Introduction

by Emile Zola

　　"The Fat and the Thin," or, to use the French title, "Le Ventre deParis," is a story of life in and around those vast Central Marketswhich form a distinctive feature of modern Paris. Even the reader whohas never crossed the Channel must have heard of the ParisianHalles, for much has been written about them, not only in Englishbooks on the French metropolis, but also in English newspapers,magazines, and reviews; so that few, I fancy, will commence theperusal of the present volume without having, at all events, someknowledge of its subject matter.The Paris markets form such a world of their own, and teem at certainhours of the day and night with such exuberance of life, that it wasonly natural they should attract the attention of a novelist like M.Zola, who, to use his own words, delights "in any subject in whichvast masses of people can be shown in motion." Mr. Sherard tells us[*]that the idea of "Le Ventre de Paris" first occurred to M. Zola in1872, when he used continually to take his friend Paul Alexis for aramble through the Halles. I have in my possession, however, anarticle written by M. Zola some five or six years before that time,and in this one can already detect the germ of the present work; justas the motif of another of M. Zola's novels, "La Joie de Vivre," canbe traced to a short story written for a Russian review.[*] Emile Zola: a Biographical and Critical Study, by RobertHarborough Sherard, pp. 103, 104. London, Chatto & Windus, 1893.Similar instances are frequently to be found in the writings ofEnglish as well as French novelists, and are, of course, easilyexplained. A young man unknown to fame, and unable to procure thepublication of a long novel, often contents himself with embodyingsome particular idea in a short sketch or story, which finds its wayinto one or another periodical, where it lies buried and forgotten byeverybody--excepting its author. Time goes by, however, the writerachieves some measure of success, and one day it occurs to him toelaborate and perfect that old idea of his, only a faint apercu ofwhich, for lack of opportunity, he had been able to give in the past.With a little research, no doubt, an interesting essay might bewritten on these literary resuscitations; but if one except certainnovelists who are so deficient in ideas that they continue writing andrewriting the same story throughout their lives, it will, I think, begenerally found that the revivals in question are due to some suchreason as that given above.It should be mentioned that the article of M. Zola's young days towhich I have referred is not one on market life in particular, but oneon violets. It contains, however, a vigorous, if brief, picture of theHalles in the small hours of the morning, and is instinct with thatrealistic descriptive power of which M. Zola has since given so manyproofs. We hear the rumbling and clattering of the market carts, wesee the piles of red meat, the baskets of silvery fish, the mountainsof vegetables, green and white; in a few paragraphs the whole marketworld passes in kaleidoscopic fashion before our eyes by the pale,dancing light of the gas lamps and the lanterns. Several years afterthe paper I speak of was published, when M. Zola began to issue "LeVentre de Paris," M. Tournachon, better known as Nadar, the aeronautand photographer, rushed into print to proclaim that the realisticnovelist had simply pilfered his ideas from an account of the Halleswhich he (Tournachon) had but lately written. M. Zola, as is so oftenhis wont, scorned to reply to this charge of plagiarism; but, had hechosen, he could have promptly settled the matter by producing his ownforgotten article.At the risk of passing for a literary ghoul, I propose to exhume someportion of the paper in question, as, so far as translation can avail,it will show how M. Zola wrote and what he thought in 1867. After thedescription of the markets to which I have alluded, there comes thefollowing passage:-- I was gazing at the preparations for the great daily orgy of Pariswhen I espied a throng of people bustling suspiciously in acorner. A few lanterns threw a yellow light upon this crowd.Children, women, and men with outstretched hands were fumbling indark piles which extended along the footway. I thought that thosepiles must be remnants of meat sold for a trifling price, and thatall those wretched people were rushing upon them to feed. I drewnear, and discovered my mistake. The heaps were not heaps of meat,but heaps of violets. All the flowery poesy of the streets ofParis lay there, on that muddy pavement, amidst mountains of food.The gardeners of the suburbs had brought their sweet-scentedharvests to the markets and were disposing of them to the hawkers.From the rough fingers of their peasant growers the violets werepassing to the dirty hands of those who would cry them in thestreets. At winter time it is between four and six o'clock in themorning that the flowers of Paris are thus sold at the Halles.Whilst the city sleeps and its butchers are getting all