I well recall the yell of disapprobation with
which the volume was received by the reviewers. Louis Ulbach, then
a writer on the "Figaro," to which Zola also contributed, and who
subsequently founded and edited a paper called "La Cloche," when
Zola, curiously enough, became one of his critics, made a particularly
virulent attack on the novel and its author. Henri de Villemessant, the
Editor, authorised Zola to reply to him, with the result that a vehement
discussion ensued in print between author and critic, and "Therese
Raquin" promptly went into a second edition, to which Zola appended a
preface.

I have not thought it necessary to translate this preface, which is
a long and rather tedious reply to the reviewers of the day. It will
suffice to say, briefly, that the author meets the strictures of his
critics by pointing out and insisting on the fact, that he has simply
sought to make an analytic study of temperament and not of character.

"I have selected persons," says he, "absolutely swayed by their nerves
and blood, deprived of free will, impelled in every action of life,
by the fatal lusts of the flesh. Therese and Laurent are human brutes,
nothing more. I have sought to follow these brutes, step by step, in the
secret labour of their passions, in the impulsion of their instincts,
in the cerebral disorder resulting from the excessive strain on their
nerves."

EDWARD VIZETELLY SURBITON, 1 December, 1901.

THERESE RAQUIN

CHAPTER I

At the end of the Rue Guenegaud, coming from the quays, you find the
Arcade of the Pont Neuf, a sort of narrow, dark corridor running from
the Rue Mazarine to the Rue de Seine. This arcade, at the most, is
thirty paces long by two in breadth. It is paved with worn, loose,
yellowish tiles which are never free from acrid damp. The square panes
of glass forming the roof, are black with filth.

On fine days in the summer, when the streets are burning with heavy sun,
whitish light falls from the dirty glazing overhead to drag miserably
through the arcade. On nasty days in winter, on foggy mornings, the
glass throws nothing but darkness on the sticky tiles--unclean and
abominable gloom.

To the left are obscure, low, dumpy shops whence issue puffs of air as
cold as if coming from a cellar. Here are dealers in toys, cardboard
boxes, second-hand books. The articles displayed in their windows are
covered with dust, and owing to the prevailing darkness, can only be
perceived