Rte Mariette Emile Zola Respect des animaux

 L’amour des bêtes

Pourquoi la rencontre d'un chien perdu, dans une de nos rues tumultueuses, me donne-t-elle une secousse au cœur ?

Pourquoi la vue de cette bête, allant et venant, flairant le monde, effarée, visiblement désespérée de ne pas retrouver son maître, me cause-t-elle une pitié si pleine d'angoisse, qu'une telle rencontre me gâte absolument une promenade ?

Pourquoi, jusqu'au soir, jusqu'au lendemain, le souvenir de ce chien perdu me hante-t-il d'une sorte de désespérance, me revient-il sans cesse en un élancement de fraternelle compassion, dans le souci de savoir ce qu'il fait, où il est, si on l'a recueilli, s'il mange, s'il n'est pas à grelotter au coin de quelque borne ?

Pourquoi ai-je ainsi, au fond de ma mémoire, de grandes tristesses qui s'y réveillent parfois, des chiens sans maîtres, rencontrés il y a dix ans, il y a vingt ans, et qui sont restés en moi comme la souffrance même du pauvre être qui ne peut parler et que son travail, dans nos villes, ne peut nourrir?

Pourquoi la souffrance d'une bête me bouleverse-t-elle ainsi? Pourquoi ne puis-je supporter l'idée qu'une bête souffre, au point de me relever la nuit, l'hiver, pour m'assurer que mon chat a bien sa tasse d'eau ? Pourquoi toutes les bêtes de la création sont-elles mes petites parentes, pourquoi leur idée seule m'emplit-elle de miséricorde, de tolérance et de tendresse?

Pourquoi les bêtes sont-elles toutes de ma famille, comme les hommes, autant que les hommes ?

Émile Zola, Le Figaro, 24 mars 1896.

Why does the meeting of a lost dog, in one of our tumultuous streets, give me a shock in the heart?

Why does the sight f this beast, coming and going, sniffing out the world, bewildered, visibly desperate not to find its master, cause me a pity so full of anguish, that such a meeting absolutely spoils my walk? ?
Why, until the evening, until the next day, does the memory of this lost dog haunt me with a sort of despair, does it come back to me incessantly in a burst of fraternal compassion, for the sake of knowing what What is he doing, where he is, if he has been picked up, if he eats, if he is not shivering at the corner of some terminal?
Why do I have, at the bottom of my memory, great sadnesses which sometimes wake up there, dogs without masters, encountered ten years ago, twenty years ago, and which have remained in me like suffering itself? of the poor being who cannot speak and whom his work, in our cities, cannot nourish?
Why does the suffering of an animal so upset me? Why can't I bear the idea that an animal is suffering, to the point of getting up at night, in winter, to make sure my cat has its cup of water? Why are all the beasts of creation my little relatives, why does their idea alone fill me with mercy, tolerance and tenderness?Why does the meeting of a lost dog, in one of our tumultuous streets, give me a shock in the heart?
Why does the sight of this beast, coming and going, sniffing out the world, bewildered, visibly desperate not to find its master, cause me a pity so full of anguish, that such a meeting absolutely spoils my walk? ?
Why, until the evening, until the next day, does the memory of this lost dog haunt me with a sort of despair, does it come back to me incessantly in a burst of fraternal compassion, for the sake of knowing what What is he doing, where he is, if he has been picked up, if he eats, if he is not shivering at the corner of some terminal?
Why do I have, at the bottom of my memory, great sadnesses which sometimes wake up there, dogs without masters, encountered ten years ago, twenty years ago, and which have remained in me like suffering itself? of the poor being who cannot speak and whom his work, in our cities, cannot nourish?
Why does the suffering of an animal so upset me? Why can't I bear the idea that an animal is suffering, to the point of getting up at night, in winter, to make sure my cat has its cup of water? Why are all the beasts of creation my little relatives, why does their idea alone fill me with mercy, tolerance and tenderness?
Why are all animals of my family, like men, as much as men?
Émile Zola, Le Figaro, March 24, 1896.
Why are all animals of my family, like men, as much as men?
Émile Zola, Le Figaro, March 24, 1896.