ready forits daily attack of indigestion, a trade in poetry is plied indark, dank corners. When the sun rises the bright red meat will bedisplayed in trim, carefully dressed joints, and the violets,mounted on bits of osier, will gleam softly within their elegantcollars of green leaves. But when they arrive, in the dark night,the bullocks, already ripped open, discharge black blood, and thetrodden flowers lie prone upon the footways. . . . I noticed justin front of me one large bunch which had slipped off aneighbouring mound and was almost bathing in the gutter. I pickedit up. Underneath, it was soiled with mud; the greasy, fetid sewerwater had left black stains upon the flowers. And then, gazing atthese exquisite daughters of our gardens and our woods, astrayamidst all the filth of the city, I began to ponder. On whatwoman's bosom would those wretched flowerets open and bloom? Somehawker would dip them in a pail of water, and of all the bitterodours of the Paris mud they would retain but a slight pungency,which would remain mingled with their own sweet perfume. The waterwould remove their stains, they would pale somewhat, and become ajoy both for the smell and for the sight. Nevertheless, in thedepths of each corolla there would still remain some particle ofmud suggestive of impurity. And I asked myself how much love andpassion was represented by all those heaps of flowers shivering inthe bleak wind. To how many loving ones, and how many indifferentones, and how many egotistical ones, would all those thousands andthousands of violets go! In a few hours' time they would bescattered to the four corners of Paris, and for a paltry copperthe passers-by would purchase a glimpse and a whiff of springtidein the muddy streets.Imperfect as the rendering may be, I think that the above passage willshow that M. Zola was already possessed of a large amount of hisacknowledged realistic power at the early date I have mentioned. Ishould also have liked to quote a rather amusing story of a priggishPhilistine who ate violets with oil and vinegar, strongly peppered,but considerations of space forbid; so I will pass to another passage,which is of more interest and importance. Both French and Englishcritics have often contended that although M. Zola is a married man,he knows very little of women, as there has virtually never been anyfeminine romance in his life. There are those who are aware of thecontrary, but whose tongues are stayed by considerations of delicacyand respect. Still, as the passage I am now about to reproduce issigned and acknowledged as fact by M. Zola himself, I see no harm inslightly raising the veil from a long-past episode in the master'slife:-- The light was rising, and as I stood there before that footwaytransformed into a bed of flowers my strange night-fancies gaveplace to recollections at once sweet and sad. I thought of my lastexcursion to Fontenay-aux-Roses, with the loved one, the goodfairy of my twentieth year. Springtime was budding into birth, thetender foliage gleamed in the pale April sunshine. The littlepathway skirting the hill was bordered by large fields of violets.As one passed along, a strong perfume seemed to penetrate one andmake one languid. She was leaning on my arm, faint with lovefrom the sweet odour of the flowers. A whiteness hovered over thecountry-side, little insects buzzed in the sunshine, deep silencefell from the heavens, and so low was the sound of our kisses thatnot a bird in all the hedges showed sign of fear. At a turn of thepath we perceived some old bent women, who with dry, witheredhands were hurriedly gathering violets and throwing them intolarge baskets. She who was with me glanced longingly at theflowers, and I called one of the women. "You want some violets?"said she. "How much? A pound?"God of Heaven! She sold her flowers by the pound! We fled in deepdistress. It seemed as though the country-side had beentransformed into a huge grocer's shop. . . . Then we ascended tothe woods of Verrieres, and there, in the grass, under the soft,fresh foliage, we found some tiny violets which seemed to bedreadfully afraid, and contrived to hide themselves with all sortsof artful ruses. During two long hours I scoured the grass andpeered into every nook, and as soon as ever I found a fresh violetI carried it to her. She bought it of me, and the price that Iexacted was a kiss. . . . And I thought of all those things, ofall that happiness, amidst the hubbub of the markets of Paris,before those poor dead flowers whose graveyard the footway hadbecome. I remembered my good fairy, who is now dead and gone, andthe little bouquet of dry violets which I still preserve in adrawer. When I returned home I counted their withered stems: therewere twenty of them, and over my lips there passed the gentlewarmth of my loved one's twenty kisses.And now from violets I must, with a brutality akin to that which M.Zola himself displays in some of his transitions, pass to verydifferent things, for some time back a well-known English poet andessayist wrote of the