UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA
AT LOS ANGELES
FRENCH MEN
WOMEN AND BOOKS
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
FRENCH VIGNETTES:
A SERIES OF DRAMATIC EPISODES,i7i7-i87i
By Miss BETHAM-EDWARDS, Officier de I'lnstruc-
tion Publique de France. With 12 Portraits
reproduced by special permission. Second
Edition. Demy 8vo, 10/6 net.
"The volume is an admirable example of Miss Betham-Edwards'
facile talent for critical narrative. . . . The book glows with sincere
enthusiasm, and is everywhere endowed with _ literary distinction
of the highest order. Better entertainment it were difficult to
imagine.' Daily Telegraph.
" The accomplished author of these brilliant sketches has proved
in her earlier books that she is not less intimately at home in rural
France than in the East Anglia of her girlhood. . . . The book is
written with dramatic force, and touched throughout with deeply-
felt sympathies, which lend distinction to its chapters. . . . The
style is as admirable as the portraits. There is not a wasted
sentence or a dull page." British Weekly.
"Distinguished by an unfailing charm of clear and pleasant
reading." Evening Standard.
" She is deeply and lovingly versed in French life and letters, and
she writes with lucidity and unfailing verve." Daily News.
BAI.ZAC. From a Painting by BOULANGKR, 1837
[Frontispiece.
FRENCH MEN
WOMEN AND BOOKS
A SERIES OF
NINETEENTH-CENTURY STUDIES
BY
MISS BETHAM^EDWARDS
OFFICIER DE 1,'lNSTRUCTION FUBLIQUE DE FRANCE
AUTHOR OF
"HOME LIFE IN FRANCE" AND "LITERARY RAMBLES IN FRANCE'
WITH EIGHT PORTRAITS
REPRODUCED BY SPECIAL PERMISSION
CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
LONDON : CHAPMAN & HALL, LTD.
Printed in Great Britain
pa
PREFATORY NOTE
I MUST again express my great indebtedness to
French authors, publishers, editors and others for
their ungrudging services, one and all having ren-
dered every help in their power. To M. Calmann
Levy, for the choice of a Balzac portrait; to M.
Lapret, for a reproduction of Madame Hanska's
bust; to Mile. Louise Read, executrix of Barbey
d'Aurevilly; to MM. Paul and Victor Margueritte,
M. Rene Boysleve, M. Joseph Reinach, Mme.Veuve
Demolins; also to M. Langlois, photographic artist,
I tender my grateful thanks, nor must I pass by the
courtesy of Mr. J. A. Spender and other English
editors who have kindly allowed reprints from their
pages.
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS.
Hastings ) March 9, 1910.
CONTENTS
PAGE
I FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY, WITH ORIGINAL TRANS-
LATIONS I
II A GREAT LOVE-STORY : BALZAC AND MADAME HANSKA 43
III FRENCH AUTHOR AND PUBLISHER : BARBEY D J AURE-
VILLY AND TREBUTIEN 93
IV AN ANGLO-FRENCH ROMANCE : MARY CLARKE AND
CLAUDE FAURIEL 105
v A 'GOD-INTOXICATED FRENCHMAN': JEAN REYNAUD 117
VI THE NEW FICTION : MM. BOYSLEVE AND HENRY
BORDEAUX 143
VII A GREAT PROSE EPIC, 1870-71 : THE BROTHERS
MARGUERITTE 153
VIII A TYPICAL ARTISAN AND THE PEOPLE'S UNIVERSITIES 165
IX ANGLOPHILE AND REFORMER: EDMOND DEMOLINS . 175
X THE HISTORIAN OF A TRAGEDY : M. JOSEPH REINACH 187
XI FRENCH VIEWS OF ENGLAND : MM. CHEVRILLON,
COSTE, BOUTMY AND OTHERS . . . . 2OI
XII POSTSCRIPT. LA FRANCE VUE DE L'ANGLETERRE,
FRENCH STUDY BY THE AUTHOR . . .223
VII
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Facing page
BALZAC Frontispiece
MADAME HANSKA . -45
BARBEY D'AUREVILLY . -95
TO2
TREBUTIEN
RENfc BOYSLEVE ' '45
VICTOR MARGUERITTE *55
EDMOND DEMOLINS . X 77
JOSEPH REINACH ... .189
Vlll
I
FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY
FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY
SEVERAL learned and valuable works have lately
appeared here upon that vast and inexhaustible field
of literature, French poetry. We have seen antho-
logies, annotated editions for students, and volumes
devoted to historic criticism. Among the latter by
far the most important are Mr. Bailey's Claims of
French Poetry and Mr. Eccles's recently published
A Century of French Poets. Both these works are
strictly academic. Admirable as they are alike
editorially and critically, and representative as are
the citations given, one phase of the subject, and
that a most important one, is entirely left out.
The first, with but two exceptions, is devoted to the
great classics of a former period, Racine, Corneille
and La Fontaine. The second is no less restricted
in scope. From neither volume do readers obtain a
hint of what is most vital, most living in French
verse, the poetry of the people, of the work-a-day
world. Indeed, as we glance at Mr. Eccles's list, we
may safely aver that several, nay, most of the poets
here memorialized are as unfamiliar to the majority
of their country-people as to most English readers.
The fireside muse, the muse of the farm, the vine-
yard, the workshop, the garrison, the cabaret, with
its touch of nature making all men kin, find no place
in these academic selections. For such learned
B2 3
4 FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY
and laborious compilers the song-writer, the ballad-
maker and the fabulists, La Fontaine excepted, do
not exist.
The explanation of such wholesale omission is
easy. The poetry of the people in France, as else-
where, is only to be appreciated on native soil. We
must also realize the fact that in France poetry is
appreciated rather by the ear than by the eyes. In
no other country is the art of declamation so per-
sistently, so adoringly cultivated. The reciter, as
the troubadour of old, has his status, his special
calling. Thus at rustic weddings, after the long
breakfast, each course being interspersed with a song
from the guests, the professional story-teller and
declaimer comes forward. Pieces grave and gay are
given, care being taken at least such has been my
own experience that no jest or word should be
heard unfit for youthful ears. Meanwhile the light,
unheady champagne is passed round, speeches are
made, young and old finally rising, the four or five
hours' sitting followed by as long a spell of the
waltz.
Recitation is cultivated both as a domestic accom-
plishment and a profession, the former often equal
ling histrionic art.
In Parisian salons and in country chateaux I have
heard, amongst other pieces, Nadaud's Trots Hus-
sards and Barbey d'Aurevilly's Le Cid superlatively
recited by a lady amateur. The dramatic power with
which the ballad was rendered and the pathos put
into the other poet's narrative cast a spell over the
audience. Every one drew a deep breath.
French folks I speak here of the non-literary
FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY 5
class do not read poetry ; they hearken to it as did
the Greeks of old to their rhapsodists. And here I
will mention a fact overlooked by Mr. Bailey in his
chapter dedicated to the greatest French fabulist
La Fontaine is above all, dramatic. Thoroughly to
appreciate him we must hear his fables recited before
native listeners. How the famous and unfortunate
actress, Adrienne Lecouvreur, thrilled her public
with her recital of " The Two Pigeons " we have all
heard. For myself, I shall never forget the effect
of "The Animals Sick of the Pest" that I heard
recited at Nantes many years ago. The late gifted
Madame Ernst had drawn an enormous audience.
Packed from parterre to gallery was the great
theatre, and when she came to the verse
" Us ne mourraient pas tous, mais tous etaient frappe's " (" Not
all perished but all were stricken ")
there was hardly a dry eye in the place.
Nadaud's witty Gasconnade, La Garonne (The
Gascon's River), came as a relief. A combined
ripple of laughter greeted each refrain.
Immense attention is given to speech and de-
clamation in French schools, hence the admirably
clear and coherent utterance of our neighbours, and
children will be found expressing themselves with
quite extraordinary promptness and lucidity.
On, this subject educationalists and teachers
should consult a recent manual of speech and
elocution (Diction 1 ), published for use in primary
1 Pour bien lire */ bien reciter, par M. Jean Blaize, Professeur
de Diction agrde d'Ecoles normales. This gentleman, who has
brought out several works on the art of recital and prelection, holds
the Government appointment of visiting lecturer in normal colleges.
6 FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY
schools. Not only are voice, articulation and accent
treated of, but look, pose and gesture, these latter
being illustrated.
There is another and equally noteworthy point
with regard to what I call French domestic poetry.
Here the robust morality, the healthy acceptance of
life as it is, rather as it can be made, offer a striking
contrast to the morbidness and ofttimes suicidal
pessimism of the classical school. Let readers turn
to the charming anthology named below for home
and school use. 1 The volume is divided into four
sections under the heads of poetry domestic, pictur-
esque, moral and patriotic, many unknown names
figuring beside the world-wide famous. Victor
Hugo, Lamartine, Sully Proudhomme are amply
represented. Robert Caze and Albert Delpit will
certainly be new to English readers.
The most interesting point to note of the vast
category is the uniformly wholesome and bracing
attitude towards existence, its joys, sorrows and
limitations. Life, human and animal, is revered,
and many beautiful devotional pieces are included.
Toil is nobly apostrophized, and the book is a
delightful literary companion for both old and
young. It is also a corrective of insular prejudices,
revealing the homely, home-loving aspect of French
life and the integrity of the family circle. By these
poets such writers as Zola, Maupassant and Mir-
beau for once and for all are refuted. Realistic are
many pieces, but realistic in the true, honest sense of
the word. The best, not the vilest characteristics of
1 ChoixdePoetesdu XIX' Stick, par Gustave Merlet, Inspecteur
Gdndral de 1'Universitd, Paris. Colin.
FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY 7
human nature have inspired these writers, whilst
even for the latter there is ever a note of brotherly
compassion. Like the miners described by General
Sherman, the lyrists have " panned out the pure gold
from the black sand."
" From the appearance of La Maison de Sylvie,
by Theophile de Viau " (1590-1626), writes M.
Remy de Gourmont, "until that of La jeune Cap-
tive of Andre Chenier " (1790), " French poetry was
dramatic, satiric, artificial, burlesque, eloquent, witty,
even at times tender; it was never lyric."
Few readers even in France now-a-days read the
long love-poem in sonnets, which, it is said, La
Fontaine knew by heart. Theophile, however, as he
is usually styled, left a shorter and less artificial
idyll, called Le Matin, which contains several
domestic and quite natural verses. Here is a ren-
dering of one or two, pictures of rural life we may
still come upon any day in France.
When as the morning's primal beam
Wakes man and beast to daily toil,
The ploughman cheers his trusty team
Awhile his coulter cuts the soil.
Her spindle docile Alix brings
The day's allotted task to learn,
Her mother round the distaff rings
A nicely measured length of yarn.
in
The blacksmith hastens to his forge,
See, how the sparklets come and go !
His brawny arms the bellows urge
Till fiery red the metals glow.
8 FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY
Huguenot, afterwards converted to Romanism,
free-lance alike in his life and with the pen,
Theophile was condemned to burning at the stake,
a sentence later commuted to perpetual exile.
Chenier's pathetic poem is perhaps out-distanced
in favour by Fabre d' Eglantine's pastoral // pleut,
bergdre, it pleut (It rains, it rains, my shepherd
maid), which is one of the first every French child
learns by heart, and of which Renan wrote : " I can
never hear // pleut, bergere, il pleut without
tears." The tender little story may be said to focus
rural life, in revolutionary times as now, simple,
honest and eminently domestic. We have here the
good faith, the neighbourliness and the romance of
the peasant portrayed naively yet with emphasis, the
last verse being especially characteristic. After the
storm and the night's shelter with the lover's mother
and sister, his shepherd maid is formally to be asked
in marriage. The sacredness of wedlock in rustic
circles is here brought out in poetry as it is similarly
revealed in village archives, by the marriage con-
tracts so carefully and religiously preserved through
centuries of civil wars, religious persecution and
social and political upheavals.
Mr. Eccles regards the Revolution as a non-
poetical epoch. 1 But, as M. Rambaud points out in
his " History of French Civilization," those cata-
1 " The pompous vacuity of Chdnier's political odes half con-
cealed by merits of structure shows, as well as his brother's hymns
and tragedies and most of the other poetry of the period, how
little the Revolution and the Empire availed immediately to speed
on the long-expected spring. That time of stress held in suspense
the hopes of disinterested art." " The Claims of French Poetry,"
P-.43-
FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY 9
clysmal years produced a poetic flower in its matur-
ity. The Revolution developed the genius of Song.
Indeed, what need of proof, argument or disserta-
tion, seeing that the most famous national hymn
in the world, La Marseillaise, belongs to this
period ?
Gustave Nadaud, whose Carcassonne is now cos-
mopolitan property, belongs to the nineteenth cen-
tury (1821-1893). Immensely popular, this prolific
poet appeals to all tastes. From his pen have come
bucolics, drinking songs, satires and patriotic pieces.
But above all, as one of his contemporaries has said,
Nadaud a respire la bonne odeur de la terre ("he
has breathed the good air of the soil "). In Carcas-
sonne and the Three Hussars we have poetically
embodied for us the very essence of peasant life
and nature; in the first, that indomitable, nostalgic
thrift chaining him to the soil, not allowing even the
privilege of a day's holiday and the sight of a town
only three leagues off; in the second, the innate joy-
ousness and rollicking spirits of the soldier, over-
mastering love of travel and adventure, the clinging
to home and early loves, above all, filial devotion.
This is a particularly dramatic and moving piece,
and is very often recited both in drawing-rooms and
on the platform.
Quite different in tone and spirit is the little chef-
d'oeuvre, called Les deux Gendarmes, a witty and
subtle delineation of the non-reflective type, the per-
petual assentator. Who, after audition or perusal,
without curiosity can witness a couple of mounted
gendarmes ambling along a country road ? A quite
different type is that of the monosyllabist's com-
10 FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY
panion, the no less perpetual ponderer on men,
things and human destiny.
La Garonne may be regarded as a poetic variation
of the immortal Tartarin de Tarascon.
The next piece is by Nadaud's contemporary,
Pierre Dupont, playwright as well as ballader (1821-
1870), and is in quite a different style. Mes Bceufs,
with its apparently cynical, even brutal refrain, is
neither one nor the other. When Dupont's peasant
reiterates the ungallant sentiment
" Dear is my good wife Jeanne, her death I should deplore,
But dearer are my beeves, their loss would grieve me more,"
he foresees the material catastrophe, even ruin
brought about by the disablement or death of his
team. As a running commentary on the poem I cite
an incident that happened during an inundation of
that revolutionary river, ce torrent revolutionnaire,
as Michelet calls the Loire.
A rescuing party hastened to save an old peasant
who had betaken himself and his pig to the garret
of his cottage, already almost chimney-high in water.
The boat was small, and the rescuers shouted
" No room except for yourself, my good man.
Hurry up," or rather down.
But above the sound of swirling waves and raging
winds came the plea
" Never mind me. Save my pig."
Here, without doubt, poor piggie's owner was
actuated by the same motive as Jeanne's husband.
Who knows? Perhaps the animal represented a
daughter's dowry? As practical interests are never
lost sight of in France, doubtless the old man gained
FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY 11
his point. Piggie was plumped into the boat with
his master.
Paul Deroulede, nephew of Emile Augier and
volunteer in 1870, will never wear the Immortal's
uniform, but enjoys a fame far transcending any that
academies can bestow. He is above all things the
people's, the patriots' poet, the Korner of nineteenth-
century France. The one man who could have
written a Marseillaise had not Rouget de Lisle fore-
stalled him, his Chants de Guerre, or songs of war,
stir the blood as do the strophes of the national
hymn, and, it must be added, of that song of social
revolt, the Internationale.
Outsiders who have witnessed the departure,
passage or home-coming of conscripts will under-
stand his Bon Cite (The Soldier's Reception), its
deep feeling and homely pathos. But for the labour
and responsibility involved in translating such
poetry, I should have given more of Deroulede's
impassioned muse.
Of Richepin, son of the palmy, sunny France
beyond sea. the other's junior by three years, it is
hardly necessary to speak, so cosmopolitan is his
fame. Dramatist, lyrist and "the bard of the beg-
gars," as I have elsewhere called him, M. Richepin,
whilst familiar with strata of life below the slum-
line, nay, with thieves' dialect, yet possesses the
daintiest, purest fancy. His poems in vagabonds'
jargon, requiring translation from the appended
glossary, I could not hope to render; from the
celebrated Chants des Gueux I have extracted one
little piece, a pearl indeed, or rather, as that word
recalls another of evil omen, I will call La Flute.
12 FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY
The poet, I am glad to say, has expressed his satis-
faction at the rendering, over which his translator
spent a whole week !
Albert Delpit, nearly of an age with the two last-
named, was born in New Orleans, but of French
parentage, and is patriot of the patriots. After the
Franco-Prussian War his volumes of verse, called
L? Invasion and Les Dieux qu'on brise, received the
prizes of the Academy. In Petit piou (Soldier,
paid a sou) we have the disillusion, not a scintilla
of the glamour of war. This highly popular piece
is one of the most characteristic in M. Delpit' s
volume. A garde-mobile during that infamous and
most unnecessary war, like Paul Deroulede, Albert
Delpit sings of what he knew and felt, not sentiment-
ally hymning war and its miseries by a comfortable
fire. Every line rings true.
Not of military glory and disaster sings Robert
Caze, who died young (1853-1886), author of
Poemes Rustiques and other simple idylls. The
little picture outlined in the piece here given is one
familiar enough to the tourist through provincial
France.
Rustic Hospitality is no exaggerated apo-
strophe of the peasant. Thrifty, even parsimonious
although he be, Jacques Bonhomme has ever a corner
in his heart for the chemineau, the beggar at the
gate. Edie Ochiltrees on French soil have survived
Revolution and regime after regime. Toulouse,
indeed, would be a suitable paradise to that lover of
beggars, Charles Lamb. In certain country places
what in England were formerly called trampers have
now-a-days, as of old, their regular rounds, calling
FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY 13
at one farmhouse for their basin of soup, at another
for their broken victuals, at a third for their draught
of piquette, or sour wine. No one hustles them;
" move on " is not a watchword of rural police ; the
chercheur de -pain (seeker for bread) remains an
institution in what is still nominally Catholic France.
The Cid has no place in domestic poetry
properly speaking, but is now so popular as a recita-
tion that I have included it in my little collection.
Barbey d'Aurevilly (1808-1889) forms the subject of
a later chapter, and I will not here add a critical or
biographical note. Journalist, romancer, poet and
critic, brilliantly gifted under each head, maybe
this splendid and most original poem is all that will
outlive a reputation altogether posthumous.
Not perhaps, technically speaking, should follow
the names of Florian and Lachambeaudie, fabulists
separated by a century, the former dying amid the
throes of Revolution (1794), the latter exiled by that
shoddy Caesar, the soi-disant third Napoleon.
But if not poets of domesticity or lyrists of the
fireside, these philosophers in verse essentially
belong to daily life, and not only of any especial
country, but of the civilized world. France is pre-
eminently the land of the fabulist, her goodly list
crowned by the immortal La Fontaine, the beautiful
and joy-giving tradition being carried on till our own
times. And if not possessing the great master's
unrivalled and, at times, cynical raillery of human
nature, the eighteenth-century Florian and the nine-
teenth-century Lachambeaudie possess compensatory
wit, fancy and unfailing bonhomie. Both are con-
stantly on the lips of reciters and prelectors. Both
14 FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY
equally move to tears and laughter, and both are
equally beloved of old and young.
Florian, simply considered as a poet, is uniformly
charming, and did apology in such case ever serve
any purpose, my palinode would be long. Of his
musical and witty pieces I could only hope to give
the meaning, or rather the spirit. Lachambeaudie's
flowing narratives offer fewer stumbling-blocks to
the translator. Indeed, to a facile versifier the ren-
dering into native tongue of these is mere pastime,
the delightful recreation of spare moments.
I add that, with the exception of Jean Richepin,
no poet here represented appears in Mr. Eccles's
long list. His predecessor, in The Claims of French
Poetry, mentions Florian, but gives no citations from
the small legacy of famous fables.
FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY 15
THE RAIN IS FALLING, SHEPHERD MAID (IL
PLEUT, BERGERE, IL PLEUT)
THE rain is falling, shepherd maid,
A storm is coming fast,
Let's hasten to some friendly shade
And shelter till 'tis past.
ii
Hark how the big drops patter down,
The water runs in streams,
Whilst from yon clouds that darkly frown,
Fiercely the lightning gleams.
in
The thunder growls, my shepherd maid,
Delay not, take my arm,
Gather your sheep, be not afraid,
We're near my mother's farm.
IV
Ah ! there she stands, the housewife dear,
And with her, sister Anne;
See both, a visitor is here,
Beguile her as you can.
v
With sister Anne, sit down, ma rate,
The peat shall soon burn bright;
Your little flock shall cared for be,
And folded for the night.
