 The NBC University of the Air, a public service of the National Broadcasting Company and its affiliated stations, presents We Came This Way, a new historical series for listeners at home and overseas. With Clifton Utley as narrator, we present Chapter 10, Emile Zola. The pen is mightier than the sword on We Came This Way. The day is Sunday, October 7th, 1902. August the autumn wind blows across Paris, the kind of a day you loved. But never again will you feel your pulse quicken to the seasons. You're dead. 62 years of struggle, and now you're dead. 10,000 people stand before your coffin, heads uncovered. Listening to Anatole Frantz tell them how great you were. Look at him. Look at him, but do not pity him because he endured and suffered. End him instead. The Prince of Monaco is there listening. The artist Renoir. The tired man with the neat moustache. That's Alfred Dreyfus. Next to him a working man in blouse and cap. Weeping old friend Cézanne. And Anatole Frantz making your funeral oration. His genius and humanity, one for him the grandest of destinies. For one splendid moment, Emile Zola was the conscience of mankind. The conscience of mankind. You were entombed forever in those marble words. Posterity will remember the words. But the man, will they remember Zola the man? Not marble, but flesh and blood. Remember those days of your youth on the left bank, struggling, starving, dreaming? Louis Napoleon was on the throne of France. The rich were so rich, the poor so poor. You were living in a garret. Cézanne, your dearest friend lived with you. You were going to be the greatest poet in the world, he the greatest painter. Someday, Emile, I shall paint a carrot as a carrot is. An art will be born again. Carrots. I like your women better, Paul. Your pink skinned women the color of mourning. That's good, color of mourning. I should make a note of it and put it in a poem. Poetry isn't written out of notebooks, Emile. You're a realist, not a poet. I'd say that. But it's true. Forget poetry. Right about the world as you see it. Harsh, cruel, ugly. Then write it that way. No one will buy it. The world wants poetry. Have they bought your poetry? Well, no. Have they bought your pictures? They will. And meanwhile, you're content to starve, to be unknown, despised. I'm not like you, Paul. I want fame. I want it now. I want money to stuff myself on bouillabaisse and pheasant, caviar, duckling. I'm sick of starving. I'm hungry, Paul. You were always hungry those first years. You lived on bread dipped in olive oil. When the oil and bread gave out, you trapped the friendly sparrows on the windowsill and roasted them on the curtain rod, massacre of the innocents. Cézanne returned to X. You were alone, rejected, destitute. Then you met Alexandrine, and you were not alone anymore. She came to share your garret and your poverty. Emile, we ate the last of the bread this morning. I'm afraid there's nothing left for supper. I meant to pawn my coat. Where is it? You haven't got it on. There was a girl. She stopped me on the street. She was shivering. She couldn't have been more than 20, but she was an old woman. I hate this world, Alexandrine. You gave her the coat. Of course. What else? But it's no good. Peacemeal charity. The causes. The causes should be laid bare. Emile, what are we going to eat for supper? Eat? By night trousers, I suppose. Won't be the first time. Here, I'll take them off. You can pawn them. I'll buy bread and cheese. And a candle. Get me a candle. I want her right tonight. That girl, I can't forget her. You're going to write a poem about her? No, not a poem, Alexandrine. To heal you must use a knife, not poetry. Cézanne was right. Words that cut like knives. Poverty and suffering. Yours and Alexandrine's. The girls in the street. The workers on the docks. The children. The children begging rotten fish in the markets. All around you, poverty and suffering. Poverty and suffering against the background of the gayest court in Europe. The court of the Emperor Napoleon III. It was driving poetry out of your head. You took a job in a publishing house as a clerk. You worked ten hours a day and at night you wrote a thousand words a night. Two hundred times a thousand. That makes a book. We have read your book, Monsieur Soler. We are not interested. The theme is distasteful. The theme is poverty. If you find it distasteful or read about, what do you think it's like to live it? The book, I'm afraid, it would be dangerous to publish it, Monsieur. Dangerous not to, you mean. The reality is only strong that throws a light of day upon the truth. I'm not all afraid of your book. Then one day... Alexandrine! Alexandrine! My book, Hetzelin Require. They like it. They're going to publish it. They want to see me at once about turn. Amen, my darling. Take the trousers. Go at once. Get us a bottle of wine. We must celebrate. Wait, I've got to see Hetzelin Require. Can't see my publishers, my underwear. You had some naive hope