present work that it was redolent of pork,onions, and cheese. To one of his sensitive temperament, with a musestrictly nourished on sugar and water, such gross edibles as pork andcheese and onions were peculiarly offensive. That humble plant theonion, employed to flavour wellnigh every savoury dish, can assuredlyneed no defence; in most European countries, too, cheese has long beenknown as the poor man's friend; whilst as for pork, apart from allother considerations, I can claim for it a distinct place in Englishliterature. A greater essayist by far than the critic to whom I amreferring, a certain Mr. Charles Lamb, of the India House, has left usan immortal page on the origin of roast pig and crackling. And, wheneverything is considered, I should much like to know why novels shouldbe confined to the aspirations of the soul, and why they should notalso treat of the requirements of our physical nature? From the daysof antiquity we have all known what befell the members when, guided bythe brain, they were foolish enough to revolt against the stomach. Thelatter plays a considerable part not only in each individual organism,but also in the life of the world. Over and over again--I could adducea score of historical examples--it has thwarted the mightiest designsof the human mind. We mortals are much addicted to talking of ourminds and our souls and treating our bodies as mere dross. But I hold--it is a personal opinion--that in the vast majority of cases theformer are largely governed by the last. I conceive, therefore, that anovel which takes our daily sustenance as one of its themes has thebest of all raisons d'etre. A foreign writer of far more consequenceand ability than myself--Signor Edmondo de Amicis--has proclaimed thepresent book to be "one of the most original and happiest inventionsof French genius," and I am strongly inclined to share his opinion.It should be observed that the work does not merely treat of theprovisioning of a great city. That provisioning is its scenario; butit also embraces a powerful allegory, the prose song of "the eternalbattle between the lean of this world and the fat--a battle in which,as the author shows, the latter always come off successful. It is,too, in its way an allegory of the triumph of the fat bourgeois, wholives well and beds softly, over the gaunt and Ishmael artist--anallegory which M. Zola has more than once introduced into his pages,another notable instance thereof being found in 'Germinal,' with thefat, well-fed Gregoires on the one hand, and the starving Maheus onthe other."From this quotation from Mr. Sherard's pages it will be gathered thatM. Zola had a distinct social aim in writing this book. Wellnigh thewhole social question may, indeed, be summed up in the words "food andcomfort"; and in a series of novels like "Les Rougon-Macquart,"dealing firstly with different conditions and grades of society, and,secondly, with the influence which the Second Empire exercised onFrance, the present volume necessarily had its place marked out fromthe very first.Mr. Sherard has told us of all the labour which M. Zola expended onthe preparation of the work, of his multitudinous visits to the Parismarkets, his patient investigation of their organism, and his keenartistic interest in their manifold phases of life. And bred as I wasin Paris, a partaker as I have been of her exultations and her woesthey have always had for me a strong attraction. My memory goes backto the earlier years of their existence, and I can well remember manyof the old surroundings which have now disappeared. I can recollectthe last vestiges of the antique piliers, built by Francis I, facingthe Rue de la Tonnellerie. Paul Niquet's, with its "bowel-twistingbrandy" and its crew of drunken ragpickers, was certainly before mytime; but I can readily recall Baratte's and Bordier's and all thefolly and prodigality which raged there; I knew, too, several of thenoted thieves' haunts which took the place of Niquet's, and which onewas careful never to enter without due precaution. And then, when theGerman armies were beleaguering Paris, and two millions of people wereshut off from the world, I often strolled to the Halles to view theirstrangely altered aspect. The fish pavilion, of which M. Zola has somuch to say, was bare and deserted. The railway drays, laden with thecomestible treasures of the ocean, no longer thundered through thecovered ways. At the most one found an auction going on in one oranother corner, and a few Seine eels or gudgeons fetching wellnightheir weight in gold. Then, in the butter and cheese pavilions, onecould only procure some nauseous melted fat, while in the meatdepartment horse and mule and donkey took the place of beef and vealand mutton. Mule and donkey were very scarce, and commanded highprices, but both were of better flavour than horse; mule, indeed,being quite a delicacy. I also well remember a stall at which dog wassold, and, hunger knowing no law, I once purchased, cooked, and ate acouple of canine cutlets which cost me two francs apiece. The