VI
Good-night, good-night, my shepherd maid,
The storm has passed away,
But sister makes your little bed,
There sweetly dream till day.
16 FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY
VII
To-morrow, with my mother, I,
May fortune us betide !
Unto your father we will hie,
And ask you for my bride.
FABRE D'EGLANTINE.
CARCASSONNE
"I'M growing old; just threescore year,
In wet or dry, in dust and mire
I've sweated, never getting near
Fulfilment of my heart's desire.
Ah ! well I see that bliss below
'Tis Heaven's will to grant to none,
Harvest and vintage come and go,
I've never got to Carcassonne !
"The town I've glanced at many a day,
You see it from yon mountain chain ;
But five long leagues it lies away,
Ten long leagues there and back again.
Ah ! if the vintage promised fair,
But grapes won't ripen without sun
And gentle showers to make them swell,
I shall not get to Carcassonne !
"You'd think 'twas always Sunday there,
So fine, 'tis said, are folks bedight,
Silk hat, frock coats, the bourgeois wear,
Their demoiselles walk out in white.
Two generals with their stars you see,
And towers out-topping Babylon.
A bishop, too ah me ! ah me !
I've never been to Carcassonne.
"Yes, truly did our curi call
Pride the besetting sin of man;
Ambition brought on Adam's fall,
And soaring wishes are my bane.
FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY 17
Yet could I only steal away
Before the winter has begun,
I'd die contented any day,
If once I'd been to Carcassonne!
" Mon Dieu! A/on Dieu! Forgive my prayer,
I'm but a poor presumptuous fool.
We build fine castles in the air,
When grey as when new breeched at school.
My wife with our first-born, Aignan,
Have even journeyed to Narbonne,
My grandson has seen Perpignan,
I've never been to Carcassonne ! "
So sighed a peasant of Limoux,
A worthy neighbour, bent and worn.
"Ho, friend," quoth I, "I'll go with you,
We'll sally forth to-morrow morn."
And, true enough, away we hied,
But when our goal was almost won,
God rest his soul ! the good man died,
He never got to Carcassonne !
GUSTAVE NADAUD.
THE THREE HUSSARS (LES TROIS HUSSARDS)
i
FURLOUGH had set three Hussars free,
Swift their steps and their hearts were light ;
They sang, they laughed in roisterous glee
When scenes familiar came in sight.
ii
"Now shall I see my chosen maid,
Her name is Marguerite," cried one.
"Mine, Madeleine," the second said.
"Mine," quoth the third, "is Jeanneton."
18 FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY
in
They met a neighbour on the road.
" Bell-ringer Simon, as I live ! "
"How goes? " "What's happed of bad or good? "
"Faith, soldiers, I've no news to give."
IV
"Well, tidings of fair Marguerite?"
"I tolled l her vows a year ago;
She's now a cloistered Carmelite
In yonder convent that you know."
V,
"Something tell me of Madeleine,
Alway prim and sedate of tongue? "
"Bride and matron. Twelve months between;
Twice for her have I joy-bells rung."
VI
" Mine now a word of Jeanneton ;
With the maiden are all things well ? "
"Aye, truly! Just three months have flown
Since I pealed for her the funeral knell."
VII
"Bell-ringer, to the cloistered nun
Friendly wishes let some one bear;
Tell her, ere vintage be begun
My wedding-bells shall shake the air."
VIII
" Bell-ringer, tell the matron staid,
I'm once more in my native place,
Promoted to a captain's grade
And wedded only to the chase."
IX
"Bell-ringer, seek my mother out,
Pardon ask her on bended knee.
Back to the colours. Right about.
Home is no longer home to me ! "
IBID.
1 The death-bell is tolled when a nun takes the veil.
FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY 19
THE ETERNAL "YES" (LES DEUX GENDARMES)
GENDARMES twain on a Sunday bright
Slowly along the green lanes rode,
Brigadier, 1 with his badges white,
Yellow the other's sword-belt showed.
Said the first : " 'Tis a morning fair,"
His voice sonorous, reaching far.
Answered his mate with solemn air,
"Faith, Brigadier, right you are."
The sun, his day's work almost done,
Still found them ambling side by side,
Only the chief's commanding tone
Breaking the hush of eventide.
"See," quoth he, "how they gold-tipped lie,
Yon clouds beneath a rising star ! "
"Brigadier," made his mate reply,
"Faith, Brigadier, right you are."
"A hard trade drive we, you and I,"
The first went on, "in field and town,
Bound evil-doers to espy,
Light-fingered gentry to hunt down,
And all the while we're forced to roam,
Her sole protection, bolt and bar,
The fond wife's left to guard the home."
"Faith, Brigadier, right you are."
"A gallant have I been, pardie,
One sweetheart loved I best of all
A saucy wit, and fair to see
Long did she hold my heart in thrall.
But hearts, wherefore I cannot tell,
Like soldiers, love to rove afar,
In one place, never fain to dwell."
"Faith, Brigadier, right you are."
1 Brigadier, sous chef of gendarmerie, commanding a brigade, his
white braid or galon marks a grade or superior.
C 2
20 FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY
"What men call glory is a chain
Of rose and laurel intertwined.
Mars have I served with might and main,
To Venus ever been inclined.
A spouse and Brigadier to-day,
No more I serve the god of war;
Yet doth the goddess still hold sway."
"Faith, Brigadier, right you are."
They ambled on the night throughout,
Only the rhythmic hoofs were heard.
Both seemed absorbed in dreamy thought,
The Brigadier spoke not a word.
But when at last the east grew red,
And vanished slowly star by star,
From time to time his comrade said :
" Faith, Brigadier, right you are ! "
IBID.
THE GASCON'S RIVER (LA GARONNE)
i
HAD the Garonne been inclined
When it issued from its source,
Leaving native scenes behind,
Following a southern course,
Valley cleft, with hill and plain,
The Garonne might have watered Spain !
II
Had the Garonne been inclined,
Northern latitudes to woo,
Rivers three that upward wind,
Charente, Loire and Seine cut through,
Paris passed an avalanche
The Garonne might have swelled the Manche !
FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY 21
in
Had the Garonne been inclined,
What easier than to reach the Saone?
Then (to Gascony unkind)
Hurrying on towards the Rh6ne,
Rhine and Danube crossed pardie,
The Garonne would drink the Black Sea !
IV
Had the Garonne been inclined
Arctic regions to explore,
Round Siberia having twined,
Quitting Oural's, Volga's shore,
With an ever onward roll
The Garonne might have thawed the Pole !
But the Garonne, disinclined
Other streams to put to shame,
Triumphs such as these resigned,
Native soil her only claim,
Tarn, she took, Lot and Dordogne,
The Garonne would not quit Gascoigne !
IBID.
MY BEEVES (MES BCEUFS)
i
Two oxen have I in my shed,
Milk-white with spots of ruddy hue.
'Tis by their toil the plough is sped,
Thro' witner's slough and summer's dew.
'Tis thanks to them, with golden store
My barns are piled from year to year,
In one week's time they gain me more
Than what they first cost at the fair.
Dear is my good wife Jeanne, her death I should deplore,
But dearer are my beeves, their loss would grieve me
more.
22 FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY
ii
When grown up is our Coralie,
And likely suitors come to woo,
No niggard will I prove, pardie !
Gold shall she have and farm stock too.
Should any ask my beeves beside,
Straightforward would the answer be,
My daughter quits me as a bride,
The oxen will remain with me.
Dear is my good wife Jeanne, her death I should deplore,
But dearer are my beeves, their loss would grieve me
more.
in
Aye ! eye them well, a goodly sight,
As snorting loud they stand abreast,
Upon their horns the birds alight,
Where'er they stop to drink or rest.
Each year when Mardi Gras falls due,
The Paris butchers come to buy;
But see my beeves decked out for view,
Then sold for slaughter? no, not I !
Dear is my good wife Jeanne, her death I should deplore,
But dearer are my beeves, their loss would grieve me
more.
PIERRE DUPONT.
THE SOLDIER'S RECEPTION (BON GlTE)
i
"GooD dame, pile not your logs so high,
Keep them for winter store.
My soaked habiliments are dry,
I quake with cold no more."
She shook her head, and for my sake
The bellows lusty plied,
"Hush, soldier, hush, and comfort take,"
She said, "my hearth beside."
FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY 23
ii
"Good dame, such lavishness forbear,
Let shelf and cellar be,
Yon snowy cloth, yon Sunday fare,
Are all too good for me."
Heedless she set out bread and meat,
Uncorked the long-stored wine,
Murmuring the while, " Eat, soldie*, eat,
Refresh that frame of thine."
in
"Good dame, what means that new-made bed,
Those sheets so finely spun?
On heaped-up straw in cattle shed
I'd snore till rise of sun."
The kind soul hearkened not a word,
Careful the pillows laid,
Smoothing the soft sheets lavendered,
"Rest, soldier, rest," she said.
IV
At dawn I find my haversack
Fall laden at my feet.
"Good dame, your largesses take back,
Why thus a stranger treat? "
But smiling ever mum she kept
Until I turned to go.
"Why, soldier, why?" she said, and wept,
" My boy is soldier too ! "
PAUL DEROULEDE.
THE FLUTE (LA FLUTE)
A REED was I, so poor and frail a thing
That any bird might crush with careless wing.
Behold m2, once of no account and mute,
Transformed into a rapture-yielding flute.
For, as he wandered by the marsh one morn,
An aged tramp, deeming I looked forlorn,
24 FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY
Bore me away, and ere the year was spent
With pains had made a perfect instrument.
Now when his fingers touch the pierced octave,
My being vibrates, and whilst wave on wave
Of sound melodic, hither, thither float,
Is vaguely echoed every passing note,
The hearts of man and beast thus stirred by me
Surrendering to the soul of harmony !
JEAN RICHEPIN.
SOLDIER, PAID A SOU (PETIT PIOU) 1
PETIT pioupiou,
Soldier, paid a sou.
What gained you on the Russian shore,
When with the bravest and the best
'Mid deadly fire and cannons' roar
You bore our flag and took no rest?
O'er hard-won fields our eagles flew,
Our cup of victory was full.
But what was glory's meed to you?
A name that of Sebastopol.
Petit pioupiou,
Soldier, paid a sou.
What gained you on the Italian plain,
When, fierce as warriors of old,
You fought with madness in the brain,
Your deeds in history's page enrolled,
Forgotten, beggared, aged, to-day,
Of battlefields, and blood-stained fame.
What your reward, I prithee say?
'Twas Solferino's glorious name.
Petit pioupiou,
. Soldier, paid a sou.
What gained you in that last great stand,
When Prussian forces like a flood
From east to west o'erspread the land,
France crimsoning with her children's blood?
1 Popular sobriquet of the infantry, formerly paid a sou, or halfpenny,
per diem.
FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY 25
Defeat, invasion brought us low,
Long held the foe our soil in fee,
What gained you in that overthrow?
My answer, friend A memory !
ALBERT DELPIT.
RUSTIC HOSPITALITY (CHARITE)
THE farm-folk dine; a grateful steam
Of soup, like incense, clouds the board;
Each, quitting plough and stabled team,
Now takes his place without a word.
About them clings the healthful air
Of fresh-stacked haulm and upturned mould :
Upon the shelves the copper ware
Gleam as if made of burnished gold.
A tattered starveling blocks the door
With outstretched hands and piteous whine.
"Sit, brother, sit, there's ample store,
None hungry go when farm-folk dine ! "
ROBERT CAZE.
THE CID (LE CID)
THROUGH the Sierra rode at eve the Cid,
Camp^ador, 1 his golden arms a-glow,
Splendour redoubled as the sun sank low.
All gold and gems he seemed, but though half hid
By rubied casque, still shot a fierier ray
His eyes than dazzling armour as it shone.
His foes subdued, he now subdued the sun
As proud and peerless he pursued his way.
1 Campeador (Spanish), a warrior ; here used as a distinctive
appellation.
26 FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY
Wondering from heights afar, the shepherds saw
That flaming form, that warrior clad in gold.
"Saint James, Camp^ador," they cried; "Behold!"
Hero and patron-saint confused in awe.
Slowly the radiant horseman rode alone,
When from a darksome hollow came a sound
Sad and sepulchral ; as he glanced around
His eyes fell on a figure lying prone,
Human but horrible, so dread a sight
That when the scarecrow rose mouthing a prayer,
As if the dust thus blown befouled the air
Backing, the charger caracoled with fright.
Calm sat Camp6ador, his plumes a-flame;
Then as archangel from his lofty seat,
Bending towards the outcast at his feet,
Lordly, he gave alms asked for in Christ's name.
Now happed a thing most moving to relate.
Upon his knees, incredulous, surprised
That he, a leper, shrunk from and despised,
Plague-stricken, castaway and reprobate,
Should thus meet looks of pity and of love,
Stirred by an impulse, overmastering fear,
Unto that form majestic drawing near,
The suppliant dared to kiss the knightly glove,
No human form touched by him till to-day !
And knowing that contagion could not pierce
Such envelope, with gratulation fierce
He let his brow upon the metal stay.
Unhorrified, unangered, suave and grand
Looked on the Cid. W T hat sudden thought now flashed
His mind across? His gauntlet off he dashed
And to the kneeling leper gave his hand !
BARBEY D'AUREVILLY.
FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY 27
VANITY (LE PETIT CHIEN)
ONCE on a time and far away,
The elephant stood first in might,
He had by many a forest fray
At last usurped the lion's right.
On peace and reign unquestioned bent,
The ruler in his pride of place,
Forthwith to life-long banishment
Doomed members of the lion race.
ii
Dispirited, their best laid low,
The vanquished could but yield to fate,
And turn their backs upon the foe
In silence nursing grief and hate.
A poodle neatly cropped and clipped,
With tasselled tail made leonine,
On hearing of the stern rescript,
Straightway set up a piteous whine.
in
" Alas ! " he moaned. " Ah, woe is me \
Where, tyrant, shall I shelter find;
Advancing years what will they be,
My home and comforts left behind ? "
A spaniel hastened at the cry,
"Come, mate, what's this to-do about?" .
"Oh, oh," the other gulped reply,
" For exile we must all set out ! "
IV
"Must all?" "No, you are safe, good friend;
The cruel Jaw smites us alone ;
Here undisturbed your days may end,
The lions must perforce begone."
28 FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY
"The lions? Brother, pray with these,
What part or lot have such as you? "
"What part or lot? You love to tease;
You know I am a lion too."
FLORIAN.
"OH! WAD SOME POWER," ETC. (LA TAUPE ET
LE LAPIN)
i
SMILE at my story as you may,
'Tis strange enough,
Nathless things happened as I say,
One moonlight night in dappled glade,
Like human sort, some rabbits played
At blindman's buff.
ii
With bents and dock-leaves twisted round
In bandage wise,
By turns each had his peepers bound,
Then all the rest about him frisked,
Their white-lined tails they gaily whisked
With frantic cries.
in
Disturbed by such unusual rout,
In burrow near,
A social-minded mole crept out,
And deeming 'twas a common dance,
The meUe joined, at first advance
Caught by the ear.
IV
"Good gentlemen," the leader said,
" It were a shame,
Our neighbour here who lacks the aid
Of organs that we thus employ,
Should not some privilege enjoy
In such a game "
FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY 29
V
" I then propose " "Beg pardon, sirs "
Burst forth the mole,
" No favour, please, no kind demurs,
I see, I tell you, with the best,
I'll be blindfolded like the rest,
And break no rule."
VI
The courteous coneys of his mind
Now feigned to be,
But as he felt them careless bind,
" No make-belief ! " irate he cried.
"Your bandage is too loosely tied,
For still I see ! "
IBID.
A FABLE FOR ALL SEASONS (LE PRETRE DE
JUPITER)
i
A PRIEST who served Olympian Jove,
Two daughters owned, both passing fair,
And whom as did such sire behove
He reared with all but mother's care.
Their doweries modest; priests must live
On what the generous choose to give.
ii
Protectors sortable for both
He deemed it his behest to find,
Ere long discovering, nothing loth,
Sons-in-law suited to his mind.
Men following each a proper trade
And looking out for help-meets staid.
in
The first, a favoured stretched of ground
Enriched with never-tiring care,
As seasons in their turn came round
Producing fruits beyond compare.
Such grapes and melons ! At the sight
Mouths watered all, as well they might.
80 FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY
IV
The next a potter's name had won,
With skilful and ingenious turns
Exposing to the noonday sun
Amphoras, lamps and funeral urns.
To many a foreign far-off mart
He shipped the triumphs of his art.
v
Passed honeymoons, the sire made haste
To see the brides. "Well, daughter mine,
Have matters turned out for the best,
A prize, this wedded lot of thine? "
"Aye, truly," the young matron said,
"No maid was ever happier wed.
VI
"A model husband is my spouse,
For home, affection, counsel, apt,
But one thing makes him knit his brows,
The springs are dry, the earth is chapt,
They perish, sweet herbs, fruit and flowers,
Do, father, beg of Jove some showers."
VII
"Be easy, child, Jove's festival
I celebrate to-morrow morn,
Into his ear I will not fail
To pour thy prayer, my loved first-born,
Adieu, adieu." Then off he hied
To interview the younger bride.
VIII
"Yes, father," was her prompt reply,
"My good man's business prospers well,
And best entreated wife am I.
But desperately we need a spell
Of cloudless sun to dry the ware,
Do whisper in Jove's ear a prayer."
FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY 31
IX
"My darling, fain I'd intercede
On thy behalf, thy sister's too,
But whilst fine weather is thy need,
'Tis rain she'd have the Sire bestow.
To leave these things is better far,
Than men, the great gods wiser are ! "
IBID.
THE PHILOSOPHER AND THE OWL
ONE of the wiser sort, as haps
In this poor world of snips and snaps,
Was hustled, bustled, jeer'd at, boo'd,
Then outlawed for his country's good,
He must away.
Of fortune, home and friends bereft,
Only philosophy was left
To be his stay.
Wandering one eve a thicket nigh
He heard an agonizing cry,
And swiftly making for the sound,
Perceived an owl upon the ground.
Magpie and crow, jay, rook and daw
Tearing his flesh with beak and claw.
"Our country's foe, vile wretch," they shout,
"Those wicked eyes we'll now pluck out."
Vainly he spoke in self-defence,
"Was ever heard such impudence? "
But seized with fright
By loud " Halloo ! " the miscreants flew,
Leaving their fellow all but dead,
A piteous sight.
Sorrow and wisdom as we know
Soften the heart to others' woe.
"Prithee, poor victim," asked the sage,
"The reasons of such murderous rage?"
"The reasons, master? There's but one,
Dark night my eyes could pierce alone ! "
IBID.
82 FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY
CRITICISM APPRAISED (LA FAUVETTE AND LE
ROSSIGNOL)
i
FROM noon till eve the Warbler sang,
'Twas all the happiness he knew;
At last the chaffinch came one day
To prattle of an envious crew.
"The sparrow, jay, and crow," said he,
"Birds great and small, both old and young,
Even the stupid goose, declare,
It's getting time you held your tongue.
II
"Yet you sing on and pay no heed,
Throughout the livelong summer day ;
I fain such patience would learn too,
The secret of it tell, I pray."
"Brother," the Warbler said, and smiled,
" The Nightingale once praised my song ;
When mighty masters thus approve,
Why should we heed the vulgar throng? "
LACHAMBEAUDIE.
THE ORCHESTRA (L'ORCHESTRE)
i
CYNIC and Optimist one day
Discussed their systems grave and gay.
"Good friend," quoth Pessimist, "you see,
Your Golden Age can never be.
Each mortal holds his special creed.
When did you find ev'n two agreed?
We all are brethren, I admit,
Yet somehow no good comes of it.*
Just as friend Optimist began
Describing his Utopian plan,
A bill upon a door hard by,
Headed "Grand Concert," met his eye.
FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY 33
They took their tickets, entered in.
Was ever such discordant din?
Each instrument, both great and small,
Musicians tune them, one and all.
in
Cried Pessimist, "What parallel
My theories sets forth so well?
Such din and turmoil, to my mind,
Depict the state of humankind ! "
A moment later, at a sign,
Discord is harmony divine.
No note is lost till strong and full,
The thousands make a glorious whole.
IV
Said Optimist, triumphant now,
"Good friend, thus much you must allow,
If no two men e'er thought as one,
A mass can move in unison.
When each has found his proper sphere,
As hath each trained musician here,
Life and society will be
One vast concerted harmony."
IBID.
THE WINDS AND THE ZEPHYR
As was their wont, to hold divan
In caverned gloom the winds had met,
Where blusteringly each began
His special prowess to relate.
'Twas now a tale of splitting decks,
Of drowning cries and tempests' roar,
Of rafts engulphed and tottering wrecks,
And brave men's bodies washed ashore.
Came next a list of inland squalls,
Of devastated thorpe and town,
Of home-folk caught by crumbling walls,
And roof-trees tossed about like down.
