imits, far more a picture.
Yet this delusion of Zola's and its affirmation resulted in no end of
misunderstanding. People said the noises of the streets, which he
supposed himself to have given with graphophonic fulness and variety,
were not music; and they were quite right. Zola, as far as his effects
were voluntary, was not giving them music; he openly loathed the sort
of music they meant just as he openly loathed art, and asked to be
regarded as a man of science rather than an artist. Yet, at the end of
the ends, he was an artist and not a man of science. His hand was
perpetually selecting his facts, and shaping them to one epical result,
with an orchestral accompaniment, which, though reporting the rudest
noises of the street, the vulgarest, the most offensive, was, in spite
of him, so reporting them that the result was harmony.

Zola was an artist, and one of the very greatest, but even before and
beyond that he was intensely a moralist, as only the moralists of our
true and noble time have been. Not Tolstoy, not Ibsen himself, has
more profoundly and indignantly felt the injustice of civilization, or
more insistently shown the falsity of its fundamental pretensions. He
did not make his books a polemic for one cause or another; he was far
too wise and sane for that; but when he began to write them they became
alive with his sense of what was wrong and false and bad. His
tolerance is less than Tolstoy's, because his resignation is not so
great; it is for the weak sinners and not for the strong, while
Tolstoy's, with that transcendent vision of his race, pierces the
bounds where the shows of strength and weakness cease and become of a
solidarity of error in which they are one. But the ethics of his work,
like Tolstoy's, were always carrying over into his life. He did not
try to live poverty and privation and hard labor, as Tolstoy does; he
surrounded himself with the graces and the luxuries which his honestly
earned money enabled him to buy; but when an act of public and official
atrocity disturbed the working of his mind and revolted his nature, he
could not rest again till he had done his best to right it.

IV

The other day Zola died (by a casualty which one fancies he would have
liked to employ in a novel, if he had thought of it), and the man whom
he had befriended at the risk of all he had in the world, his property,
his liberty, his life itself, came to his funeral in disguise, risking
again al