fleshwas pinky and very tender, yet I would not willingly make such arepast again. However, peace and plenty at last came round once more,the Halles regained their old-time aspect, and in the years whichfollowed I more than once saw the dawn rise slowly over the mounds ofcabbages, carrots, leeks, and pumpkins, even as M. Zola describes inthe following pages. He has, I think, depicted with remarkableaccuracy and artistic skill the many varying effects of colour thatare produced as the climbing sun casts its early beams on the giantlarder and its masses of food--effects of colour which, to quote afamous saying of the first Napoleon, show that "the markets of Parisare the Louvre of the people" in more senses than one.The reader will bear in mind that the period dealt with by the authorin this work is that of 1857-60, when the new Halles Centrales wereyet young, and indeed not altogether complete. Still, although manyold landmarks have long since been swept away, the picture of life inall essential particulars remained the same. Prior to 1860 the limitsof Paris were the so-called boulevards exterieurs, from which agirdle of suburbs, such as Montmartre, Belleville, Passy, andMontrouge, extended to the fortifications; and the population of thecity was then only 1,400,000 souls. Some of the figures which will befound scattered through M. Zola's work must therefore be taken asapplying entirely to the past.Nowadays the amount of business transacted at the Halles has verylargely increased, in spite of the multiplication of district markets.Paris seems to have an insatiable appetite, though, on the other hand,its cuisine is fast becoming all simplicity. To my thinking, few moreremarkable changes have come over the Parisians of recent years thanthis change of diet. One by one great restaurants, formerly renownedfor particular dishes and special wines, have been compelled throughlack of custom to close their doors; and this has not been caused somuch by inability to defray the cost of high feeding as by inabilityto indulge in it with impunity in a physical sense. In fact, Paris hasbecome a city of impaired digestions, which nowadays seek thesimplicity without the heaviness of the old English cuisine; and,should things continue in their present course, I fancy that Parisiansanxious for high feeding will ultimately have to cross over to ourside of the Channel.These remarks, I trust, will not be considered out of place in anintroduction to a work which to no small extent treats of the appetiteof Paris. The reader will find that the characters portrayed by M.Zola are all types of humble life, but I fail to see that theircircumstances should render them any the less interesting. A faithfulportrait of a shopkeeper, a workman, or a workgirl is artistically offar more value than all the imaginary sketches of impossible dukes andgood and wicked baronets in which so many English novels abound.Several of M. Zola's personages seem to me extremely lifelike--Gavard,indeed, is a chef-d'oeuvre of portraiture: I have known many menlike him; and no one who lived in Paris under the Empire can deny theaccuracy with which the author has delineated his hero Florent, thedreamy and hapless revolutionary caught in the toils of others. Inthose days, too, there was many such a plot as M. Zola describes,instigated by agents like Logre and Lebigre, and allowed to maturetill the eve of an election or some other important event whichrendered its exposure desirable for the purpose of influencing publicopinion. In fact, in all that relates to the so-called "conspiracy ofthe markets," M. Zola, whilst changing time and place to suit therequirements of his story, has simply followed historical lines. Asfor the Quenus, who play such prominent parts in the narrative, thehusband is a weakling with no soul above his stewpans, whilst hiswife, the beautiful Lisa, in reality wears the breeches and rules theroast. The manner in which she cures Quenu of his politicalproclivities, though savouring of persuasiveness rather than violence,is worthy of the immortal Mrs. Caudle: Douglas Jerrold might havesigned a certain lecture which she administers to her astoundedhelpmate. Of Pauline, the Quenus' daughter, we see but little in thestory, but she becomes the heroine of another of M. Zola's novels, "LaJoie de Vivre," and instead of inheriting the egotism of her parents,develops a passionate love and devotion for others. In a like wayClaude Lantier, Florent's artist friend and son of Gervaise of the"Assommoir," figures more particularly in "L'Oeuvre," which tells howhis painful struggle for fame resulted in madness and suicide. Withreference to the beautiful Norman and the other fishwives and gossipsscattered through the present volume, and those genuine types ofParisian gaminerie, Muche, Marjolin, and Cadine, I may mention thatI have frequently chastened their language in deference to Englishsusceptibilities, so that the story, whilst retaining every essentialfeature, contains nothing to which exception can reasonably be taken.E. A. V.