34 FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY
A third with self-elation told
Of flowering orchards bared in May,
How cornfields, erst as ruddy gold,
Mere mash of blackened stover lay.
Meanwhile into the antre stole
A Zephyr, who with horror heard
The shameless vaunts of crime and dole,
The cheers that followed every word.
Desired his deeds to tell in turn,
"My brothers," modestly he said,
"When as the dog-days fiercely burn
I fan the rose's drooping head
" To waft a breeze upon the brow
Of labourers who sweat and swink,
To freshen streams that hotly flow
For parched-up man and beast to drink
" Of such my tasks " his soft voice died
Mid outbursts of lugubrious mirth,
That threatened havoc far and wide,
And shook the very roots of earth.
"Rejoice in miscreance if ye will,"
The Zephyr said, and turned to go,
"Be mine the meek ambition still,
Kind influences to bestow ! "
IBID.
WISE AND WORLDLY-WISE
QUOTH Worldly-wise to Wise "Good brother,
Why about wisdom all this pother?
You rack your brains re good and evil
Why one man's saint and t'other devil,
Take my advice, pray, cease to ponder,
Follow me to the great stage yonder,
FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY 35
Shut up those books, put out your candle,
Men for your uses, learn to handle,
Adroitly play on human nature,
And every fellow is your creature.
Place, power and millions, all are easy
If, in the getting, you're not queasy."
"I thank you," was the ready answer,
"Certes, you read a merry dance, sir.
But why on earth this sudden hurry,
Just now you seemed in no such flurry?
Your methods have but one objection,
There's such a thing as retrospection ! "
IBID.
THE RH6NE AND LAKE LEMAN
FROM the mountains onward dashing,
Hurtling, tumbling, without break,
Rushed the Rh6ne like lightning flashing
As it overtook the lake.
" Stay, oh, stay ! " soft Leman pleaded ;
"Here thy waves may gently glide,
Unembarrassed, unimpeded,
Sheltering rocks on every side.
"Why this unrestrained endeavour,
Every inch wrung from your foes,
Wind beset and storm-tossed ever,
Whilst awaits you such repose ? "
Vainly importuned and beckoned,
Swift as when its course began,
Never tarrying for a second,
On the noble river ran.
Wide and wider passage cleaving,
Right and left its boons bestowed,
Fertile fields, rich gardens leaving
Where before a desert showed.
D 2
86 FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY
Like to thee, majestic river,
Is the soul by faith possessed,
Of high gifts the would-be giver,
Careless of delight or rest.
Naught to him is fierce contention,
Naught to him what joys might be.
On he hastes without abstention,
As the river to the sea.
IBID.
These poems do not come under the head of Domestic Poetry, but
are added to make my collection of renderings from French verse
complete.
CAIN
BEFORE Jehovah's awful face fled Cain, and dire
The tempest raged above his abject head !
And with him went his children and his wife,
Dishevelled, wild, and clothed in skins of beasts.
All day they went, led by their sombre guide,
But when night came and they had reached the foot
Of some vast mountain towering o'er the plain,
The weary women and the children prayed
That he would let them rest awhile and sleep;
So all lay down upon the mountain side.
Cain, pondering, slept not; when at last he rose
To peer into the darkness of the night,
He saw an Eye that watched him where he stood.
"I am too near," he cried, and straightway roused
His sleeping sons, his daughters, and his wife ;
And following him they .fled across the waste.
For thrice ten days and nights he hurried on,
Nor spake he, nor looked back, nor rested once,
But shaken as an aspen by the wind
At every sound, he led them to the sea.
"This halting-place is safe, here will we stay,
For we have reached the limits of the world,"
FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY 37
He said, and there they tarried ; but behold !
He saw the Eye that he had seen before.
Then, "Hide me," he cried, and quailing coursed to earth.
His children trembling as they saw his fear.
"Stretch out the tents," he bade, "and make a wall,
That I may see no more ; " and Jabal, sire
Of shepherd-dwellers in the pathless waste,
Did his behest, and screened him from the sky.
"Thou seest nothing, O my father, now?"
Asked fair-haired Zillah, Lamech's wife; but Cain
In desperation said, " I see it still ! "
Then Jubal, sire of those who touch the harp
And swell the organ stops to mighty strains,
Raised high a brazen wall, but Cain, behind,
Saw still the Eye that watched him from its place.
And Enoch said, "We'll gird a city round,
With walls so thick, and towers so horrible,
That, when once closed, nought shall have power to pass."
Then Tubal-Cain, sire of all those who work
In brass and iron, sire of the forgers, set
His hand unto the earth, and cunning built
A city, superhuman, vast and dread.
They bound each granite block with brazen band,
They piled the walls as high as mountain sides ;
And on the portal they had written clear,
" Here Heaven enters not ! " Infernal stood
The city, making darkness o'er the plain.
Within a central tower they placed their sire.
And once again the gentle Zillah asked
"Thou seest nothing, O my father, now?"
But Cain in fear replied, " I see it yet.
I will no longer dwell upon the earth,"
He said, "but underneath, alone
Will spend my days, nought seeing, of none seen."
They dug a cave, sepulchral, dark, and deep,
And Cain, well pleased, descended, and the door
Was closed upon him, shutting out the day ;
But when he sat him down within this tomb
The eye of Conscience was upon him still !
VICTOR HUGO.
363139
38 FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY
TO A BLIND YOUTH (L'AVEUGLE)
i
NAY, not too bitterly bewail,
Dear youth, a lot bereft of light,
The dark impenetrable veil,
That shrouds the outer world in night.
ii
No more, alas ! to mortal eyes,
Is earth a wholly beauteous place,
For what man's use of Paradise,
But with vile passions to deface?
in
Seek comfort in that perfect day,
That realm untouched by soil or sin,
For bright as star or solar ray,
The radiance that dawns within !
IV
Blind Homer and his great compeer,
The mighty Milton, moved sublime,
Each in his soul-illumined sphere,
A sphere bequeathed to Man and Time !
EMILE MARIOTTE.
TWO WAYS HATH LIFE (LES DEUX ROUTES)
Two ways hath Life. One as a stream
With flowers environed quits the source,
The even tenor of its course,
Hardly betrayed by transient gleam.
No echo marks the onward roll
Of waves that without plaint or sigh,
Winning scant glance from passer-by,
Unhasting reach the appointed goal.
FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY 39
One as a torrent unconfined
Bursts forth headlong with frenzied will,
No agency its rage can still
Nor barriers curb, nor forces bind.
The first achieves, the second aims,
One limits hath, the other none
With every day its task begun
Patience, Ambition, are their names.
ALFRED DE MUSSET.
SADNESS (TRISTESSE)
MY life is wasted, strength is spent,
My friends have vanished one by one.
Light-heartedness and proud content,
The poet's faith in self is gone !
ii
Truth once I looked on as a friend,
She smiled responsive for a day,
Cruel I found her in the end,
And turned my head another way.
in
Eternal all the same is Truth,
Let any that great fact ignore,
And witless as in cradled youth
They fall asleep to wake no more.
IV
God speaks and we must make reply
Though hearkening with reluctant ears.
The little left me till I die,
I owe unto a few sad tears !
IBID.
40 FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY
BARBERINE'S SONG (CHANSON)
O KNIGHT resplendent, off to wars afar,
Why must you roam,
Remote from home?
Note yon dark sky without a single star.
And snares o'erlay
The wanderer's way.
ii
Could you believe the love you left behind
An hour ago
Was fickle too?
Vain seekers of renown, 'tis yours to find
That glories pass
As breath on glass.
in
O knight resplendent, why must you be gone,
With lance and shield
To battlefield?
Whilst I, what can I do but weep alone,
Who charmed erewhile
With careless smile?
IBID.
SONG TO HOPE (CHANSON)
WHEN coquettish Hope, the sweeting !
Beckons but to give the slip,
Now advancing, now retreating,
Ever with a smile on lip.
Willy-nilly, we must follow,
Hardly knowing where we tread,
Not so swift of wing the swallow,
As the heart by fancy led !
FRENCH DOMESTIC POETRY 41
Heeds she aught whilst we pursue her,
Arch enchantress, tricksome elf?
Strange the chit should have for wooer
Destiny, Time's second self !
IBID.
THE POET'S CALLING (IMPROMPTU)
BUILDING verse to eternize
Momentary phantasies,
Wooing beauty, goodness, truth,
Never parting with his youth,
By haphazard, grave or gay,
Laughing, weeping, on his way,
Little nothings as he goes
All sufficing for his muse,
Into pearls transmuting tears,
Thus the poet spends his years.
Such the passion and the dream
That the poet best beseem !
IBID.
II
A GREAT LOVE-STORY
MADAME HANSKA
[Facing p. 45.
A GREAT LOVE-STORY
"II faut un peu d'esprit pour aimer."
Lettres h rtrangere, vol. i, p. 143.
SURELY the greatest in the world ! And in litera-
ture the longest.
The first two volumes of Balzac's Letters to his
Etrangere, the Polish lady who after seventeen
years' correspondence became his wife, must con-
tain respectively as much printed matter as Clarissa
Harlowe and Sir Charles Grandison. A third, in
preparation, is promised the public about a year
hence ; a fourth is to follow at some indefinite period.
A hundred and sixty-one letters, written between
January 1833 and the beginning of 1842, fill the first
volume of 575 closely-printed large octavo pages;
the second, carrying on the story until the close of
1844, contains eighty-seven missives, filling fewer
pages by a hundred. When the collection is com-
plete, these famous love-letters will dwarf any others
in existence. By comparison, the immortal out-
pourings of Mile, de 1'Espinasse, the equally famous
Lettres d'amour of Mirabeau are mere booklets,
anthologies for the pocket. The Balzac love-letters
will require as many shelves as the Balzac literature !
Was ever, indeed, such a monument raised to a
woman ? Compared to this tribute in paper and ink,
the tomb of Cecilia Metella sinks into insignificance,
mausoleums raised to Egyptian queens are mere
45
46 A GREAT LOVE-STORY
bagatelles. And not one, but a dozen circumstances
render Balzac's Lettres a VEtrangere unique in
interest. In the first place, for many years the corre-
spondence was clandestine. Again, the transmission
of letters to and from France and a remote corner
of Russian Poland was beset with other difficulties.
On the lover's part, letters written after eighteen
hours' literary labour were often delayed by cost of
postage. The lady belonged to the Polish nobility,
and although immensely rich could always get her
own missives franked, but they had to be dispatched
surreptitiously. In winter, moreover, the six miles
of steppes lying between her chateau and the nearest
post-house would often be impassable even to a
mounted Cossack.
Every feature, indeed, of this almost interminable
courtship on paper is romantic in the extreme.
The sun-king, as that arch autocrat and shameless
voluptuary, Louis XIV, was called, fell in love not
with Madame de Maintenon's self, for he had not as
yet seen her, but with her epistolary charm. After
similar fashion was magnetized the author of the
Come die Humaine. For months, nay, a year and a
half before seeing the object of his idolatry,
Balzac's passionate, almost frenzied love-making on
paper went on. Opening with a pianissimo, we soon
reach a con multa esfiressione, a crescendo, a molto
furore quickly following. Every musical term, ad-
jectival, substantival, adverbial, occurs to us as we
read the thousand and odd pages of the two volumes.
And, carried away by the witchery of a romantic
attachment, the laborious novel-writer here lets the
pen do with him as he will.
A GREAT LOVE-STORY 47
Balzac, and none knew the fact better than him-
self, was no stylist. He was utterly without the
peculiarly French gift of perfect expression. Too
large, far too generous for jealousy, we learn that he
envied his friend Gautier's ravishing prose. A sen-
tence would be sometimes gone over by him seven
times, his manuscripts were veritable palimpsests,
his proofs, corrected, re-corrected and re-corrected
again, being the despair of compositors, and
diminished his profits by thousands of pounds. Yet
long-windedness, reiterations, inelegancies abound.
Judging from results, we should suppose that for
style Balzac cared not a gry. Rhythm in Michelet's
opinion, the corner-stone, the crown of style is
absent. So careless, indeed, was Balzac that in
citing a foreign word, the English, my dear, he did
not take the trouble to look at a dictionary, and
" dee " for " dear " remains in Le Lys dans la Vallee
to this day.
But the letters, notes and postscripts dashed off to
his adored, one may almost say deified Etrangere,
have often the charm and grace of spontaneity, also
a poetic turn absent from his masterpieces. That
all have escaped destruction is a fact for which
lovers of Balzac and psychologists generally cannot
be too grateful. No more remarkable human docu-
ment exists.
48 A GREAT LOVE-STORY
II
The story of Balzac's life has been so agreeably
told for English readers 1 that I will only glance at
a few leading and elucidatory facts.
Honore de Balzac was of peasant birth ; his father
was born in the parish of Saint-Martin de Canezac,
and was there registered as Bernard Fra^ois Balssa,
son of a labourer. How it came about that the patro-
nymic was changed and that the novelist regarded
the particle as his by right of ancestry remains
mysterious. " My father was quite within his rights,"
he wrote proudly and much to the amusement of his
contemporaries, "having on this subject consulted
the Archives."
The baptismal register preserved in the little
Languedocian village proves the contrary, and that
Balzac adds another name to Alphonse Karr's in-
teresting catalogue of illustrious peasants. 2 Instead
of belonging to the aristocratic Auvergnat house
from which in the sixteenth century arose Jean Louis
de Balzac, one of the earliest masters of French
prose, his name-sake came of homelier stock, the
right to nobility being earned by his pen.
Balzac was no fetish, no idol, as is the French
child of to-day. One of four, two sisters and a
brother, his father being a self-centred, whimsical
and impractical man with literary ambitions, and his
mother somewhat hard of nature and given to favour-
itism, the boy's early years recall David Copperfield
1 The Life of Balzac, by Mary F. Sandars. Murray, 1904.
2 Pay sans Illustres^ Plutarque des Campagne. Paris, 1838.
A GREAT LOVE-STORY 49
and other tragic childhoods on record. Balzac pere,
or, as we should say, Balzac senior, held an official
position of respectability. Means do not seem to
have been straitened, but the great man to be was
apparently that unfortunate being, a child in the
way. Imagine a sensitive, affectionate boy of eight
sent to a prison-like school kept by priests, no
woman as matron, there kept for six whole years
without a single day spent beyond its precincts, by
fits of idleness and wayward moods incurring the
ferule, the dark cell and other barbarous punish-
ments. School life over, he was forced into a routine
odious to him, the dead-alive atmosphere of a law-
yer's office; thence, after a year and a half, trans-
ferred to a notary's, finally gaining his freedom and
his heart's desire. On reaching majority, but not
without sharp contention, he was allowed to try his
fortunes as an author. Henceforth till he died in his
prime, physically and mentally a wreck, much, it is
to be feared, broken-hearted also, his life was a
tragedy. No narrative in the ironically called
Comedie Humaine exceeds it in illusion and gloom.
No biography was ever half so romantic or half so
depressing.
Who, as he reads, can help recalling that won-
drous story of Maroof in the Arabian Nights, the
penniless wanderer with the formula " Abundance "
ever on his lips?
In worse case than the oriental cobbler wooing a
princess, promising camel-loads of gems and gold,
Balzac, hunted down by creditors, perpetually in
danger of arrest, revelled in phantasmal wealth.
Never for a single moment of his literary career was
50 A GREAT LOVE-STORY
he solvent. Only for occasional and brief intervals
was he, in mariner's phrase, " luffed up in the lulls "
like a ship in a storm. Glimpses he caught of the
Palace Beautiful, the Delectable Mountains, the
delicate plain called Ease, and the land of Beulah,
but, unlike Bunyan's pilgrim, ever remaining bur-
dened as when he set out.
" Was ever poet so trusted before ? " exclaimed
Dr. Johnson, on learning of poor Goldie's indebted-
ness, the author of the immortal Vicar owing a
thousand pounds at his death. What must the sage
have thought of Balzac's thousands owed, bills,
pledges, mortgaged brains, and the rest? Little
wonder that the question of money dwarfs every
other throughout his novels.
Ill
The ten years following are one continuous record
of the most extravagant hopes and the most crushing
disappointments, sisterly affection, romantic attach-
ments and literary fellowship affording help and con-
solation. In his devoted sister Laure he had a tender
confidante and trusty counsellor, in Mme. de Berny,
so-called the Dilecta, 1 he found closest sympathy
and intellectual stimulant, also material support, and
in the " good, sound, household common-sense " of
the excellent Mme. Carraud, another unfailing friend.
Among early associates of his own set were Theo-
phile Gautier, Emile de Girardin, Jules Sandeau,
and other men of letters more or less famous, at least
1 As this charming lady was ever called by her adorer. A book
concerning her has lately appeared in Paris, La dilecta de Balzac,
A GREAT LOVE-STORY 51
before the world, in their day. To set against such
advantages and the audition of such lecturers as
Guizot, Cousin and Villemain, also the sight of
Talma in Cinna and the run of the great Paris
libraries, came disaster after disaster.
First of all fell the kind of card-house raised by
most literary aspirants. Arch- El Doradist from the
first, firmly convinced of his dramatic genius, Balzac
produced an historic play called Cromwell. The
solemn reading by himself before his family and
friends fell flat, and evoked from an authority con-
sulted later, the verdict the young author was fitted
for any other profession but literature. Undis-
mayed, Balzac betook himself to novel-writing, not
as yet, in the words of Tristram Shandy, "to be
famous, but to be fed." He wrote dozens of novels,
most of which are now forgotten, receiving for
these sums varying from a few hundred to a
thousand francs, and often paid by bills at long
dates. Between the years 1821 and 1824 no less
than thirty-one volumes were written, besides pam-
phlets, on political and historic subjects. In the
last-named year it really seemed as if fortune had
knocked at his door, and that his visions of oriental
wealth and splendour were all but realized.
Again and again Balzac averred that the two
ambitions of his life were to become famous and to
be loved. But a passion dominating these was his
passion for wealth, for a bottomless purse wherewith
to outshine Haroun-el-Raschid himself. As a law-
yer's clerk he had shown exceptional ability, and for
his misfortune a well-meaning family friend be-
thought himself that the writing and publishing of
B 2
52 A GREAT LOVE-STORY
books must prove profitable in association. The
business started on capital supplied by this friend
and his family proving a dire failure, more money
was borrowed, and with hopes unabated Balzac re-
started life as a printer and type-founder. A second
time bankruptcy stared him in the face, and although
the bankrupt was no longer pilloried with the green
cap on his head before the Bourse or Exchange as
during Napoleon's time, he was still regarded, which
indeed is the case now-a-days, next door to a
criminal. Money was scraped up, family honour
escaped stigma, Balzac, now aged twenty-nine, find-
ing himself a debtor to the extent of four thousand
pounds, first fetter of the ever-lengthening chain
dragging him down till the end. The next few years
brought him recognition, soon developing into fame,
a romantic love-affair or two, squabbles innumer-
able with printers, publishers and editors, and occa-
sional glimpses of prosperity. The years 1829-1832
gave the world La Peau de Chagrin, this chef-
d'oeuvre one of almost countless works. When we
learn that he wrote from two o'clock in the morning
till six, from nine till noon, and, after a light break-
fast, from one till six sat at his desk correcting
proofs, we can understand how in a single year
were produced seventy works, novels and essays.
What seems less comprehensible is the labour he
would occasionally spend in construction, sometimes
a whole night on a single sentence. Boileau, who
wrote ]e cherche et je sue, " I seek and I sweat,"
for the one word wanted, the right word, the equally
laborious Flaubert, whose style is impeccable,
attained their object, but with Balzac the toil was
A GREAT LOVE-STORY 53
wasted. What, indeed, does a great novelist want
with style ! Our own Sir Walter, our equally be-
loved Dickens, for instance would the polish of a
Pater, the brilliance of a De Quincey, have raised
them by the thousandth part of an inch?
All this while Maroof's emulator was reiterating
that delusive word, his eyes looking for the camel-
loads of treasure so slow to come. Utterly imprac-
tical and stone-blind to results, he indulged in
luxuries that would be ludicrous were his life-story
less tragic. Thus in 1830 we read here of horses,
grooms, princely banquets, and other extravagances,
there of not having the wherewithal for a dinner !
From this time, too, he began the ruinous habit of
drawing bills, in order to satisfy his more importun-
ate creditors. And the more he owed and the greater
grew the craving for splendour, the more desperately
he worked. Indeed, the crowning marvel of this
marvellous career consists in the fact that he had
not worn out alike iron frame and adamantine brain
before destiny came disguised as a letter.
IV
It was on the 28th of February, 1833, that Balzac,
then in Dante's "midway of this our mortal life,"
and in the aurora of European fame, received his
first note from VEtrangbe.