of fame. But when the book came out, only the public censor took any notice of it. He called at the publishing house where you worked. Monsieur Soler, you are a very young man. Perhaps you do not know that when you handle pitch, you dirty yourself. I have lived in the world a long time. And you haven't discovered yet there is something wrong with it? You say my book is dirty. I did not invent the theme. Society saved me the trouble. Now, Monsieur, I may bid you good day. I must get back to my work. Monsieur Soler. Yes, Monsieur? I overheard what the public prosecutor had to say to you. How much does this firm owe you? Why, I don't understand. Don't try to say it simply then. There is no place here for a young man of your radical tendencies. You're fired. Well, Amy, I'm glad. Glad you lost the job. Glad? Makes you say that. Means you'll be hungry again, Alexandre. It means you can write, write all the time. You believe in me, don't you? More than you believe in yourself. You see yourself as you are. I see you as one day you'll be a giant among men. Believe in my Soler, Amy. Yes. You knew now what you must do. It must be something big. You had to swallow the whole of society. I suggest it. You went about with a notebook poking into cafes, brothels, factories, churches, mines, peasant cottages. Monsieur, how dare you? Go away or I shall call the police. But ma'am, I only asked you to tell me how it feels to experience childbirth. Even your friends laughed at you. It says Donald's planning to hang himself run down by a hex so he'll know how it feels to be trampled by a horse. They laughed, but the notes became a book. Two books. A gigantic series, Rougan-Marcar. Life under the Empire. The heights and depth. All its rottenness, injustice, corruption. Rougan-Marcar showing society, not man is bad. Man was good. Always you believed that. You were 37 years old. Had written eight novels. Few of them had sold. You were as poor as ever. But here is the question, what Chester's been doing with him? He's been taking down their jobs. You're a hero in a movie. You never thought he'd do that, but she did. I thought you accepted the challenge. You wanted to be rich. You were a hero. You wanted to be an actor. You wanted to be rich. You were a hero. You wanted to be rich. You wanted to be rich. First of this man, Nana, has sold out Mrs. Ola. They're resting for a second. Have a take here for your royalties. ["Pinche Me, Alexandrine"] 20,000 francs. 20,000 francs. Pinch me, Alexandrine. Pinch me. And kiss that float bear, Alexandrine. Kiss that float bear. The greatest of them all. He wants to come to see me. To come to me. Not me to him. You were a meteor shooting across a literary scene after Nana Geminault. Geminault, a cry for pity and justice for the working men of France. It made you their idol, the prophet of democracy, they called you. In the debacle, the prophet thundered. Everything you wrote made enemies for you, but they listened to you nonetheless. You were a public figure. Your success a tidal wave. There was a villa at my dawn now, a townhouse. All your old hungers could be satisfied. Could I take your order now, Monsieur? Yes. Yes, I think I'll begin with the bouillabaisse. And the shellfish. After that, the poulet with truffles on Antoine, and other jokes, and champagne, of course. Remember, in your novel, The Belly of Paris, you were divided the world into the fat and the lean. Now, you belong to the fat. The years passed. You were so long ago. Alexandrine, I'm fat. Fat and middle-aged. No, not middle-aged. I'm getting old. And there's an emptiness in me, hunger. Novels, novels, novels, nothing but novels. I'm weary of them. My last book critics say I'm getting soft. Is it true, Alexandrine? Is it true what they say? The bear has lost his claws. Is the battle over? Was the battle over? Even as you asked the question of Alexandrine in your study, the question was being decided for you. Decided in the courtyard of the accoled militia. By unanimous vote of the court marshal, you, Alfred Grayford, captain of the 14th Regiment of Artillery, have been found guilty of the crime of grief. Lucy, my darling wife. They have at last given me permission to write to you. They are sending me away, where I know not for forever. Forever the long time, Lucy. I am very weary. Over and over for two months, I've said it. I'm innocent. I'm innocent. In all the 33 years of my life, I have committed no crime. My record is spotless. The only thing of which I am guilty is of being a Jew. Of being a Jew? Yes. Alfred Dreyfus was deported to the steaming, stinking hell that was Devil's Island for life. The case was closed. But anti-Semitism in France remained an open running sore. Around the time-worn slogan, down with the Jews, all the forces of reaction gathered. Royalists, disgruntled conservatives, unscrupulous members of the clergy. There was madness in their hate. But beneath the madness lay a plan, inflame the people with hatred