of the most effective kind, because it is satire true to life, and never
degenerates into mere caricature.
It is a rather curious coincidence that, at the time when M. Zola was
thus portraying the life of Provence, his great contemporary, bosom
friend, and rival for literary fame, the late Alphonse Daudet, should
have been producing, under the title of "The Provencal Don Quixote,"
that unrivalled presentment of the foibles of the French Southerner,
with everyone nowadays knows as "Tartarin of Tarascon." It is possible
that M. Zola, while writing his book, may have read the instalments of
"Le Don Quichotte Provencal" published in the Paris "Figaro," and it
may be that this perusal imparted that fillip to his pen to which we owe
the many amusing particulars that he gives us of the town of Plassans.
Plassans, I may mention, is really the Provencal Aix, which M. Zola's
father provided with water by means of a canal still bearing his name.
M. Zola himself, though born in Paris, spent the greater part of his
childhood there. Tarascon, as is well known, never forgave Alphonse
Daudet for his "Tartarin"; and in a like way M. Zola, who doubtless
counts more enemies than any other literary man of the period, has
none bitterer than the worthy citizens of Aix. They cannot forget or
forgive the rascally Rougon-Macquarts.
The name Rougon-Macquart has to me always suggested that splendid
and amusing type of the cynical rogue, Robert Macaire. But, of course,
both Rougon and Macquart are genuine French names and not