The talismanic charm of that missive will never
be textually known, Madame Hanska's letters, one
and all, having been destroyed. But talismanic it
must have been. The author of La Peau de Chagrin
54 A GREAT LOVE-STORY
was now constantly receiving epistles from admirers
or critics of the other, the letter-writing sex. Why,
then, should one especial sheet have wrought such a
spell? Was it the fact of remoteness, that the
envelope had traversed Europe? Was it the deli-
cately worded suggestion of romance to come ? Or
did fastidious handwriting, choice paper, scented
wax, above all, the impression of a coronet, work the
witchery ?
" To be famous and to be loved " ; thus again and
again to his sister and other confidants Balzac had
summed up his ambition. But the woman who
loved him must not only be spirited, intellectual,
beautiful, she must come of good birth, possess the
indispensable attraction of noble carriage, refined
manners and social distinctions.
All we know is that from the day of reception a
star arose in this man's life on which henceforth his
hopes, dreams and aspirations were ever fixed. It
seems as if great geniuses never loved but once.
Sir Walter could never banish from memory the
love of his youth. Fleckless was his domestic
career, a model was he ever of fireside virtues; yet
we learn that the white-haired, broken-down old
man would sit down and poetize the romance of
early days, " the barb that rankles in the heart."
Byron, too, in that Last Phase?- lately so well
recounted by a judicial enthusiast, if the phrase will
pass, remained true to one memory. The adored
image of Mary Chaworth flitted before him as he lay
dying in a wretched hovel of Missolonghi, final
stage of a moral ascension, a noble, an annealing
1 By R. Edgecombe. Murray, 1909.
A GREAT LOVE-STORY 55
page that may well put to shame his immaculately
respectable detractors.
The Polish chatelaine was somewhat younger
than Balzac. The portrait affixed to the French
edition of the letters represents her as a full-blown
beauty, exceptionally intelligent, at the same time
sensuous, self-conscious and romantic. The bust
gives a pleasanter impression. Wife of a rural
magnate and millionaire almost double her age and
with whom she had little in common, existence in
the drearily situated chateau must have been dull
enough but for two distractions : the education of an
adored little daughter and reading. For upwards of
a century French literature had been assiduously
cultivated in the land as yet without a literature of
its own. We can easily conceive how the works of
a wholly new and most original novelist would be
welcomed at Wierzchownia. The correspondence
came about in this wise. Balzac had written La
physiologic du Manage. With many of his women
admirers, Mme. Hanska took umbrage at the tone
of this work, and her note contained an expostula-
tion, as well as much warmly expressed praise.
Why would he give cruel portraiture of her sex
instead of worthier ideals, as depicted in the Scenes
de La Vie Privee ?
This first letter from the muse of the Ukraine
reached Balzac through his publisher, Gosselin,
rather one of his manifold publishers, for their name
was legion.
Naturally, on Mme. Hanska's part great caution
would be necessary. Ready as was the great lady
to rush headlong into a romantic adventure, the wife
56 A GREAT LOVE-STORY
of a Polish nobleman could not openly correspond
with a famous French author, an author, moreover,
of works deemed scandalous.
Throughout this history the conviction is forced
upon us that much as his Etrangere may have loved
Balzac, or rather the love of Balzac, she loved rank
more. The lodestar of his own horizon never paled.
His passion gathered intensity as the long, weary
years of waiting dragged on. In the case of the
chatelaine, wife and adoring mother it was otherwise.
From the first, enthusiasm, affection, love, call it what
we will, came second ; far outstripping romance stood
maternal devotion. And here, as it was with Madame
de Sevigne, alike intellectually and warmth of feel-
ing, the daughter could not for a moment be com-
pared to the mother.
V
The first letter, dated January 1833, n ly> like its
successors, a very long one, began and ended with
the accustomed formalities, " Madame " and " re-
spectful homage." But how much Balzac's interest
had been excited by his unknown correspondent's
initiative the following highly poetic passage
shows
" Maybe you will never receive another line from
me, and that the friendship you have awakened is
doomed to perish like a lightning-blasted flower of
the woodlands. Rest assured, anyhow, that this
friendship is warm and sincere, and that you are
respected and adored, as every woman would wish
to be by one whose heart is youthful and uncon-
A GREAT LOVE-STORY 57
taminated. Have you not shed perfume on my
hours? Do I not owe you the word of encourage-
ment that is as a drop of water in the desert ? "
The second letter, following the other during the
same month, becomes quite confidential, and ends
with the dithyrambic
"Adieu; had not my rose faded I would have
sent you a petal. Were you less of a fay, less way-
ward, less mysterious, I would say write to me
often."
The third missive, written a month later, is openly
lover-like. He writes
" If you only knew with what avidity an unsought,
solitary soul seizes upon a true affection ! I love
you, unknown one, and this so strange thing is but
the natural outcome of an empty, unhappy life, a
life filled only with ideas, its misfortunes alleviated
by dreamed-of joys. To myself, if to any one in
the world, should such an adventure happen. I
am like some prisoner hearing in his cell a sweet,
far-off woman's voice. The influence of that voice
possesses his entire being. After long hours devoted
to reverie and hope, after imaginary journeys in
search of the young, beautiful dream-woman, to find
her would be joy beyond mortal endurance. All
this you may look upon as madness, but it is the
truth, and more than the truth. What if heart,
imagination and romantic passion are given in my
works far short of the writer's passion and romance !
No one is more wedded than myself to the poetry
of sentiment."
The fourth very long letter, written after several
weeks' interval, ends with the words
58 A GREAT LOVE-STORY
" I have confided to you my life-story, which is as
much as to say, mind, heart, soul are yours."
And in the fifth occurs the 'following
" Ah ! if you only knew how a secret passion
vivifies, renders exultant one's existence ! "
But the dream-woman of the Ukraine knew this
only too well. With her, passion might be transient
whilst it lasted, the intoxication possessed her entire
being no less than was the case with her lover. We
divine from his own letters how the flame was fanned
by the lady's, not one of which, unfortunately, can
be otherwise appraised.
A striking feature of the correspondence is the
nonchalance displayed by both writers. Mme.
Hanska's letters reached Balzac by roundabout ways
and under the utmost secrecy. Her lover's long
missives were also dispatched and delivered with
caution. But neither the one nor the other seem to
have felt a qualm of conscience. As far as we learn,
Balzac's adored Eve her real name was Evelina
had no reason to complain of her husband, except
that he was naturally dull and double her age.
She was outwardly a rigid Catholic, and literally
worshipped her plain, giggling nonentity of a
daughter. And she stood high in worldly esteem.
Yet this sentimental acquaintance on paper was soon
allowed to stand before wifely, motherly and social
duty. For many years love of Balzac, rather his
love for herself, rendered exuberant a hitherto un-
satisfying life. We must believe that when, later,
again and again the lover praised her "splendid
forehead," he did not exaggerate, and that her recog-
A GREAT LOVE-STORY 59
nition of his genius and sympathy with his aims
betokened an intellect above the average.
Strange to say, but for the lady's initiative the pair
might never have met, a contingency, certes, happier
for both ! A few months later of this year, to
Balzac's great joy, Mme. Hanska announced her
forthcoming trip to Switzerland. Accompanied by
her husband, daughter and governess, she should be
at Neuchatel towards the close of the summer.
A letter from him, dated end of August, he writes
thus : " Oh ! beloved Evelina, a thousand blessings
for this gift of your love. You have no idea with
what fidelity I love you, as yet unknown, yet known
of the soul. . . ."
And farther on, after a gentle remonstrance con-
cerning her jealousy of his dilecta, "a second
mother, a woman of fifty-eight who has proved my
guardian angel," he adds : " Una fides, yes, angel of
my adoration, one love only, one single love is yours.
Be joyous, then, beloved; your name means my
entire life, for you I am ready to suffer the worst."
Wild and whirling words as such utterances may
sound, not a syllable of the last sentence was belied.
Throughout the remaining years of his career,
Mme. Hanska's name meant all in all to him; for
her sake he did indeed suffer the worst.
VI
The Neuchatel meeting did not end after the
fashion of Bret Harte's delightful story. In The
60 A GREAT LOVE-STORY
Sappho of Green Springs he describes how a city
editor seeks his unknown muse, a poetess living in
some remote country village. On reaching the little
station and inquiring his way to the lady's house of
a lad " freckled as a thrush's egg," he is taken aback
by the reply, " Lor, that's my ma ! " The sweet
singer was a middle-aged, careworn housewife whose
knack at verse-writing helped the pot to boil.
Quite otherwise was it in Balzac's case, although
the lady's confidences to her too obsequious Swiss
governess may have told another story.
On a certain September afternoon, then, the pair
met in a walk overlooking the lake, both, we may
be sure, with beating hearts.
What was Balzac's ravishment to behold the living
embodiment of his dreams, a handsome, aristocratic,
exquisitely dressed lady he would not have been a
Frenchman had he passed by the least little perfec-
tion of toilette birth and breeding betokened by
stately carriage, no ideal characteristic wanting !
Probably Balzac's wonderful eyes prevented any-
thing like a crushing disillusion, and very soon his
equally enchanting tongue would awaken enthusi-
asm matching his own. Thickset, inclined to corpu-
lence, his somewhat Napoleonic features marred
by an extraordinarily heavy chin has not some
one written of Balzac's "dewlap"? carelessly,
shabbily habited, the outward man could hardly
prove attractive.
But the meeting ended in rapture, kisses and
interchange of lovers' vows. To his sister and con-
fidante the great novelist wrote of all these things,
of his adored one's raven locks, fine olive com-
A GREAT LOVE-STORY 61
plexion and pretty hands. He wrote also with happy
unconcern of having made M. de Hanska's acquaint-
ance. Why the particle is never used in citing the
lady's name we do not know.
A pathetic figure is that of the elderly, unendowed,
ennuye and easily beguiled Polish gentleman.
Balzac's conversational powers, maybe a little well-
timed flattery, soon rendered him a great favourite
of the discounted husband. Indeed when, later on,
two burning love-letters accidentally fell into his
hands, quite unsuspectingly he accepted the ex-
planation of writer and recipient. The matter had
been a joke, pure and simple !
Nevertheless, the utmost precautions were always
taken regarding the transmission of letters. Again
and again Balzac urged care. Soon after the meet-
ing he writes : " Oh ! angel mine, it is only through
letters that misfortunes happen. On my knees, I
implore you, have some sure hiding-place, some cave,
some mine-like depositary for these witnesses of our
love. So order things that not even a momentary
disquietude on this account can trouble you."
The four days at Neuchatel had been a brief
respite from piled-up anxieties, law-suits, quarrels,
literary disappointments, debts, duns and stultifying
impecuniosity.
Henceforth Balzac journalizes to his beloved.
The most fervent and ofttimes poetically expressed
declarations being followed by distressing con-
fidences. Thus, immediately after "the beautiful
days at Aranjuez," he writes
"Ah, when shall I possess thy beloved portrait?
If mounted, let it be placed between enamel plates
62 A GREAT LOVE-STORY
no thicker than a five-franc piece, for I would have it
perpetually next my heart. It will become my talis-
man, so placed, the source of strength and courage."
A fortnight later she receives these dreary
details
" Money is an appalling thing. By hook or by
crook I must scrape up four thousand francs, in
order to get peace and quiet" (the money due was
an indemnity to one of his numerous publishers for
broken promises), " and here I am obliged to obtain
loans on my books and belongings. Ten thousand
francs more must be got somehow six weeks hence,
besides the three thousand I owe my mother. Such
things are enough to drive one mad, and all the
while what I need for composition and work is the
utmost calm and complete forgetfulness."
Three days later, at five o'clock in the morning,
he writes in a strain alternating between hope and
despair
"I have just sent Mame" (the publisher before
alluded to) " four thousand francs, my last penny.
Poor as Job, this week I must find twelve hundred
francs, in order to stave off another litigation. Ah !
how dear is fame. How difficult mankind render
the acquirement of it ! No, great men are not to be
had cheap. . . ."
Further on he adds : " Heavens ! how do business
matters engulf time. When I think of all I get
through, my manuscripts, proofs, corrections, trans-
actions ! But I sleep tranquilly, although I have
two thousand four hundred francs due on bonds
payable in six days' time. Such is my existence, and
such it has been for thirty-four years, not once, how-
A GREAT LOVE-STORY 63
ever, being forgotten of Providence. Thus it comes
about that I possess unbelievable self-assurance. . . .
Now let us no more talk of material affairs. How,
for thy sake, do I hunger after wealth ! Ah, my
sweet Eve, how do I adore thee ! We shall meet
again soon. Ten days more and I shall have done
all that I set myself to do. I shall have published
four octavo volumes in a single month. Only love
could accomplish such things."
Love, genius and hurly-burly !
For nothing is a greater mistake than to suppose
Olympian calm, a sovereign atmosphere for imagina-
tive masterpieces. In "double, double, toil and
trouble," in the most desperate circumstances and
perpetual hurly-burly have been written the greatest
romances of the world, to wit, Don Quixote, The
Vicar of Wake field, and, to come down to our own
times, David Copperfield and Le Cousin Pons.
Does Wilhelm Meister, penned in princely opulence
and ease, do the well-bred folks so elaborately, one
may say mathematically, thought out in the long
Meredithian series possess the movingness contained
in a page, even a sentence of the foregoing books?
No, a thousand times, no. As with the poets, so the
romancers must " learn in suffering what they teach
in song."
Among the " things " of which Balzac wrote were
Eugenie Grandet and Le Medecin de Campagne !
the most Balzackian and the least Balzackian of his
encyclopaedic collection.
64 A GREAT LOVE-STORY
VII
From that meeting in 1833 until his death, seven-
teen years later, Balzac belonged to Mme.
Hanska : heart, mind, soul were held captive by a
passion proof against time, change and piled-up
disappointments.
No sooner did he find himself in Paris again than
all his energies were bent upon securing another
meeting. The Hanska party, doubtless by the
lady's arrangement, prolonged their Swiss sojourn,
and Balzac determined, if possible, to be with them
by Christmas. The principal obstacle, as usual, in
the carrying out of his plans was pennilessness, and
all is now confided to his "northern star." With
equal nonchalance he writes of his desperate circum-
stances and of his whims. Despite duns, overdue
bills, pawned or borrowed plate, he recounts the
purchase of curios, regal banquets given by him to
literary brethren, and other pet indulgences, as he
called them, disclosures that would be grotesque in
a history less tragic. The never-failing deep, nay,
solemn note of passion running through every page
moves rather to tears than hilarity.
" My Eve, my beloved," he writes early in Decem-
ber, " you not only give me courage to support daily
difficulties, you enlarge my genius, anyhow you
stimulate it. One must love, would one describe the
pure, the immense, the proud love of Eugenie
Grandet. Ah ! my sweet, my benignant, my divine
Eve, how terrible is this separation, this inability to
confide to you at the close of each day all that I
have thought, said, achieved."
A GREAT LOVE-STORY 65
On Christmas Day he arrived at Geneva, there
spending some weeks, daily, hourly intercourse not
hindering correspondence. Here are one. or two
extracts giving an idea of the rest
" My beloved, my only life, my only thought, oh,
that letter of thine ! It is indelibly written on my
heart. Fame, vanity, self-love, literature, all these
are so many vapours on our heaven, swept away by
the approach of your footstep twenty times a day "
A few lines lower down such wild utterances are
thus modified
" One force, and one force only, constrains me to
accept existence " ; that is to say, separation from
herself. "WORK. It is this force that subdues
the claims of a fiery nature."
Again and again he recurs with much bitterness
to the network of indebtedness in which, like Gul-
liver, he remains a prisoner.
" I would sell my talent for two thousand ducats,"
he writes. :< Then I would follow you like a shadow.
Unfortunately I cannot absent myself from Paris
without first stopping the mouths of editors and
creditors."
Equally behind with regard to these, he owed
much to friendly money-lenders, his mother being
one, Mme. Hanska being soon included in the
number.
Much more than jetty ringlets, full red lips, beam-
ing eyes, a fine brow and reciprocated infatuation
must account for Balzac's ever-increasing passion.
Of his beloved we have only a one-sided portrayal.
Quite certain it is that no ordinary woman could have
captivated such a man. A second Cleopatra in his
66 A GREAT LOVE-STORY
eyes, time could not wither her, nor custom stale her
infinite variety. Her literary taste and intuition, too,
are evidenced by his confidences regarding each new
work and his anxiety for her opinion.
During this stay at Geneva a definite promise
was made by Mme. Hanska that if she became a
widow she would marry him, the motto adopted by
both being : Adoremus in ceternum. And all the
while, as before, no touch of self-reproach appar-
ently disturbed the intoxicated pair.
Balzac was now made one of the family, and was
especially welcomed by the elderly, not easily
amused Polish Count, who presented him with a
magnificent malachite inkstand. We are told that
Balzac was a charming table-talker and story-teller,
gay, brimming over with spirits and drollery, a report
difficult to believe, seeing the unmitigated, pitiless
pessimism of his works.
Be this as it may, one great obstacle in the lovers'
way was now removed. M. de Hanska unsuspect-
ingly revelled in the society of his wife's adorer,
whilst, on his side, Balzac threw himself heart and
soul into the family concerns. Eve's adored child,
the little Countess Anna, as she is always called,
became an object of the greatest interest in his eyes,
and even her Swiss governess was henceforth re-
membered in his letters. The second spell of inter-
course and love-making, as before, only rendered
Balzac almost frantically impatient for a third. Tied
to his desk as a galley-slave to his rowlock even
whilst at Geneva he was busy upon La Duchesse de
Langeais he lived in the future. No youthful
lover, no expectant bridegroom, could be more
A GREAT LOVE-STORY 67
utterly spell-bound, more wrapt up in dreams of
dual bliss, a home, an existence spent with the
beloved.
In 1834 appeared two famous stories, the charm-
ing Recherche de V Absolu and the almost unhuman
if the good old word is permissible Le Pere
Goriot. Throughout the next seventeen months the
correspondence went on apace, Balzac confiding
everything to his wife-to-be, as he now regarded her.
In a long letter, dated October, he writes
"As to my joys, they are innocent enough. Here
they are : a renovated cabinet, a walking-stick of
which all Paris is gossiping " (this was the famous
stick the handle of which was inlaid with turquoise),
" a divine opera-glass, made for me by the optician
of the Observatoire ; besides these, gold buttons for
my blue coat, buttons chased by fairy-like hands. A
man carrying a cane worthy of Louis XIV himself
could not possibly wear vulgar pinchbeck buttons.
Such innocent whimsicalities make me pass off for
a millionaire. For a month I have not been to the
opera. I have, I believe, a box at the Bouffons " (a
theatre). " But just think for a moment, jewelled
walking-sticks, engraved gold buttons, opera-glasses
are my only distractions ! Do not, therefore, blame
me on the account of these things."
In the same letter he says that he is wearing the
monk's dress familiar to her, and that he is hidden
from sight. Hiding from somebody, indeed, he
always was, now, like Dick Swiveller, from duns,
now from gendarmes on account of resisting military
service. It was not until May 1835 that he started
for Vienna, the appointed meeting-place, travelling,
68 A GREAT LOVE-STORY
prince-like, in a private post-carriage, and carrying
with him the half-finished Lys dans la Vallee, to
Mme. Hanska's intense vexation working on it
twelve hours a day.
VIII
The next few years are a record of splendid
triumphs, extravagant dreams, law-suits, constant
indebtedness, galling disillusions, and of equally
constant attachment.
Money now flowed in like water, and like water
flowed away. Not content with being, as Barbey
d'Aurevilly expressed it, "a literary Napoleon
without a Waterloo," all the while Balzac was per-
petually relegating fiction to a secondary place,
seeking showers of gold and world-wide renown in
other fields.
Thus, after reading of Sardinian silver-mines in
Tacitus, he scraped up necessary funds and set
out for the island, unfortunately disclosing his
schemes of a mining company to a wily Italian.
When, after considerable delays on the way and five
days' tossing in a fishing-boat, he reached his
destination, it was to find that he had been fore-
stalled ! His charming and sympathetic listener, the
Genoese merchant, and a Marseilles company had
already obtained a concession.
Balzac always took such discomfitures philo-
sophically, and, although clamoured for by duns
and editors in Paris, he made the most of his holi-
day, visiting, amongst other places, Corsica, which
A GREAT LOVE-STORY 69
naturally for him possessed a special interest. In
a letter to Mme. Hanska, dated March 26, 1838,
occurs the following curious details
" Yesterday I visited the home in which Napoleon
was born, a poor cabin. And I there obtained the
rectification of several errors. His father was not a
process-server, as has been often falsely stated, but
a very rich peasant. Also I learned that on Napo-
leon's return from Egypt, when at Ajaccio, instead
of being received with acclamations and accorded a
triumph, a price was put upon his head, and he was
fired at. He owed his life to the devotion of a poor
countryman, who carried him off to the mountains.
All this I learned from the nephew of the mayor
who outlawed him. Made First Consul, Napoleon
begged his preserver to demand a favour. The
peasant asked for one of the Bonaparte farms, worth
a million francs, which he obtained, and his de-
scendants to-day are among the richest folks in the
island."