of the Jews. Then behind this smokescreen, work through the army to seize power and destroy the republic. You, you, Amy O'Zolard, deplored what was happening. You read your paper, flipped your dentist, and said, it's too bad all the religious hate the case has stirred up. But it will blow over in a few years. People will say, who was Dreyfus? Amy, suppose, suppose he were innocent. Impossible. The army, for all its rottenness, couldn't perpetrate a thing like that. Such things don't happen, not in 19th century France. You retired to your villa at Médon to work on a ballet. Three years went by. Three years, and Alfred Dreyfus shackled to his sickbed on Devil's Island. He returned to Paris in the autumn of 1897. The Dreyfus case had been reopened. Colonel Picard of the Secret Service had unearthed evidence that pointed to one major esterhase as the man who had delivered the secret papers to Prussia. Esterhase was court-martialed, acquitted. The Dreyfus case was closed again. One day a woman with sunken, burning eyes, once she must have been pretty, was shown into your study. It was good of you to see me, Monsieur Zola. Madame, I'm afraid it's useless you're coming. If there's a man alive who can help my husband, you can. All France knows your name, and their mind, Zola, stands for justice. Phew. But, Madame, you see, while I hate from the bottom of my heart the religious prejudice and hate the cases aroused, I, well, frankly, I have never been convinced of your husband's innocence. He's dying, Monsieur Zola. On his deathbed, he declares his innocence. No proof of innocence was offered at his trial? Oh, the trial was a mockery, Monsieur. I have proof here, here in this portfolio. If you would only read it... But I am very busy, Madame. You see, I've just begun a novel. A novel? Yes. My husband is dying, Monsieur. Dying out there alone, an innocent man. We have children. Children who grow up believing their father a traitor. But no, this doesn't interest you. This human drama. You must write a novel. Oh, forgive me, Monsieur Zola. I had no right. I don't know what I'm saying. But Alfred is dying. Forgive me, I'll go now. No, Madame, it is I who must be forgiven. Leave the portfolio. Monsieur, you are good, you are good. I can promise nothing except to read the evidence. Well, you must read. For two days, I... Alessia, Andrin. Jorifus, he's innocent. Etrahasi is the man. Amy, you're sure? All the evidence is here. Alexandrin, what are we going to do? We end? It is our decision. Public opinion is a juggernaut, Alexandrin. To hurt yourself against it, they can ruin us. And we've struggled so long, so hard for what we have. I'm old, I'm tired. Twenty-five times, Alexandrin, I presented my name to the academy. Twenty-five times I've been refused. This year I have reason to believe I'll be accepted. A man wants immortality. But use that dress which is innocent, Amy. I'd stake my life on it. Then there is no choice. All that night, and the next night, a lamp burned in the study in the root of the cell. The only light in the darkness of the sleeping street. Alexandrin came and went with coffee. You'd rank it without knowing, without looking up from your writing. To the president of the Republic of France. I must speak the truth, whatever the cost. To remain silent means to be haunted forever by the dreadful specter of an innocent man, suffering this very moment, the tortures of a dam, paying for a crime he never committed. Therefore, Mr. President, I accuse, I accuse Colonel-Departee Declan of having been the diabolical author of a judicial role. I accuse General Biot of having had conclusive proof of the innocence of Alfred Gratius, proof which he deliberately withheld. I accuse the First Court Marshal of having made a mockery of justice by condemning Alfred Gratius on testimony kept secret from him. I accuse the Second Court Marshal of having covered up the sins of the First, by acquitting the guilty man, Major Esther Housing, acquitting him with full knowledge of his guilt. Lastly, I accuse the War Office of having conducted a vile campaign in the press, in order to mislead public opinion and stir up religious strife. Now, let them dare to bring me into court. Let there be an inquiry into the duration case, an inquiry not in darkness and shadow, but in a strong and healing light of day. I wait. If truth has a sound, it was the sound of the presses of La Rore on that morning of January 13th, 1898. By noon, 300,000 copies of I accuse were on the streets of Paris. Mobs had begun to gather. They stormed the office of La Rore. They carried you in effigy through the streets and hurled you into the scene. By night, they had gathered outside your window. Now, they are burning, I accuse fools. Let them burn it. Do they think they can destroy it that way? Truth is, a phoenix will rise up again from its own ashes. Behind closed doors guarded by the police, you waited. Waited while hate ran through France like a forest fire