Stories gathered on the way, notes archaeological,
artistic, political, picturesque, particulars of expenses
and accommodation, all these are jotted down to his
muse of the Ukraine. Day by day the diary, as it
may be called, is resumed.
The letter just quoted ends thus
" I am so worn out by the struggles which I have
confided to you that unless they soon come to an end
I shall succumb. Ten years of labour have been
fruitless; what they have certainly brought are
calumny, slander and litigation. With regard to the
latter, you write the sweetest things to me imaginable.
I repeat, a man can only possess a certain portion of
70 A GREAT LOVE-STORY
endurance, courage and hope, and my own is ex-
hausted. You do not fathom the depth of my suffer-
ings. I ought not, I cannot disclose everything to
you. All that I have to do now is to seek repose. I
have made several plans of acquiring a fortune;
if the first fails, then I try the second ; if it all come
to naught, I fall back upon my pen, which, mean-
time, will not have been laid aside."
Ever a pertinently inquisitive traveller, Balzac on
his journeys is always entertaining, and tells us
something about almost everything, no detail of
interest escaping that myriad-faceted intellect.
"The public library of Ajaccio," he writes a few
days further on, "contains absolutely nothing. I
have just re-read Clarissa Harlowe, and for the first
time have read Pamela and Grandison, both of
which I found horribly tedious and stupid. What a
destiny was that of Cervantes, Richardson and also
Sterne, each the author of a single book ! "
But are not all the great gods in literature
similarly fated, their names inevitably linked with
a single chef-d'oeuvre, a sovereign masterpiece,
around this shining their lesser works as the satel-
lites of a planet ? As it is quite unlikely that Balzac
carried books with him on his travels, the entry is
highly suggestive. Think of Richardson's novels
finding their way to Corsica, one of the most beauti-
ful countries in the world, but as yet only semi-
civilized, so at least Balzac describes it in 1838.
Poor Richardson ! How would a vision of such
fame have made his cup to overflow !
One dream of millions coming to naught, the
undaunted Utopian threw himself heart and soul
A GREAT LOVE-STORY 71
into another. With pockets turned inside out, like
Maroof of Arabian story, Balzac's cry now was ever :
Abundance, abundance, and ever more abundance.
Some time before he had purchased, or rather
acquired, a plot of ground at Ville d'Avray, five
miles from Paris, and thereon built that famous
house without a staircase, and the wall which was
perpetually falling down. The history of Les
Jardies long made the Parisians merry, and would,
indeed, admirably suit Gilbertian opera.
This acre of land, then a mere waste, was in part
to be covered with glass-houses for the culture of
pine-apples. Like another hero of the Arabian
Nights, Balzac sat down and with mathematical
precision calculated his profits. Counting on the
warmth of the soil, he made certain that pine-apples
could be easily reared and sold at five francs apiece,
instead of the twenty charged in Paris. Deducting
expenses, he saw himself the happy pocketer of
; 1 6,000 a year "and this without writing a page,"
he confided to his friend Theophile Gautier. So
convinced was he of success, that he even looked
about for suitable business premises, in other words,
a shop in Paris, to be gorgeously decorated and have
the sign : Ananas des far dies.
Thus glowingly, a few weeks after his Sar-
dinian discomfiture, he pictures his future to Mme.
Hanska
" For ten sous and in ten minutes from this place
I can reach the Madeleine, that is to say, the heart of
Paris ! Thanks to this circumstance, the purchase of
Les Jardies can never turn out a bit of folly, and its
value will be enormous. Nothing is as yet planted
72 A GREAT LOVE-STORY
on my acre of ground, but in the coming autumn we
shall turn it into a corner of Eden. In Paris and in
the environs everything is to be had for money ; thus
I can procure magnolias of twenty years' growth,
lime-trees of sixteen, poplars of twelve, birch-trees,
etc., brought hither with their roots and clods in
baskets. Ah ! how admirable is such civilization !
Here I shall remain till my fortune is made, and so
pleased am I with the place that, when I have pur-
chased repose, here my days will end, hopes and
ambitions sent to the right-about. Failure after
failure have told upon my character upon my
heart; no, thence doth hope perpetually spring. A
horse to ride, plenty for the table, daily needs
assured, such is the little lot I crave under the sun
a lot acquired and planned, but not paid for as I
pay interest on borrowed money instead of rent.
Here I am at home, delivered from importunate
landlords. As to the rest, my debts and pecuniary
worries are what they were. I gather courage in
reducing my wants to the minimum. Adieu, cara. I
will chat on paper with you again during the week.
Adieu, dear."
Airily as for the moment Balzac might indulge in
dreams with which his genius had nothing to do, it
was ever with him, "The play's the thing."
Throughout his career, and after repeated checks, a
successful play topped other castle-building, and in
the next letter we read
" My salvation lies in the drama. A single success
will bring me 4000. Two successes would render
me solvent, and two successes, after all, what are
they but a matter of intelligence and hard work ? "
A GREAT LOVE-STORY 73
IX
In January 1842, just upon ten years after Balzac's
first letter from VEtrangere, a black-sealed envelope
was put into his hands. The missive announced
fateful news, what must, indeed, have seemed the
last word of destiny.
M. de Hanska was dead, his death having
occurred several weeks before. Balzac immediately
replied, the following extracts from his very long
letter giving the spirit of the whole. Under similar
circumstances no man could have expressed himself
with more pathos, dignity and uprightness. Every
line does the writer honour. It is quite evident that
by this time, maybe long before, the great lady of
the Ukraine had got the better of passion and
romance, and also, quite naturally, had been taken
aback, even horrified by her lover's revelations.
To be the Egeria, the confidante of a famous
writer was one thing, to share the fortunes of a
Bohemian and hunted-down debtor was another.
Her letter, therefore, as we gather from Balzac's
answer, did not touch upon his dreamed-of future,
and made no allusion to oft-reiterated vows and
declarations. The one obstacle to union, as he had
fondly hoped, was gone. Yet she seemed hardly
less separated from him than before.
"With regard to myself, my adored," he writes,
" although this event renders attainable all that I have
passionately desired for just upon ten years, before
God and yourself I can aver this on my own behalf.
Never for a single moment, and under the most cruel
circumstances, have I lacked submission. Never have
74 A GREAT LOVE-STORY
I polluted my soul with unworthy wishes. Involun-
tary inspirations no one can help. Often and often
have I said to myself : how easy were life with her !
Without hope, neither faith, courage, nor all that
means self, could be sustained. ... I know you too
well, or believe that I know you too well, to lose
faith in you for a single moment, and often, to my
cost, I have feared that it was not the same with
yourself. Since our first meeting you have been my
very life. Let me assure you of this, after, indeed,
having proved it, you alone have supported me
through my wretched struggles."
Then he repeats the oft-told and, alas ! invariably
chimerical tale of speedy success and release from
debt.
" I have worked with double force in order to meet
you this year, and now see my way clear. Since I
last wrote I have only spared two hours nightly for
sleep. Besides going on with the novels in hand and
contributing articles to journals, I have written two
five-act plays, one of which is to be rehearsed at the
Odeon to-morrow. To sum up, another year and a
half of work like the last I was hoping would free me
from crushing obligations and save my Jardies. This
intermittent work has for five years made a hermit of
me. Now, what I am most anxious about is to be
able to show my title to a parliamentary candida-
ture. 1 Lamartine has a borough at my disposal and
a seat in the Chamber ! Therein lies our future.
. . . Think you that on my own account I would
1 In order to present oneself it was necessary to prove the
payment of a certain amount of taxes.
A GREAT LOVE-STORY 75
seek such distinction? Oh! I am perhaps unjust,
but if so, it is my heart that is to blame. Vainly in
your letter I sought for two little words, two little
words for him who has never spent ten minutes by
his desk without looking at the picture of your home
on the opposite wall."
Then, after passionately expressed solicitude
about her health and domestic affairs, comes another
and still more moving appeal
" Dear, you have put so many things in your note
having no reference whatever to myself. But I do
expect an answer to this ; you have now had time for
reflecting, for thinking of the six years spent in Paris
without seeing you. Oh, tell me that henceforth
your existence belongs to me, that we are now to be
happy, no cloud on our horizon possible ! Oh ! how
often, in the midst of bitterest disillusions, struggles
and sorrows, I have glanced northward, for me, an
aurora, peace and happiness ! "
An aurora, peace, happiness? In Balzac's case
these were destined to remain so many symbols, mere
figures of speech. The ten years' courtship by letter,
as this first volume of the Lettres a UEtrangere
shows us, had been one prolonged struggle.
And now, immediately after such tremendous
news, came another and yet a deadlier dramatic
fiasco. The play which was to free him from debt,
procure him a seat in the Chamber, and, in fine,
render possible fireside happiness with his beloved
Eve, fell flat. For nineteen nights only, and after
many excisions and suppressions, Quinola ran at the
Odeon. With the usual irony we find in literary
76 A GREAT LOVE-STORY
biography a few years after Balzac's death, the play
was revived at the Vaudeville, and proved an un-
qualified success.
The second volume of the correspondence, which
is almost as bulky as the last, opens on January n,
1842, and closes just two years later. During the
space of twice twelve months, therefore, Balzac
wrote very nearly as many pages to Mme. Hanska
as during the previous decade. Want of frankness,
silence, shilly-shally might damp his hopes; not for
a single second could they subdue unchangeable,
ever deeper passion. Painful conviction, indeed, he
refused to accept, preferring the blindness of hoping
against hope.
Naturally enough, he at once entreated permission
to set out for the Ukraine, and, naturally enough,
the newly-made widow relucted. Conventionalities
stood in the way. At least a year must elapse, she
said, before he could with propriety meet her, and
then it could not be in her own home, the rendezvous
selected being St. Petersburg.
These letters are of the deepest psychological as
well as biographical interest. Now confining himself
to business matters, the lady's as well as his own,
now indulging in philosophic dissertation, between
whiles Balzac becomes a poet. Many passages are
veritable lyrics in prose, and lyrics passionate as
any poured out by Byron or Musset. Here is an
A GREAT LOVE-STORY 77
exquisite passage ; after reiterating his entire reliance
on her constancy, he writes
" In human tenderness, as in Alpine scenery, there
is ever a sovereign summit, immaculate, eterne,
austere. Below such an altitude lie flowery spots,
valleys beautified with changeful seasons, and these
may be compared to the passing joys of love and
devotion. But that Jungfrau towering above
symbolizes the link, the completion of love. Friend-
ship incapable of change is the aliment of those
riches on a lower level, riches all the more precious
because they are certain to be renewed. Thus is this
love of mine based upon, vivified by the faithful
friendship of ten years."
Later in the same letter he adds
" Alas ! angel mine, it was no great matter I asked
of my Eve ; all I wanted to know was this : that in
eighteen months, nay, in two years' time we may be
happy together. I only craved the dual word and
a date. With these you would have imparted
strength and energy somewhat flagging in a never-
ending conflict."
In a quickly succeeding letter he writes
"A man loves or he does not. For myself, I
love; fortune or poverty, either would be support-
able by your side. ... I would willingly become
Russian, naturalize myself as a Russian, provided
you see no objection to the step, and personally
demand the Czar's permission to marry you. Let
me have your views. . . . Remember that I love
you more than ever."
Unbelievable as it seems, no Russian subject in
78 A GREAT LOVE-STORY
the nineteenth century could marry and remove
personal effects or investments from the country
without imperial sanction.
Mme. Hanska was the impersonation of conven-
tionality and worldly wisdom. She was enormously
rich, and was wrapt up, heart and soul, in her
daughter Anna, now a giddy and apparently except
in Balzac's eyes unattractive young lady emerging
from the schoolroom. After much zigzaggery on
paper, his muse of the Ukraine fixes the date and
place of rendezvous. On July 17, 1843, the much-
travelled Balzac reached St. Petersburg. Much
travelled he certainly was; perhaps no literary man
of his epoch had so little of the French stay-at-
homeness about him, and this is one of his numerous
un-French characteristics.
Lodged, uncomfortably enough, close to Mme.
Hanska's private hotel in a fashionable quarter, see-
ing his adored mistress daily, hourly, the correspond-
ence went on, and, curiously enough, in a diary
belonging to the lady he wrote the following :
"About midday, July 17, Polish, i.e. Russian style,
I had the happiness of once more seeing and paying
my respects to my dear Countess Eve in her Hotel
Kontarzoff. After seven years' separation I found
her young and beautiful as before, the interval
having been spent by her amid endless wastes of
cornland, by myself in that vast, peopled desert
called Paris. She received me as an old friend,
whilst to me the long parting recalled cold, unhappy,
joyless hours. Ten years have passed since we first
met, and, contrary to general experience, with years,
A GREAT LOVE-STORY 79
the sorrows of absence and piled-up disappoint-
ments, my feelings for her have but deepened. We
cannot recreate affection nor call back time. Peters-
burg, September 2, 1843."
The guardedness of this entry is significant.
Proud of the great man's friendship, up to a certain
point only loyal, Mme. Hanska's album was not
wholly for herself. The passage might disarm
gossip ; at the same time, it was a tribute of which
any woman would be proud.
Meantime, whilst within a stone's throw of each
other, tender little billet-doux were exchanged.
Now Balzac informed his chere minette, or darling
puss, that he was as well as could be expected after
a sleepless night in his pestiferous lodgings, now he
begs her to send him a stick of sealing-wax, now
he asks the loan it must not be an ill-omened gift
of a penknife, adding a thousand caresses to his
lou-lou adoree, or duckey-diddums, as we might say
in the nursery, or as an amorous bean-feaster might
address his lady-love. And so on and so on, for
the first time his epistles being signed, " Your
Honore," or " Your moujic Honore." At every
step of the homeward journey he wrote passionate
love-letters, but if any promise had been made
during his stay, it was a vague one. Worldly-wise
relations and friends of the rich, high-born chate-
laine stood between her lover and his hopes, work-
ing against him by the sap, raking up stories of
his debts of these Mme. Hanska knew already
enough, having often been a creditor of his
Bohemian ways, his extravagances and mad
80 A GREAT LOVE-STORY
schemes. Little wonder, therefore, that the longed-
for word and date did not come.
The two years' journalizing of this volume but
repeats the story told by its predecessor. And what
a story ! French printing-presses flooded with
sombre Balzacs, a piling up of Pelions upon Ossas ;
in other words, bills, notes of hand and debts
an equally constant projection of wild enterprises
and hopes, the nineteenth-century Don Quixote
always borne back to the starting-point in an ox-
wagon, instead of proudly riding Astolfo's winged
chariot; of treasures accumulated but never owned,
outdoing those hidden in Monte Cristo's grotto, and
of ever-enduring, ever-deepening love. Seven
years and more, a second Laban, had he served for
an Eve, young, sparkling, romantic, beautiful. Yet
another was he to serve for an Eve, now middle-
aged, verging, indeed, on elderliness, become prac-
tical, worldly-minded, but for him the ideal of
a rapturous past. On his dreary way he went,
believing in the unbelievable, hoping in the
hopeless.
A final word regarding the undignified go-
between of this strange history, the Swiss governess.
Her name recurs again and again throughout this
second volume.
Impressed so, at least, the story goes by the
long drawn out and elaborate ceremonial of her
late employer's funeral, conscience-stricken at the
thought of her own double dealing, Mile. Henrietta
Borel entered the Roman Church and took the veil
in a Parisian convent. Balzac, who gave her the pet
name of Lirette every one belonging to his be-
A GREAT LOVE-STORY 81
loved Eve became a pet attended the ceremony,
and often visited the recluse, who became, as is the
case with most converts, devotee of devotees.
Quarrelsome by nature, Balzac was ever ready to do
a kind act, not only to friends, but to any one in
need of his services witness his benevolence to the
somewhat ungrateful Jules Sandeau.
XI
The last letter of the second volume is dated
December 28 (1844), and ends in this strain
" A thousand loves to my pet. Yesterday I broke
a bit of the same tooth broken at St. Petersburg,
and, as before, in eating salad. What is the sig-
nificance of such a coincidence ? " Balzac was ever
superstitious "Has anything befallen you? For
Heaven's sake, a letter. Adieu, adieu, write all
kinds of pretty, tender things. Love thy poor
Nore." l
That the great Balzac should have a baby name
perforce makes us smile.
For the chronicling of the next six years readers
must bide their time.
The daily life of Balzac, therefore, during the
above-named period, as recorded by himself, for the
present remains inaccessible, and that of the two
years following, last years of a miraculously pre-
served life, will ever be a blank. From 1843 to 1848
we have mere repetitions of the same story. One by
1 The thee and the thou alternate with the more respectful you
throughout the entire correspondence.
82 A GREAT LOVE-STORY
one Balzac's projects toppled like card-houses.
Endeavour after endeavour to obtain the Deputy's
scarf and the Immortal's sword l failed, and on the
same account, his money affairs, or, rather, money-
lessness, standing in the way. Drama after drama
fell flat, and plans of dramas innumerable came to
naught. A scheme for transplanting sixty thousand
blocks of Russian oak to France, and thereby render-
ing him solvent and happy, of course followed suit,
and all the while a colossal intellect and a herculean
frame were being undermined. Insanely protracted
labour, hopes, alike spiritual and material, perpetu-
ally deferred, Care, as personified by Spenser, ever
at his elbows, plaguing him with " disquiet and
heart-fretting pain."
At last, and when it was too late, the one word, if
not the date, came from Wierzchownia. Broken
down, an old man in middle life, already in the grip
of mortal sickness, supercharged with obligations,
pecuniary and literary, in September 1847 ne set out >
as he now believed, to fetch his bride.
His beloved Les Jardies had been sold for a
fourth of its cost long before, and a house in the Rue
Fortunee, now Rue Balzac, awaited its mistress.
Enlarged, sumptuously decorated, chokeful of art
treasures, the home belonged to Mme. Hanska,
the art treasures supposedly to Balzac; in any case,
there they were. Mme. de Balzac's home in Paris
would be worthy of the high-born Polish lady.
For a few weeks Balzac lived a charmed life. In
the society of his beloved, and amid exhilaratingly
1 Inconsistently enough, the uniform of the French Academy
is semi-military, a sword dangling at the wearer's belt.
A GREAT LOVE-STORY 83
novel surroundings, lawsuits, quarrels, importunate
editors, etc., were forgotten. The blacksmith Care
ceased to disturb his slumbers. But pleasant as
might be the palatial proportions of this chateau,
agreeable as it was to write home of his delightful
suite of rooms drawing-room, study and bedroom
all somewhat bare but elegantly furnished, en-
chanting as it was to find himself one of the family,
the frolicking Anna, her husband and the rest of the
circle evidently delighted with his company, when
winter set in, matters wore quite another aspect. So
intense was the cold, he wrote home, that alike
stoves, fires and furs proved ineffectual. And willy-
nilly in February of the following year he found
himself compelled to revisit France, at the end of a
terrible journey finding Paris torn by Revolution
and his own affairs as desperate as ever. Settling
these as best he could, seeing that all things were
ready for the expected bride, six months later again
he started for the Ukraine. A second arctic winter
soon did its fatal work. An attack of bronchitis
was followed by breakdown upon breakdown, many
weeks being spent in bed. The tedium of inert,
painful days, the first unoccupied days of his life,
were relieved by talks with one and another, the
Countess Anna, now a bride of sixteen, and her
good-natured husband taking their turns at the
bedside. Later, when the party had journeyed
to Kiel for the sake of a little gaiety, Anna would
visit Balzac before setting out for balls or theatres,
amusing him with the sight of her millinery and
jewels.
Mme. Hanska doubtless did all in her power
G 2
84 A GREAT LOVE-STORY
for her suffering guest, but the Russian doctor's
remedy of pure lemon-juice, taken twice daily, far
from alleviating Balzac's chronic aneurism of the
heart, only made matters worse. In June 1849 a
terrible attack brought him to death's door; hardly
had he recovered from this than he caught what was
called Moldavian fever, and the opening months of
the following year found him slowly dying.
The last work touched by him was that cruel book,
Les Paysans, in which, by anticipation, he out-Zola'd
Zola, and ran counter to the quite opposite views
of peasant life and character described nearly two
decades before. Le Medecin de Campagne crush-
ingly refutes its predecessor.
We now come to the strangest part of this most
tragic romance.
Syren and Sphinx, that rarest combination,
sensuous beauty and worldliness linked with a virile
intellect, Mme. Hanska will ever remain a psycho-
logical problem. For upwards of seven years she
had been free. During that period, as at the
present juncture, she could have taken the step now
suddenly decided upon; easy four or five years ago
as to-day had it been to make over her fortune to
her daughter, become an annuitant, and by such
means obtain the imperial consent to her remarriage
with a foreigner; Balzac's involvements were no
more serious now than formerly; rich, handsome
still, spirited, as Mme. de Balzac she might well have
dreamed of queening it in Paris, centre of a brilliant
literary circle,
Why, then, such protracted hesitancy, this tardi-
grade decision?