spread to the continent. At Lyon, not Marseilles, there were riots. Jews were beaten, stoned. Their homes sacked and burned. In Algeria, they were killed. Their bodies thrown into the sea. On the seventh day of waiting, your summons came. A summons to the court of the sizes to defend the charges in your letter. As you walked into court, a cry went up. When you began your defense, your voice cracked for a moment. Gentlemen of the jury. Then suddenly your fear vanished. It was as though your whole life had been directed to this moment. Gentlemen of the jury, you have heard me called by all the names in the decalogue. Even my love of France has been called into question. Gentlemen, I say to you, there are many ways a man may serve his country. He may do so with a sword and he may do so with the pen. If the sword has won victories for France, so shall my pen. The victory of truth over bigotry, of justice over tyranny. Dreyfus is innocent, I swear it. By my 40 years of labor, by the authority that labor has given me, I swear that Dreyfus is innocent. May all my labor crumble. My words perish. If Dreyfus is not innocent, he is innocent. Everything seems to be against me now. The two chambers, the civil authorities, military, most of the newspapers, and the public opinion they have poisoned. On my side, I have only the ideal of the truth. Justice. You may convict me here, but I say to you, truth will prevail. And one day, France will thank me for having saved her honor. The jury was out last in an hour. Gentlemen of the jury, what is your verdict? Her honor, we find a defendant, Emile Zola, guilty. They found you guilty. Guilty of speaking the truth. They sentenced you to a year in jail and rendered judgments against you that brought you to the brink of financial ruin. All of your books were banned. Your household goods offered for sale. Your friends held counsel. If you accept the sentence, the Dreyfus case is closed forever. You must leave the country. Go to England and bombard the world with the truth from there. It was a year later. You were writing in your cottage at Penn in England the day the telegram came. Dreyfus recalled from David's Island for new trial, returned to France. Dreyfus was tried a second time. A second time found guilty. But truth was on the march. On the 19th of September, 1899, I, Emile Loupe, president of the Republic of France, do hereby extend to Alfred Dreyfus full pardon for the crime of treason. Truth had prevailed as always you believed it would. You could have rested now, but there was still so much to be done. It was at your desk they found you that morning. Slumped over a manuscript, your Penn still clutched in your hand. You had been writing when fumes from the coal stove overcame you. This was what you left behind. To work with Penn's speech, action, to work for progress, a peaceful revolution in mind and heart. Our democracy welded together, the evil strife. That is our enormous task. Our battle order. Let us carry it out so that tomorrow may be ours. 62 years of struggle and now you're dead. 10,000 people stand before your coffin, heads uncovered, listening to Anatol France tell them how great you were. His genius and his humanity, one for him the grandest of destiny. For one splendid moment Emile Zola was the conscience of mankind. Then suddenly, above the voice of Anatol France, another voice, a fanatics cry of hate. Even at your grave, this cry of hate. Perhaps it will always be there, somewhere in the world. You've done what you could do to shout it down. For you the battle's over. It's for others to take up the fight. For every man in his own way is a voice, a conscience. Out of the clamour of many voices for truth, for justice has come democracy. So must it be safeguarded by your voice and mine. We came this way. The NBC University of the Air has brought you Chapter 10 of the historical series, We Came This Way. Next week, We Came This Way will present The Revolt of a Prince. Would you like to know more of the life and times of Emile Zola portrayed in the program you just heard? Or other men like Hugo, Tolstoy and Whitman. A handbook containing the life stories of 13 great leaders in the struggle for independence has been prepared as an interesting supplement to the broadcast series. To obtain your copy, write for We Came This Way and enclose 25 cents to cover costs of printing and mailing. Address your request to Volume 2, Columbia University Press Station J, Box 30 New York, 27 by Frank and Virginia Wells and directed by Norman Felton. The original music was composed by Emile Soderstrom and conducted by Joseph Gallicchio. Clifton Utley was the narrator and the role of Emile Zola was played by Wilms Herbert. Others in the cast were Grace, Philip Lord, Geraldine Kay, Jim Gott, Jane Elliott and Charles Eggleston. This series is presented each week as a public service feature of the National Broadcasting Company and its affiliated independent stations. The National Broad...