A GREAT LOVE-STORY 85
Was she actuated by self-reproach, magnanimity
at the last redeeming worldly considerations, and on
his side, heart-chilling delays? Or in marrying a
prematurely aged, a worn-out, indeed a stricken man,
did she set herself right with another point of con-
science, thus annealing a past offence against social
and moral laws, putting herself right with her
Church and the world?
Be this as it may, things happened so. On March
14, 1850, the marriage took place at the village of
Berditchef some miles away, rites being performed
by a Count Abbe in the presence of numerous
witnesses.
And next day, in strains rapturous as those of a
boyish bridegroom, he announced the news. The
Countess Eve was now Mme. de Balzac. " Thy
brother Honore having reached the summit of
human happiness," was the last word to his favourite
sister.
XII
In dramatic horror the climax of this long drawn
out love-story is unmatched throughout Balzac
fiction. Bride and bridegroom were both in wretched
health when, six weeks later, they set out for Paris.
Mme. de Balzac had of late suffered so much from
rheumatic gout that at times she could neither hold
a pen nor walk. Balzac, although dreaming of
a compensatory autumn, an aftermath of happiness
more than atoning for his troubled, lonely youth and
middle age, was in truth a dying man. Both were
86 A GREAT LOVE-STORY
wholly unfit for an expedition that might well have
daunted all but the hardiest. Between Wierzchow-
nia and Dresden many miles had to be got over by
carriage, and at this season of the year the roads, or
roads so-called, were often impassable, melted snows
having turned them into ruts and morass. Again
and again after frightful jerking the vehicle would
be blocked, bands of peasants only extricating the
unhappy travellers after long delay. Imagine two
shivering invalids, the one indeed sick unto death,
going through such an ordeal, their six days' drive
occupying three weeks. So ill was Balzac that his
sight temporarily failed, and he was unable to read
or put pen to paper. Madame de Balzac revived at
Dresden, the delights of a dazzling city charming
away fatigue and ailments; moreover she was evi-
dently far from realizing her companion's condition.
After a few days' rest and, on the lady's part,
delightful shopping, the homeward route was con-
tinued, Paris being reached just two months and a
half later than the wedding day.
It was long past nightfall when the home almost
royally fitted up for its mistress came in sight.
We must turn to Le Cousin Pans for a prefigure-
ment of the interior, gorgeous descriptions of the
Arabian Nights here put to shame.
A dining-room in which each piece of furniture
was a masterpiece, a drawing-room upholstered in
gold damask, with ebony cornices, a library with
tortoiseshell and copper shelves, a boudoir elegantly
frescoed, on every side displayed " that magnificence
of human handicraft" so laboriously yet enthusi-
astically described in the story.
A GREAT LOVE-STORY 87
But the apex of splendour was reached in the
gallery, a vast oblong lighted from above and
panelled in white and gold, the white mellowed, the
gold deepened by time so as not to dim the pictures.
In this palace of art were the collected treasures
of a lifetime choice French and Italian canvases,
specimens of the lost Limousin handiwork, of
Palissy's marvellous painting in clay, of the deft
mediaeval carvers in ivory and wood, in fine, all
the bricbracquologie, as Balzac fantastically calls
it, the fruit, again quoting him, of "that genius of
admiration " to which he owed perhaps ecstasies and
anxieties in equal measure.
Proudly as the carriage drove up must he have
noted how scrupulously his orders had been carried
out. From roof to basement the facade blazed with
light. Flowers could be seen from every window.
The entire aspect was of resplendent gala. But
what had happened? Vainly the bell was pealed
a second, a third, and yet a fourth time. Not a
footstep, not a voice was heard, not a shadow flitted
across the panes. The dazzlingly lit, garlanded
mansion was silent as a tomb. When at length, and
after what seemed an interminable interval of sus-
pense to the worn-out, shivering travellers, a lock-
smith had been unearthed and the portal forced
open, a gibbering, gesticulating maniac proffered
ghastly welcome.
The responsibility of carrying out Balzac's super-
minute instructions had turned his faithful man-
servant's brain. He had gone stark mad.
Two months and a half later, aged fifty-one, Balzac
88 A GREAT LOVE-STORY
died, and to her eternal honour, be it said, his widow
fulfilled wifely duty. That constant actif or un-
broken solvency lauded in Le Medecin de Cam-
pagne, and never destined to be his portion in life,
at least belongs to his memory. Every penny left
owing by him was finally paid. She survived him
by thirty-two years, her later story being one of
domestic troubles, senseless expenditure and final
ruin.
Had those few months of fireside duality, the
daily companionship of his seventeen years' love,
proved a disillusion? Who can say? The adored
Eve at least took his name, and that fact perhaps is
the nearest solution to a much-contested enigma.
Like Balzac's own her character remains a mystery ;
by neither were even nearest relations and closest
friends taken into entire confidence.'
In writing of Balzac who can resist the temptation
of touching upon that misnamed Comedie Humaine,
surely the most tragic series ever penned, a remorse-
lessly penetrating intellect dealing with all that is
most revolting and sordid in humanity?
Never for a single second can a reader rise from
a Balzac volume with the sentiment, " My soul is
as a watered garden," rather is he tempted to quote
another great Hebrew poet, "Wherefore is light
given to him that is in misery, and life unto the bitter
in soul?"
Balzac has not flooded France with sunshine,
rather has his genius, like a sable pall, eclipsed
French gaiety, not, certes, for all time, but at least
for more than a generation. In his wake has fol-
lowed a school of pessimists, crueller, more pitiless
A GREAT LOVE-STORY 89
still. Make-believe worseners of human nature and
human life, Wertherian, Byronic or a la Musset have
given way to the trio of the blackening pen, Flau-
bert, Zola, Maupassant, and later on their heels
comes a wit as brilliant and versatile as Voltaire's,
but without Voltaire's hopefulness and faith in
humanity Anatole France.
Balzac's work has immensely enriched the intel-
lectual capital of the world, has it made the multi-
tude, the "rascal many," happier or better? Has it
afforded the man and woman in the street so much
delight as lesser gems of fiction, an Abbe Constant ! ,
a Petit Chose, a Colomba, or even the ephemeral
works of those Liliputians who do not reach
Gulliver's ankles ? No, a thousand times, no !
Seldom does a volume of the Tragedie Humaine,
thus the series should be called, awaken a smile.
Humorous indeed is the opening scene of Beatrix,
that daily reunion of quaint folks at Guerande.
Mirth provoking is half a page of that most lugu-
brious of lugubrious Balzacs, Le Me deem de Cam-
pagne. I allude to the rough soldier's puzzle-
ment over Napoleon's comparison of Austrian
princes to Medea. 1 Genestas believed Medea to
be the title of an Austrian archduchess, finally being
enlightened by a performance of Corneille's play at
the Comedie-Fran^aise.
To Balzac belongs the laurel wreath, but around
the brows of his great compeer shines an aureole.
Victor Hugo, whose watchword was Versez Vespe-
rance, " Fill the cup with hope," by virtue of
1 "Comme Me'de'e les princes Autrichiens avaient de leurs
propres mains e'gorge's leurs enfants," p. 8.
90 A GREAT LOVE-STORY
measureless love and measureless pity, allied with
imaginative gifts equally immeasurable, towers
above his contemporaries as his catafalque towered
above the hundreds of thousands following their
dead poet to the Pantheon.
One or two words more about Hugo's twin-brother
in cosmopolitan renown.
No voyant, no true visionary in politics was
Balzac, and in more than one respect, indeed, he
must be regarded as the least French of French
writers. That ftamme e-pee, la Revohition, again to
quote Victor Hugo, that sword aflame, '89, never
electrified the other's being. Reactionary, an auto-
crat alike in religion and politics, stone blind to the
signs of the times he remained to the last. We might
almost suppose that in his case the much-cherished
particle, the de so fondly clung to and so firmly
believed in, really meant noble ancestry and fleur-
de-lis. If he despised the bourgeoisie, still stronger
was his dislike of the peasant and the masses.
In the story just quoted, his much-admired hero,
Dr. Benassis, says : " The people are the minors of
a nation and should ever remain in tutelage."
Farther on, the good doctor focuses nineteenth-
century jingoism in a sentence : " Christianity bids
the poor suffer, the rich to succour their wretched-
ness; in these words I perceive the essence of laws
divine and human."
Concerning political liberty, the village oracle thus
lays down the law
''' The man who possesses a vote, discusses, and
authority discussed ceases to be authority. Imagine
social order without authority. It is unimaginable.
A GREAT LOVE-STORY 91
Power implies force. Force must be based upon
des choses fugees," i. e. pronouncements of the law.
The italics are Balzac's own, and make us wonder
how he would have emerged through the moral
crucible of a decade ago.
It seems hard to believe, although believe we
must, that an author who never makes us smile could
have been the gay, sociable, mirth-giving being
described by his friends. But in whichever light
we regard him personally, his marvellous work or his
equally marvellous life, one noble aspect stands out
in bold relief. Nothing in his own fiction or in any
other, records a love greatening as the tedious years
wore on, a love sovereignly overcoming doubt, de-
spair and disillusion, such a love as the great
Balzac's for VEtrangere.
Ill
FRENCH AUTHOR AND PUBLISHER
BARBEY D'AUREVILLY AND
TREBUTIEN
BARBF.Y D'AUREVILLY
[Facing p. 95.
FRENCH AUTHOR AND PUBLISHER
BARBEY D'AUREVILLY AND
TREBUTIEN 1
DID author and publisher ever before affection-
ately and unbrokenly correspond for twenty-six
years ? Such was the case with that strangely gifted
being, that " unacceptable author," as he ever styled
himself, Jules Barbey d'Aurevilly and Trebutien,
the disinterested, highly cultivated and genial pro-
vincial publisher. Quite irrespective of their literary
claims, therefore, these impatiently awaited volumes
possess a strong human interest. Of the collection
Barbey wrote to his friend : " This will be the finest
feather in my wing, and by virtue of it I ought to
become a glorious bird. The very best of myself is
in these letters; therein I speak my true language."
Modesty was no foible of this now famous writer,
as we see. No letters of Trebutien's are given, but
through his correspondent's pen we become ac-
quainted with a charming personality.
" Mr. Tonson, Some kind of intercourse must
be carryed (sic) on betwixt us whilst I am trans-
lating Virgil," stiffly wrote Dryden to the great
English publisher in 1695. Very different is the
tone taken by Barbey to his generous friend and
patron. Throughout the two and a half decades
every letter testifies to that genius for friendship
1 Lettres de Barbey d'Aurevilly & Trebutien. Blaizot, Paris,
1908, 2 vols.
95
96 AUTHOR AND PUBLISHER
which characterizes the French people. The pair
seldom met, but for years their affectionate relations
suffered no change.
Twenty years ago the death of Barbey d'Aure-
villy, voluminous critic, novelist, journalist and
poet, excited little notice in the literary world. In
1909 his deferred centenary he was born Novem-
ber 2, 1808 was celebrated in Paris. Two monu-
ments have since been erected by public subscrip-
tion to his memory, the one at Valognes, Normandy,
his birthplace, the other over his grave in the capital.
Meantime, critics, lecturers and publishers have
been busy with his works ; never was such an after-
math. Edition after edition, even of short papers
for daily journals, are being reprinted and appar-
ently are eagerly devoured. The reputation so
passionately desired by the author is accruing to
him in the tomb. Despite Brunetiere, Zola and
other fierce detractors, public opinion is veering
round to the re-considered and eulogistic views of
Sainte-Beuve, written nearly seventy years ago.
Much of these caustic and admirably worded
missives are concerned with the experiences of a
constantly disappointed and embittered litterateur
we should say, perhaps, genius. Barbey d'Aure-
villy loathed the necessity of writing for money,
and lived and died poor. The impersonal remnant
of the correspondence gives us criticisms, bons-mots
and personalities by turns witty, epigrammatic and
profound. Every page is worth reading.
Reactionary of reactionaries, Ultramontane in his
creeds, but aggressively independent, made up of
anti's, England to this writer was loathsome as the
AUTHOR AND PUBLISHER 97
journalistic profession, yet no foreigner has written
more enthusiastically of Shakespeare. "When
Shakespeare," he writes, "speaks of Destiny, he
speaks with the voice of Destiny itself. His utter-
ance is of such potency that it seems to come from
the last depths of his thought, and that beyond there
is nothing. What can lie beyond the Infinite ? "
Elsewhere he says : " For some time past I have
been gorging myself with Shakespeare, inwardly
saying, All that is not Shakespeare or akin to him
is nothing."
Here are a few literary pronouncements
' There is no real genius in romancers without
geniality. Therein lies the force of Walter Scott."
Yet of perhaps the least genial story-teller, if one
of the greatest the world has seen, he writes with
unbounded enthusiasm
" Balzac that literary Bonaparte who suffered
neither abdication nor a Waterloo."
And elsewhere
' That California, Balzac, from whose works I
have culled (for publication) three thousand and
odd sayings."
Of Burns he wrote
" My favourite, my adored Burns, I have often
dreamed of translating, but no one knows better
than myself that poets are untranslatable."
Of Heine: "A magnificent talent that had lost
its way."
Of La Fontaine : " The greatest expressionist (I
translate Barbey's coined word by another) in the
French language."
Of Victor Hugo he was ever a scathing critic, and
98 AUTHOR AND PUBLISHER
in a volume of short studies, recently re-issued, the
greatest French poet modern times have seen is
described as "that Emperor of our literary decad-
ence."
Epigrams he showers as Hood showered puns,
and in aphorisms he was a second Vauvenargues.
In his lecture recently published in the Revue
Hebdomadaire Bourget described his friend as a
great conversationalist, his brilliant talk being
" spoken Saint-Simon."
' You were en verve, at your best," wrote
Eugenie de Guerin to him when in Paris, 1881;
"your conversation was a magnificent display of
fireworks."
Of conversation itself Barbey d'Aurevilly wrote :
" Give me instead of books quatre barbeles " (four
arrow-headed words), thus italicized. Here are
some of his own arrow-headed words
" From his aphorisms, a man can mentally be
better reconstituted than bodily from his bones.
With an aphorism of BrummelFs I become his
Cuvier. An anecdote is the best toise a consent
(measure of a man) that I know.
" I like the word fragments, applied to literature.
All is fragmentariness alike in the head, heart and
life of any individual. Ensembles (wholes) are
denied us, and the most complete man is but a
fragment.
"Are you not at one with me on the subject of
Art namely, that, after all, Art is always less
interesting than Life, which is the Art of God ? "
On applause : " Distinguished flattery does not
displease me, flattery being an ingredient of the
AUTHOR AND PUBLISHER 99
intellectual cuisine the least lending itself to vul-
garity.
" Letters are the plaster of Paris of life, not the
reality. The reality again into being when we chat
with our friends, but only transiently." He adds :
" I would give twenty-five volumes of our corre-
spondence for a few tete-a-tete talks with you."
' There are three things of which born gentlemen
and Nature's gentlemen never speak of their birth,
their courage, and their success in love affairs."
What a warning to literary aspirants is the follow-
ing : " Ah ! let R. (a poet) beware of the facility that
enervates whilst it carries him away. Let him stay
his idea, finally fixing it as in a vice."
Many pages are devoted to those too faintly out-
lined but imperishable silhouettes in literary por-
traiture, whose English introducer was Matthew
Arnold three-quarters of a century ago. Maurice
and Eugenie de Guerin are not figures that appeal
to the majority of readers. The poetic genius of the
one, the religious mysticism of the other, less
interest many than their pathetic story. Left mother-
less at an early age, the sister mothered her brother
younger by five years, and her devotion to him was
only equalled by the spiritual fervour of later and
lonelier days.
It is a very common story, that of the idolizing
sister losing her second self, seeing the brother's
clinging affection superseded by passionate love ; in
Eugenie de Guerin's case one loss, that one by the
grave, speedily following the first. The brilliant
young poet, when fairly launched on a literary
career, had married a Creole heiress, and a few
II 2
100 AUTHOR AND PUBLISHER
months later, in the midst of happiness and promise,
died of consumption. Of his work Sainte-Beuve
wrote : " No French poet or painter has so well
rendered the feeling for Nature the feeling not so
much for details as for the ensemble and the divine
universality, the origin of things and the cardinal
principle of life."
For both brother and sister Barbey entertained
high admiration. Of the former's work he wrote
" Guerin's poems are mere sketches. His prose
is poetry perfected. There you have sculptured
marble, etherealized yet breathing, delicate as the
aerial medium around. . . . Rhythm, rhythm that
is a mere craft for a learner, but melody melody
Guerin possessed ; the instrument was imperfect, on
the point of breaking, it was nevertheless the breath
of a youthful God that had stirred the reed. Poet
and painter, of Nature he is alike child, slave,
master and king."
For him Eugenie's Journals were a second
" Imitation of Christ," transmitted through the
hands of a woman.
George Sand, ever generous of the generous in
discovering and announcing genius in others, was
the first to appreciate Maurice's poetic talent. An
appreciation from her pen appeared in the Revue
des Deux Mondes, May 15, 1840. The equally
generous Trebutien published his collected works
twenty years later. Eugenie's journals and letters
may be called famous, and have been published and
republished in English translations.
To suggest any other sympathy linking the
saintly Eugenie with her brother's friend than that
AUTHOR AND PUBLISHER 101
of friendship and gratitude is much like bracketing
Saint-Theresa and Mephistopheles. That Barbey
d'Aurevilly reverenced the fille d'en haul (the
heavenly maid), as he called her, is again and again
shown by the correspondence; that there was ever
any question of warmer feeling on either side seems
hard to believe. Yet such is the upshot of a very
interesting monograph by M. Seilliere contained in a
recent number of the Revue des Deux Mondes.
Barbey d'Aurevilly and Maurice de Guerin had
been fellow collegians and, later, close friends. On
the brother's death, the sister seemed to take his
place in the other's affection. For years he was her
confidant and correspondent; frere vwant (her
living brother) she called him, and if, with reason,
he reproached himself for fickleness, neglect, or
unkindness, he made noble, albeit tardigrade re-
paration. To him, aided by Trebutien, was due the
issue of her collected writings years later.
Unfortunately, like Balzac, Barbey d'Aurevilly
possessed, if not the gentle art of making enemies,
at least a fractious, wayward disposition. Not only
did he lose Eugenie de Guerin's friendship, and
cause intense sorrow to herself, but, sad to learn,
author and publisher quarrelled at the last, this
separation, as well as the other, remaining a mystery.
A comprehensive survey of his literary works,
poetry, criticism and novels, each now being re-
published, will doubtless ere long occupy another
English writer. For many readers these two
volumes will suffice, and, as poetry is ever the
perennial flower of literature, who can say ? Maybe
that brilliant little poem, Le Cict, given above,
102 AUTHOR AND PUBLISHER
will alone hand down his name to future genera-
tions !
" Great is bookishness and the charm of books,"
writes the witty author of Obiter Dicta (what a pity
that so much wit should be wasted on Blue Books
and politics !), and no apter motto could head this
brief notice. The bookseller, bibliographer and
publisher who set up a veritable Chiswick Press in
a Normand town was not a rose, but he breathed its
atmosphere. Throughout his life literature re-
mained the dominating influence, the object of an
unflagging devotion. A most dignified and pathetic
figure is this humble bookseller of Charlotte Cor-
day's beautiful old city. Fame he only sought to
enjoy vicariously; fortune never came within the
compass of his dreams.
Placidly, disinterestedly, lovingly he plodded on,
in his workmanship finding the desired reward. As
wrought mediaeval artists, builders and craftsmen
whose achievements are monumental, but whose very
names have perished, so wrought Barbey d'Aure-
villy's publisher.
Fran9ois-Guillaume-Stanislas Trebutien (1800-
1870) came of an old and highly respectable family
long settled in Normandy. Destined for the Bar,
his passion for books decided the future. A few
years were spent in Paris, during which period he
was occupied with ill-remunerated journalism and
bibliographical undertakings. In 1833 he paid a
short visit to England, bringing back some know-
ledge of our language, and, as his biographer tells,
ever recalling the experience with affection. Many
friends he made whilst among us, and it is not sur-
g -. hil'TIEN
1500
1370
F. (i. S. TRKBUTIKN
{l-'acing />, 102.
AUTHOR AND PUBLISHER 103
prising to find this devout Catholic and fastidious
critic bringing out a translation of Newman's Dream
of Gerontius. This was published in 1869, the
literal rendering being the work of a lady, and the
book, from a bibliographical point of view, being
described as a chef-d'oeuvre.
The same seems to have been the case with most
of the works issuing from Le Blanc-Hardel thus
Trebutien's press was called. Among other elabor-
ate and costly volumes published by him rare
treasure-trove in Paris now-a-days may be men-
tioned a costly work on Normand faience, and many
editions of old French lays. But it was Oriental
literature that exercised the strongest fascination
over the bookseller's mind. Not only was he editor
but translator of the Arabian Nights, and thus
avers his biographer 1 the introductory story, on
which the others hang as on a thread, is Trebutien's
invention.
Trebutien had projected a volume on Oriental
literature, and studies of Racine and of Mme. de
Sevigne. Death cut short these activities. The
Benvenuto Cellini of a publisher, as his friend
Barbey d'Aurevilly called him, died, after a short
illness, in 1870. Throughout his life he had been
an invalid, suffering especially from the cold winds
of Caen.
By the kind permission of Mile. Read, I cite the
following lines from a letter addressed to Barbey
1 Un Edittur de Barbey d'Aurevilly, par Le'on de la Sicotiere.
Blaizot, Paris, 1906. "Trebutien avail invent^ le de'nouement de
1'histoire principale qui sert de cadre a toutes les autres que
renferme le recueil."
104 AUTHOR AND PUBLISHER
d'Aurevilly in May 1845. Writing of Jesse, the
translator of the other's work on Beau Brummell, he
adds : " Brummell is terribly French for a trans-
lator. Captain Jesse seems plunged in difficulties ";
he says : ' ' M. d'Aurevilly has put some cayenne
pepper in the original, and you will observe that
I have been obliged to do the same. ; However, I
trust that I have (not) been too pungent ! ' The
negative has here evidently been omitted by mistake.
The warmth of Trebutien's heart and the sincerity of
his friendship are gathered from the closing lines
" Adieu, dear friend. I take still more interest in
your happiness than in your success, and still more
in your well-being than in your books. To say this
is to say much.
" TREBUTIEN."
IV
AN ANGLO-FRENCH ROMANCE
MARY CLARKE AND CLAUDE FAURIEL
AN ANGLO-FRENCH ROMANCE
MARY CLARKE AND CLAUDE FAURIEL
I
DURING the siege of Paris and the Commune, a
vivacious little old lady, English by birth, French
by bringing up, German by marriage, was visiting
country houses in England.
A kabituee of Mme. Recamier's famous salon, a
friend of Chateaubriand and of his contemporaries,
a generation later Mary Clarke, afterwards Mme.
Mohl, gathered about her wits, scientists, philo-
sophers. During the Second Empire it was in a
modest flat of the Rue du Bac that M. and Mme.
Mohl kept up French traditions, brilliant con-
versation, advanced Liberalism and intellectual
speculation only unlocking the doors.
Jules, or rather Julius Mohl, philologer and
Orientalist, was a native of Stuttgart, but early in
life he had accepted French nationality, later attain-
ing high Academic honours. Mary Clarke, who took
his name when both were long past their prime,
belonged to a cultured family settled in France.
Without beauty or attractive sweetness, she pos-
sessed gifts pre-eminently valued by our neighbours ;
vivacious, clever, an inspirer of good talk rather than
a good talker, above all she was what French folks
call malicieztsement spirituelle, ready wit being
ofttimes seasoned with malice. Thus endowed and
thus circumstanced, the Englishwoman, then as in
107
108 AN ANGLO-FRENCH ROMANCE
her youth, attained great popularity in the first
literary circles of Paris, from first to last her career
proving a social success.
Chateaubriand died in 1848, Mme. Recamier in
1849, Mme. Mohl in a measure taking the great
lady's place. From the date of her marriage to the
fall of Louis Napoleon, she figured as the queen of
a salon, daily reunions keeping up the spirit of an
illustrious period. Informal dinners were given on
certain days during the week, certain habitues having
their covers always laid for them; among these
being Mignet, Thiers, Michelet and Victor Cousin.
Dinner over, the men would nod in the smoking-
room, the ladies would curl themselves up on sofas
in the salon and take a nap, waking for the general
reception. Then the battledore and shuttlecock of
wits, the intellectual give and take began afresh, not
only Parisian, but cosmopolitan beaux esprits taking
part in the symposium.
It was during May 1871 that I happened to be the
fellow-guest of Mme. Mohl in a Sussex country
house. Not only had she sedulously cultivated the
mental, but also the modish traditions of a former
epoch. In her person, she evoked the image of an
aged, but in this case not beautiful Recamier, still
wearing curls and robe decolletee. Who for a
moment could have supposed that this society-
loving, quaint little old lady was the heroine of a
romance only second to the most sentimental story
in modern history? Yet so it was. Until a few
years ago perhaps even the name of Julie de Les-
pinasse was unknown to but a restricted English
public. Her career having been turned into a story
AN ANGLO-FRENCH ROMANCE 109
by a popular novelist is now pretty generally known.
But Lady Rose's Daughter, however skilfully
treated, could not be half so absorbing as the career
of the immortelle amante.
Widely as Mary Clarke differed from the French
sentimentalist, circumstances and character alike
provoke a comparison. Both women owed their fas-
cination to mental and social gifts only, to both for
many years love-making on paper was the prime
business of the day, both fell ardently in love with
two men at the same time, and neither married either
of their lovers. Divergences of character were wide
indeed. The Frenchwoman adored by D'Alembert
among others, the Egeria at whose feet sat men of
the great Turgot's calibre, was sympathy and
amiableness impersonated. Therein lay her mag-
netism.
Mary Clarke, on the contrary, staunch as she was
in her friendships, was fiercely jealous in her love
affairs, and lacked that tact, intuition and penetrative
appreciation of others in which Julie de Lespinasse
was supremely endowed. Writing in a foreign
tongue, too, her letters want the spontaneous grace
of one who wrote French as she spoke it, in all its
purity and strength. But as a piece of self-revela-
tion, the love-story revealed in the correspondence
just given to the world has no little interest.
II
In 1824 Mary Clarke, being just twenty-five, met
middle-aged litterateur, now forgotten, named
110 AN ANGLO-FRENCH ROMANCE
Claude Fauriel. The first impassioned letters from
which the late M. Rod recently published selec-
tions in the Revue des Deux Mondes, were written
by her in Italy during the aforenamed year, and we
must turn to the last, penned at St. Leonards-on-Sea
two decades later, if we would understand this
strange history.
From Florence she thus wrote to her lover after
a very brief acquaintance : " Who is it who governs
every action of my life, if not yourself? Are you
not from me the beginning, the middle and the end
of everything ? "
To such outpourings Fauriel from the very first
replied in measured terms. Thus in a quite early
missive he told his " douce, chere amie " (his sweet,
dear friend) " I could wish that in every step you
take there should be some inducement wholly irre-
spective of myself, in fact, that you decide upon
every course as if I did not so much as exist."
It seems quite evident that despite the magnetism
of Mary Clarke's personality rather, we should say,
intellect this self -coddling, self-occupied bachelor,
many years her senior, had evidently no thought
whatever of marriage. Herein lies the pitifulness of
the story. Perpetually asking bread, ever put off with
stones, for upwards of twenty years Mary Clarke
nursed chimeras. Never, surely, did any woman
allow herself to be so blinded ! Fauriel, moreover,
as was well known, had for years been the devoted
and open cavaliere servente of the fascinating Mar-
quise de Condorcet. As known to us by this corre-
spondence he does not at all appeal to our sym-
pathies. Beginning life as a soldier, later occupying
AN ANGLO-FRENCH ROMANCE Jll
an official post, later still he entered on the career
of authorship, and with some success. He was an
intimate friend of Manzoni, and his guest when in
Italy. His most important work, a history of
Provencal poetry, has long been superseded. A
man spoiled by feminine adulation, one far more
inclined to let himself be adored than to adore, such
was the protagonist of Mary Clarke's romance.
On the other hand, it must be admitted that the
lover's hanging-on is as much to be wondered at
as the lady's constancy. Why did not a precise
explanation for once and for all make matters clear?
Fauriel had no intentions either honourable or the
contrary, no desire to offer Mary either his name or
a left-handed devotion. Sentimentality, a lover-
like friendship sufficed, and rather than forfeit these
he put up with bitterest recrimination, outbursts of
fierce jealousy and quite unconventional suggestions.
In other words, it was from herself, not from the
lover, that came a proposal of marriage !
In one of his letters, most of which are apologetic
or in a strain of self-defence, he wrote : " When you
deigned to express your desire that our destinies
should be made one, I held back, alarmed at the
uncertainty of my future and of my income." And
elsewhere, apparently after some more plain speak-
ing on her part, he wrote that her heaped-up
reproaches made him tremble for the future, that is
to say, the future she desired.
In another letter he tells her that the work in
hand on Proven9al poetry was the object of his life.
Yet she refused to accept his views. The years
rolled on, each bringing effusive intercourse on
112 AN ANGLO-FRENCH ROMANCE
paper, with alternating quarrels and patched-up
reconciliation. On one occasion Fauriel had again
and again expressed his intention of not taking a
certain route to Italy, thereby meeting her on the
way. Because she had set her heart upon this plan
she persisted in believing that he would renounce
his own, which he refused to do. " Dear friend,"
Fauriel replied to her angrily reproachful letters, " it
would be much less sad if we ceased this corre-
spondence altogether than to continue it, as letters
only cause misunderstanding and render us both
unhappy."
Mary Clarke candidly avowed that all her troubles
arose from ill-regulated passion and imagination.
" May God give me power to overcome these ! "
she ejaculates in her diary. In 1832, that is to say,
after eight years' intercourse and letter-writing, she
realizes that marriage was as far from Fauriel's
thoughts as ever. In an enormously long and pas-
sionate outpouring she bitterly upbraids him, ending
thus : " I believe in your goodness of heart and that
your nature is good, but you little realize the value
to me of every moment spent in your presence, of
every word that drops from your lips, each a pearl
to treasure up memories of these recurring again
and again when I am alone."
Ill
We now come to an incident in Mary Clarke's
career more than any other recalling that of Julie
de Lespinasse. Just as the eighteenth-century bel-
AN ANGLO-FRENCH ROMANCE 113
esprit was deeply in love with the loyal young
Marquis de Moira and the flighty dilettante Guibert
at the same time, so the arch-attractive English-
woman was one day writing long letters to her " dear
angel" Fauriel, and the next having a lover-like
tete-a-tete with her second adorer, this one no lesser
personage than Victor Cousin. The leader of a
great philosophical and literary movement, the splen-
did orator, brilliant writer and member of all the
learned bodies in France, could not resist Mary
Clarke's caustic wit and keen intelligence. It is even
surmised that at one time he thought of marriage ; if
so the mood quickly passed. With his friend and
rival, Cousin's attitude was perfectly straight-
forward. He showed the utmost desire not in the
least thing to compromise the lady, and for a time a
curious tripartite game was played.
Fauriel hoped that the other's declaration would
free him from an embarrassing situation, Cousin
holding back, as he said, actuated by motives of
delicacy, Mary Clarke by turns hoping, despairing
and, it must be admitted roundly reproaching both.
By the philosopher her exacerbations were an-
swered thus : " What would you have me do,
Mary ? We cannot separate ourselves from Fauriel."
In her diary an interview with Cousin is thus de-
scribed
" I rested my hea'd on his shoulder, he folded me
in his arms, I regarded by turns the heavens and his
countenance. But heavens, how can such transports
be described ! "
This dallying with sentiment, this courtship result-
ing neither in marriage nor in self-abandonment
114 AN ANGLO-FRENCH ROMANCE
would be inexplicable on the part of the two men
but for Mary Clarke's intellectual charms and per-
haps also for the manners of the times. Despite
her captious temper and moods of fiery jealousy,
despite her terrible English accent, the hard-
featured little Englishwoman proved talismanic.
The Cousin interlude soon ended, but the corre-
spondence with Fauriel was carried on, her last
letter, dated from St. Leonards-on-Sea, November
1843, being a mere wail of despair. " My letter is
very sad," she wrote, " but it is less sad than myself.
Every object to which I turn is leaden-hued. I
should be better off in Paris, not that I should be in
the least degree happier, but there I could drown
care in diversion. Wisely Madame de Stael says
that Paris is the only place in the world in which
happiness can be dispensed with. Here not a
creature exists the sight of whom gives me pleasure.
Folks go and come leaving me absolutely indifferent.
At dawn I can never say to myself that before going
to rest I shall have enjoyed a single moment. What
a colourless, insipid existence is mine ! Adieu, I
have no longer sufficient courage to wish for another
meeting, not knowing whether it would give you
pleasure or enough pleasure. Moderation I
execrate."
Four years later the following notification was sent
to French friends and acquaintances
" To Monsieur and Madame Mrs.
Frewen Turner has the honour to inform you of the
marriage of her sister Mary Elizabeth Clarke to
Monsieur Jules Mohl, Member of the Institute,
Paris, nth of August, 1847."
AN ANGLO-FRENCH ROMANCE 115
The heroine of this romance was now fifty-seven,
M. Mohl being ten years her junior. A diverting
story is recounted of the civil marriage. According
to French law, a bride is obliged to tell her age;
when requested by the Mayor of the arrondisse-
ment to comply with this formula, this one replied,
:< You may throw me into the Seine, Monsieur le
Maire, but you will never get me to tell you how
old I am."
A gallant Frenchman, no matter how tried by red
tape, could not, of course, show himself obdurate,
and the matter was passed over with presumably
polite guesswork. Then followed twenty-three
years of social success, the historic salon in the Rue
du Bac being only broken up by the Franco-German
War. Meantime Fauriel had died, and with great
generosity the learned Orientalist published the work
of his wife's lover on Provencal poetry.
The most curious part of this Anglo-French
romance remains to be told. In a testamentary docu-
ment dated April 1855, Madame Mohl, being then
sixty-five, ordered that her entire correspondence
with Fauriel and her voluminous journals should be
published at a given period after her decease.
Further instalments of both are promised consisting
of criticism and reminiscences.
What could have induced this woman of the world
to desire such publicity? Only one motive seems
acceptable. For the disinterested savant, her hus-
band, her feeling was evidently of intellectual com-
radeship only. He was no cher ange, but simply
" Mohl " t ; to the last she loved Fauriel and believed
in him ; posterity, she perhaps thought, would render
I 2
116 AN ANGLO-FRENCH ROMANCE
justice to his works. Divided throughout life,
their names should be linked together in literary
history.
M. Mohl died in 1876; his wife, who had ever
dreaded longevity, lived to be ninety-three.
V
A 'GOD-INTOXICATED* FRENCHMAN
JEAN REYNAUD
A ' GOD-INTOXICATED ' FRENCH-
MAN: JEAN REYNAUD
IF I were to choose an epithet for the subject of
this paper, I should style him perhaps the most
ethereal-minded among later French writers, or I
might aptly borrow the words of one German poet
applied to another, and describe him as a " God-
intoxicated " Frenchman. The purest and deepest
religiousness lay at the root of all his thoughts and
actions; and though his chief philosophical work
was condemned by an ecclesiastical conclave of
Perigueux as teeming with mundane science and
blasphemies, it would be hard to name any other
thinker of his time more thoroughly imbued with the
real spirit of Christianity. But before examining his
works, let us look at himself.
Jean Reynaud was born at Lyons in 1806 of an
honourable and once rich family. Owing to re-
verses of fortune, he was brought up with his two
brothers in the simplest and hardiest fashion. His
mother was a remarkable woman. As if foreseeing
the contemplative future of the boy, she led him in
his earliest years to observe natural objects, especi-
ally the stars, of which he was to write afterwards
so enthusiastically. She reared him a child of the
open air, and a child of the open air he remained till
the last. With the rapt appreciation of a Thoreau,
he has described natural beauty alike on a grand
119
120 GOD-INTOXICATED ' FRENCHMAN
scale or in detail. His schools and tutors were the
hills and woods, starry nights and flowery fields.
He not only enjoyed nature, but tried to understand
it, giving himself to close observation and silent
pondering. Nevertheless he received the needful
training for a practical career, and in 1827, with one
of his brothers, quitted the 6cole Polytechnique
among the foremost students, and entered upon a
course of studies and travel as a pupil of the ficole
des Mines. These travels in the Black Forest, the
Harz Mountains and Corsica contributed to develop
the mental and physical endowments from which he
was afterwards to reap good results. No peril or
hardship daunted him; nothing escaped his quick
eye. He was a born mountaineer, astonishing even
the chamois hunters by feats of daring and dex-
terity, his delight in scenery and adventure leading
him to higher contemplation. From Corsica, in his
twenty-fourth year, he thus wrote to his mother :
"Oh! my mother, an immense joy fills my soul.
No more emptiness, no more spleen for me. Yester-
day the idea of God became manifest to my mind
without a cloud."
About this time a new intellectual era had set in
throughout France. Men's minds, especially young
minds, were stirred with a fervour that was not
entirely social, political, or philosophic, but a mix-
ture of all these. The Socialistic tendencies of the
time are evinced in this motto, chosen by a band of
students of the Ecole Polytechnique : " Ameliora-
tion, both physical and intellectual, of the poorest
and most laborious classes." No wonder that to an
enthusiastic nature Socialism should appear the
GOD-INTOXICATED ' FRENCHMAN 121
inauguration of a golden age. St. Simon, one of
the purest and most elevated of Socialistic leaders,
had taught his disciples to look for a perfected state
of society and regenerated humanity on earth, rather
than in the fabled epochs of poets or the celestial
mansions of theologians. :< The golden age is
before us and not behind," he wrote : " it is for us
to hasten its coming for our children." Jean Rey-
naud, then in all the effervescing enthusiasm and
self-devotion of youth, joined the Saint Simonians,
so aptly styled by Henry Martin, ce rendez-vous de
tant d' intelligences destinees a prendre des routes si
diverses (this rendezvous of so many intellects des-
tined to follow paths so divergent). St. Simonianism
by no means ended where it began, and the follies
and excesses of Menilmontant were far from enter-
ing into the programme of its founder. This may be
summed up in the word altruism. " I have given up
everything to follow these men," wrote the young
philosopher, on renouncing the career he had begun
so promisingly. " I will fight under their banner till
my death, for it is holy."
He had not long enrolled himself as a St. Simon-
ian, when he was destined to bitter disenchantment.
The Pere Enfantin, then at the height of his
popularity, soon enounced those doctrines concern-
ing the relation of the sexes which cast so much
odium on Socialism generally. Jean Reynaud,
after eloquently combating such ideas in vain,
retired from the society mortified, disquieted, and
not knowing where to seek new ideals. I must
pass briefly over the following years of hard study,
mingled with active literary life in Paris. He
122 GOD-INTOXICATED ' FRENCHMAN
joined Pierre Leroux in the editorship of the Revue
Ency elope clique, and when that journal ceased to
appear from want of contributors, became sole
editor of the Encyclopedic Nouvelle. ; He also
contributed largely to the Magasin Pittoresque, and
a selection of his miscellaneous papers was pub-
lished under the title of Lectures Variees. From
1834 to the eventful year of 1848 was a period of
continued intellectual development and creative-
ness. The striking fragment, "L'lnfinite des
Cieux," published in the Revue Encyclopedique,
proved the germ of his chief work, Terre et del;
and the still more original paper on Druidism,
which appeared in the same journal, doubtless sug-
gested to him the book by which, in his own country,
he has been finally appraised, namely, L 'Esprit de
la Gaule. The revolution of February for a time
put an end to these quiet labours. Like every other
true patriot, he threw heart and soul into the popular
movement, displaying upon every occasion that per-
fect mastery of self, and that serene, indomitable
courage which marked him as a leader among men.
Associated with his friend, the noble-minded
Schoelcher, in the Provisional Government, and
named Deputy and Under Secretary of State, he
put his shoulder to the wheel and concentrated all
his energies on the subject of educational reform.
But his Socialistic tendencies manifested in a
circular wherein he insisted upon the necessity of
recruiting representatives of the people among the
people surely a logical sequence of a democratic
government ! excited great acrimony. Reynaud
declared himself in favour of electing not only the
* GOD-INTOXICATED ' FRENCHMAN 123
peasant proprietors, but school-masters, to the
Chamber, a class of men at that time held in un-
justifiable contempt, and on the appearance of this
programme he was violently abused by anti-Re-
publican journals. We must study M. Hanotaux's
great work to realize the slow growth of the demo-
cratic idea in France. Reynaud was a theorist in
advance of his epoch, and his political career a
failure. His ardent patriotism, passionate pity for
the poor and the ignorant, noble aspirations and
ideals, had not been sufficiently tempered in the
school of practical life, or perhaps, as those con-
cluded who knew him best, he retired too soon from
the combat. " In six months' time he would have
been stronger than all of us put together," said one
of his colleagues in the Government; and Beranger,
always coy of praise, openly expressed his admira-
tion for Reynaud's lofty attitude and gifts of oratory.
He seemed to be one of those born to govern ; pose,
look, mien, speech, all combined to inspire reverence
and enthusiasm. Disappointed at the failure of his
efforts, he now retired from the arena of political
strife altogether, and absorbed himself in philo-
sophical studies.
The last important act of his life was a refusal to
accept the candidateship for the Chamber when it
was offered to him at the general elections of 1863.
" I regret," he wrote to the electors, " not to be able
to accept the honour you press upon me, but I
cannot reconcile it with my conscience to acknow-
ledge a constitution which has not liberty as its
basis."
Such in its barren outline is the man's uneventful
124 GOD-INTOXICATED ' FRENCHMAN
life, but when we fill in the details it becomes very
interesting as a study of character. The most un-
important incident, the least little trait, betokens the
magnanimity of a nature whose keynote was heroism.
An eye-witness relates the following occurrence that
took place during the blood-stained days of July :
"We were camped on the Place de la Concorde
with the National Guards of our commune. It was
on the third day of the contest. The battle was
drawing to a close. All at once a workman, un-
armed, and wearing a blue blouse, appeared, walk-
ing quietly across the place. The combatants, cry-
ing, ' A traitor, a traitor ! ' rushed upon him with
pointed bayonets. We tried to hold them back in
vain, and the unfortunate man, overcome with terror,
set off at full speed, pursued by some cuirassiers of
the Champs Elysees, who, seeing his flight, deemed
him guilty. In an instant he was surrounded, and
fell to the ground, his blood flowing, when a civilian
rushed forward from the crowd, and at the risk of
being shot down threw himself between pursuers
and pursued. Quick as lightning, without opening
his lips, he tore from his breast his Deputy's scarf
and threw it about the victim. The swords were at
once lowered, the bayonets dropped; the Deputy's
scarf symbol of the nation became a palladium.
The unknown saviour was Jean Reynaud ! "
There was austerity, nay, stoicism, mingled with
intensest enjoyment of intellectual and natural
beauty, in this gifted nature, as many stories of his
early life testify. In those days he had been obliged
to undergo many privations, and he so schooled
himself as to " break the body," in monastic phrase,
GOD-INTOXICATED ' FRENCHMAN 125
and attain a serene indifference to material ease and
luxury. Take the following example of his rigid
adherence to what was a guiding principle of life.
At a time when he often dined upon dry bread, he
called upon a friend at the dinner-hour, and was
invited to stay and partake. Blunt refusal. '' Then
you have already dined?" asks his host. "No."
"Why, then, refuse to dine with me?" "Because
I have no dinner at home." ; ' The more reason for
sharing mine." " The less reason," answers Rey-
naud. " In the first place, I will not turn a friend's
house into an inn, and friendship into parasitism.
Secondly, if I sit down hungry at your board to-day,
I shall come to-morrow and sit down to it, just
because I am hungry. Thus my body would have
asserted its authority, and I will have no masters,
least of all that one." His friend looking at him
astonished, he continued gaily, " Oh ! I have accus-
tomed this body of mine to obey me, I assure you ;
in my long student travels I used to say to it, on
setting out, you will have no breakfast till you have
accomplished six leagues. The six leagues passed,
it begins to grumble. Two more, says I, and it goes
grumbling on. Come, I add sharply, grumbling is
of no use; go on and be quiet. And I was obeyed,
as I shall be obeyed to-day." Whereupon he went
home to eat his bit of bread.
He had. a passionate fondness for animals, and
the mystery of their sufferings troubled him greatly.
When, in 1842, he retired to the solitary hamlet of
Vineuil, near Chantilly, there meditating and writing
out his two chief works, he surrounded himself with
pet animals, especially birds. Peacocks had a
126 * GOD-INTOXICATED ' FRENCHMAN
strange fascination for his artistic nature. One day,
watching them with a friend, as they sat majestically
perched on a roof-top at sunset, he said, " Do they
not seem to salute the god of their native country,
and delight to scintillate their plumage in the fire
of its departing rays ? " He delighted also in flowers
and plants, and was a skilled botanist and geologist.
But perhaps his darling study was that of the stars,
and none has written of starry lore more rapturously.
" I doubt not," he writes in Tene et del, " that if
there existed on the surface of the world a single
spot only from whence we could survey the mysteri-
ous structure of the universe, travellers would flock
from the most remote parts to that privileged place ;
as it is, the habit of seeing the stars ends by blunting
this noble curiosity in most of us."
His contemplative solitude at Vineuil was broken
in the most romantic and unexpected manner. At
the age of thirty-seven he had retired apparently
from the world and given up domestic life, to consort
with nature and his books only, when the daring but
kindly intervention of friends saved him from a life-
long isolation.
There was living at the same time, within fifty
leagues of his retreat, a very wealthy lady, almost
as solitary as himself with equal ardour devoted to
the pursuit of science and philosophy. Why not
bring these kindred souls together, thought common
friends who knew them intimately? The project
was matured, and, in spite of Jean Reynaud's
timidity and apprehension at the thought of linking
another existence with his own, ultimately carried
out. A meeting was effected between the young but
'GOD-INTOXICATED' FRENCHMAN 127
prematurely white-haired philosopher and his
Egeria, which resulted in twenty years of blissful
married life. By his marriage, too, his worldly cir-
cumstances improved; a small inheritance, added to
his wife's fortune, enabled him to live in that in-
dependent ease and rustic elegance he could so
thoroughly appreciate. After the storms and con-
flicts of his youth came smooth years of domestic
harmony, and the amenities of country life. Here
he occupied his leisure hours in gardening, glowing
with all a naturalist's ardour over a new botanical
specimen or rare plant. Long before his death,
however, the insidious and painful disease from
which he died had made havoc of that finely organ-
ized constitution and Herculean frame, and already,
in 1 86 1, he wrote to his friend Henri Martin, the
renowned historian : " I am discontented with
myself. I have fallen into a sort of inertia. Yes,
at my age we find ourselves so near the other life
that we are more disposed to take interest in that
than in the present. We say our task is ended ; and
in seeing its insignificance, become resigned in
thinking that another time it will be better
done."
But even those who knew him best refused to
believe that the end was so near. Though overcome
with fits of profound melancholy, he lost none of
his imposing presence and great personal beauty,
" cette apparence Olympienne," as his biographer,
M. Legouve, styles it, and of which all his friends
speak so enthusiastically. He died in 1863, and
was buried according to the rites of the Catholic
Church in the village cemetery of Neuilly. Although
128 * GOD-INTOXICATED ' FRENCHMAN
a conclave of bishops had condemned Jean Rey-
naud as a heretic and a blasphemer a short time
before, the Church did not refuse her blessing over
his grave.
The task of summarizing such a life is easy; but
when we come to an estimate of the author and his
writings great difficulties present themselves. We
have only to look at two of the many criticisms
passed upon them to see how differently they are
regarded by writers of opposed tendencies. M.
Taine, reviewing Terre et del in the Revue des
Deux Mondes soon after its appearance, whilst fully
appreciating the elevation of thought and beauty of
style characterizing the work throughout, regards it
as utterly failing to establish that harmony between
religion and science which was the end the author
proposed to himself. M. Henri Martin writes of
the same work, after a careful analysis : " The only
praise becoming a book of like scope may be
summed up in a few words, * C'est un livre de vie ' :
(it is a book full of life) ; and he adds : " To sum up
our own opinions on these vast questions Theodicy,
namely, the science of God, exists, in so far as it
can exist; and the religion of the Middle Ages, the
philosophy of the eighteenth century, and the various
sects of the nineteenth, have proved insufficient for
the spiritual needs of humanity. The effort of Jean
Reynaud is, therefore, legitimate and necessary.
The way he opens to us is a true way, and we utter
the prayer from the bottom of our hearts that this
magnanimous appeal to the spirits of France may
be responded to."
The characteristic of the philosophical work,
* GOD-INTOXICATED ' FRENCHMAN 129
Terre et del, is a consistent and logically developed
protest against the theological teaching of the
Middle Ages. The writer's mind is overwhelmed
with commiseration for those who, in his poetic
phraseology, have enrolled themselves sous la triste
banniere du passe (under the melancholy banner
of the past). In his opinion, the writers of the
eighteenth century have also done their work, and
in order to prevent us from returning to the
mediaeval spirit and paganism, a new and pure
school of religious metaphysics is necessary. Then,
as a natural sequence of this proposition, he sets
before him those problems which have perplexed
philosophers, from Pythagoras down to Schopen-
hauer.
What is the nature and destiny of the soul? he
asks. Whence does it come ? Whither does it go ?
What is the part played in the scheme of the uni-
verse by the worlds around us? Are they peopled,
and what is the nature of their inhabitants ? To sum
up, he seeks the universal law of life, and the con-
clusions he arrives at are, if not in the interest of
certain dogmas of the Church, incontestably in the
interests of religiousness and morality. M. Legouve
observes in his criticism of this work, and all those
who are thoroughly acquainted with French youth
will concur in the opinion, that the vital issue now
is no longer between Protestant and Catholic, Uni-
tarianjmd Trinitarian, but between scepticism and
belief. The cardinal points of Jean Reynaud's
doctrine namely, that the soul is immortal, that
human life is but a link in the chain of universal
being, that humanity is progressive, ever marching
130 'GOD-INTOXICATED' FRENCHMAN
onwards towards perfection, that there is neither
heaven nor hell, but that our planet, indeed, is itself
a part of heaven can but lead the mind to a loftier
conception of existence, whether regarded as a whole
or a part. He accepted the dictum of the great
Kepler : " Hoc enim ccelum est, in quo vivimus et
movemur et sumus, nos, et omnia mundana cor-
pora" (This is heaven, the Cosmos, the universe
itself, in which we live and move and have our
being, with all other corporeities). No one was
ever more strongly impressed with that belief in
immortality, of which he writes so eloquently and
which he traces back so proudly to his intellectual
progenitors of ancient Gaul. Death for him meant
merely a translation from one stage of being to
another; in perfecting themselves, others, and the
world in which they live, human beings nearest
approach God.
The plan of the work is not happy, or at best
hazardous, being thrown into the form of a dialogue
between a philosopher and a theologian. In fact, it
is a dialogue after Platonic fashion, but wanting
Platonic drama and movement. This defect is in
a great measure redeemed by the charms of style
and the originality of thought predominating
throughout. Reynaud's prose is admirable. There
are passages that recall the solemnity of Pascal and
Bossuet, whilst, as has been aptly said, he is never
the author, but always the man.
Take as a specimen of his speculative mood the
following passage from Tene et del, where he is
writing of the probable progress of the world, and
the effect of scientific knowledge carried to a pitch
' GOD-INTOXICATED ' FRENCHMAN 131
even to-day hardly to be realized. With regard to
international commerce and its results upon general
advancement and well-being, he says
"Adam did not more entirely possess the fruits
of his narrow Paradise than we in the present day
possess all the combined products of the seas and
continents of our vast inheritance. This common
enjoyment of the fruits of the earth would not be a
sufficient corrective of its vast size, were it not for
the ease with which, in contradistinction to our
ancestors, we are enabled to transport ourselves
from one place to another, and to maintain our
relations with various parts of the globe. Such is
the result of world-wide intercourse. So lively has
become the correspondence between the various
quarters of the world, that letters and travellers are
perpetually crossing each other on their way. And
as voyages and journeys become longer and more
frequent, these also increase in speed and facility,
so that the extent of the globe and its relation to
man are determined, not by relative size, but by the
ease with which we can reach the most distant parts,
the result being that the dimensions of the world,
instead of being fixed, progressively diminish from
day to day. Who, indeed, does not perceive that,
viewed by the light of geography, the earth is in-
finitely smaller to us than it was to our forefathers
that each year, in consequence of the improved
methods of communication, it suffers further diminu-
tion, and that it is destined to become still more
limited to our descendants ? So, so far as the trans-
mission of thought is concerned, distance no longer
exists; by a miracle, before which our forerunners
K.2
132 GOD-INTOXICATED ' FRENCHMAN
would have stood confounded, we shall soon be
enabled to converse with the antipodes as easily as
with our next-door neighbour. Thus, whilst the
ancients could admire Divine power in bowing
before the majesty of the earth, we should see our-
selves compelled to take a very limited view of the
handiworks of the Creator if we were obliged to
judge of them by an abode where already we begin
to find ourselves cramped for space, where the
longest voyages are mere beaten tracks, and, to
sum up, where already statisticians begin to tremble
when they think of the little room that will be left
for posterity. Happily we are more than compen-
sated for the lost majesty of the earth by the new
vistas astronomers have opened in the heavens 2 so
that whilst the first appears narrower and narrower,
the sidereal world conversely astounds us more and
more by its immensity."
This passage is cited more as a sample of the
author's manner of thinking than writing, which is
here, perhaps, a little prolix. He is so anxious to
be understood that he is apt to elucidate over-much.
But it is, above all, of the stars that he writes with
understanding and witchery. " Ah ! " he writes,
"how well I can understand the irritation of the
Middle Ages against Galileo ! That problem of
the sun's fixity contained so many others. The ter-
restrial globe ceasing to occupy the centre, and to
form a rallying-point of the universe, all precon-
ceived cosmical ideas being overturned, where then
to look for Paradise and Hell?" And in this
dialogue between the philosopher and the theolo-
gian, the last fares, of course, worst. Not only
' GOD-INTOXICATED ' FRENCHMAN 133
Purgatory and Hell, but the celestial Paradise of
the Church crumbles to pieces
" No more time," says the first ; " no more change ;
never more anything new; no more acts of charity
displayed by one human being towards another; no
more salutary reflections, no more aspirations after
the Divinity; the elect in their places for ever and
ever in Paradise, the damned in theirs below. The
time is gone when good men can delight themselves
in lifting their brethren out of evil, and in feeling
that even the created world yields to their efforts
and gains each day, owing to them an added grace,
and added beauty, where those who have had the
misfortune to go astray are able, after their lapse, to
return to virtue and follow the straight road in com-
pany of the righteous. . . . There is no more pro-
gress to hope for in this terrible succession of age
upon age, neither for oneself, nor for others, whether
in heaven or in hell, and the law of unchangeable-
ness is henceforth the law of the universe. . . . Ah !
how this Paradise repels me ! how infinitely I prefer
my life, with all its misery and tribulations, to such
an immortality and such a beatitude !
'There were virtues in the world. There are
none in heaven. The logic of theologians has ex-
pelled them," he adds; and a hundred passages
might be cited to show how intensely the super-
stitious teaching of the Church in these days
weighed upon his spirits. He saw that the only hope
for France lay in the emancipation of the young
from sacerdotal guidance; and when he combats at
such length the cardinal doctrines concerning
original sin, eternal punishment, and the nature of
134 * GOD-INTOXICATED ' FRENCHMAN
angels, there can be no doubt that it was the ignorant
and the younger of his countrypeople he had in
view. The fact that great scientific attainments
should be brought to bear upon these questions in
France is not astonishing; but that a philosophic
teacher, the basis of whose system is the purest and
most ardent Theism, should be a Frenchman, and
that he should have had a large following, may
perhaps seem matter for astonishment. The edition
of Terre et del before me, published in 1866. is
the fifth, and has been superseded by others. Such
recognition of a work which, according to the bishops
in conclave at Perigueux, could hardly be matched
for monstrous blasphemies, must, at the time, have
given uneasy feelings to many a professor of the-
ology. Whether, indeed, science and religion are
reconcilable remains matter for debate. Certain it
is that Jean Reynaud's attempt in this direction has
resulted in a memorable book.
His speculative turn, added to wide scientific
attainments, led him to curious and subtle inquiries
into natural phenomena and the probable results of
advanced knowledge. Take, for example, certain
passages in the first division of the volume, upon the
sea, rain, the desert. Here, instead of metaphysical
theories, we have lucid expositions of such problems
as offer themselves to observers of nature.
And he goes on to predict, with regard to all
phenomena, an increasing development of man's
power over nature. The keynote of the work must
be sought in that ancient Druidic doctrine of the
continuity of existence and the immortality of the
soul still further developed in the Esprit de la
GOD-INTOXICATED ' FRENCHMAN 135
Gaule. True heritor of the spiritual teachers and
pontiffs of ancient Gaul, for him, in the words of
his favourite classic poet, death, indeed, was but a
midway halt in never-ending existence
Longae vitae
Mors media est.
It is easy to conceive the ardour which would be
kindled in the breast of any noble-minded French
boy by the perusal of Caesar's narrative. Like Jean
Reynaud, he would glory in the notion of kinship
with the magnanimous Vercingetorix, and would
delight in every fragment of tradition bearing on the
sad but splendid piece of history of which the youth-
ful "chief of a hundred chiefs" forms the central
figure. The keynote of the Esprit de la Gaule is
to be found in this clinging to primitive nationality.
Jean Reynaud saw in himself a scion rather of the
Gaul than of the Roman or the Frank ; and his out-
burst of enthusiasm gave the impetus to those Celtic
studies in France which have since borne such rich
fruit. To use M. Legouve's words, "Son livre
reveilla 1'esprit Gaulois en France." M. Henri
Martin, in the first volume of his history, largely
acknowledges his frequent obligations to one who
was the inspirer not only of the historian and the
archaeologist, but the dramatic poet. Montanelli's
tragedy of Camma sheds added lustre on that hero-
ine of ancient Gaul whose story is so pathetically
told by Amedee Thierry in his Histoire des Gaulois.
These are instances among many. The author's
method of treating a subject is nowhere better seen
than in this work. Tradition, folk-lore, architecture,
customs, are all laid under contribution, the result
136 GOD-INTOXICATED ' FRENCHMAN
being a compendium of fact and suggestion quite
marvellous when we consider the scantiness of the
materials at command. Of all the classic writers,
Lucan alone seems to have grasped the spirit of that
race so terrible to its foes because it " feared not
death" that race which Caesar with all his legions
found so hard to conquer that race which, like the
Hebrew, had arrived at a belief in one God invisible
and alone. Even Lucan, evidently full of interest
and sympathy though he be, consecrates a few lines
only to the theme of the Druids and their belief. I
give Christopher Marlowe's translation of this
famous passage, as being more poetical than Rowe's,
though in many respects Rowe's is preferable
And you, French Bardi, whose immortal pens
Renown the valiant souls slain in your wars,
Sit safe at home and chant sweet poesy.
And, Druides, you now in peace renew
Your barbarous customs and sinister rites ;
In unfelled woods and sacred groves you dwell ;
And only gods and heavenly powers you know,
Or only know you nothing; for you hold
That souls pass not to silent Erebus,
Or Pluto's bloodless kingdom, but elsewhere
Resume a body ; so (if truth you sing)
Death brings long life. Doubtless these Northern men,
Whom death, the greatest of all fears, affrights not,
Are blest by such sweet error ; this makes them
Run on the sword's point, and desire to die,
And shame to spare life which being lost is won.
From Lucan and other writers, ancient, mediaeval,
or modern, who have touched upon the subject, Jean
Reynaud builds up a structure which, if not history,
is at least a mine of suggestion. No one can read
even the cold narrative of Caesar without being
dazed by the heroic qualities displayed on the losing
* GOD-INTOXICATED ' FRENCHMAN 137
side, and the Roman conqueror is himself forced
into an occasional expression of admiration. Put-
ting together Caesar's narrative and every fragment
contributed by Lucan, Strabo, Pomponius Mela and
other writers, there is little enough, yet ample
wherewithal to inspire an enthusiastic and thor-
oughly national writer. For him, indeed, the theme
was sacred, and his ardour awakened a keen interest
in Celtic literature and antiquities in France. We
have only to turn to writers like Cambry, travelling
through the dolmen regions of Western France
nearly a hundred years ago, to realize the former
apathy of French people with regard to this subject.
This state of things seemed not much better when
Jean Reynaud wrote three-quarters of a century ago.
" Whilst the smallest fragments," he says, " bear-
ing on the civilization of Greece and Rome receive
the most minute care, those monuments which belong
to our own history are left to the same fate as the
stones by the wayside. In the early Christian epochs
they were doomed to destruction by fanaticism, but
this has been less guilty than our own neglect. It is
time that a different feeling should be displayed.
Such venerable monuments ought to be invested
with authority as the traditions of our ancestors.
Too long silent, they should now discourse to us on
the genius and independence of our race."
Elsewhere he says, in writing of fairies, "We do
not see why our national mythology, without exclud-
ing the Greek, should not accompany it in element-
ary education " ; and he appeals to his countrypeople
to rescue from oblivion every fragment of fairy- and
folk-lore, in order that the imagination of their
138 'GOD-INTOXICATED' FRENCHMAN
children may be moulded after the fashion of their
fathers : " remontant aux sources de la Gaule pour
nous y retremper, nous moulons I'imagination de nos
enfans sur les heureux patrons de rimagination de
nos peres." This was written in 1844, and we well
know how the appeal has been answered. With the
fascinating volumes of Emile Souvestre and Ville-
marque in his hands, to say nothing of contemporary
writers, the traveller of to-day may now re-people the
ancient Armorica with its fairies and hobgoblins as
he traverses one romantic district after another.
Brizeuz and others have poetized local customs and
traditions; and a goodly list of writers in a soberer
field might be given who have devoted themselves
to Celtic lore and archaeology in France. But it
must ever be remembered that Jean Reynaud was
one of the first to lead the way.
On the subject of fairies he has many ingenious
reflections. Whence arises the difference, he asks,
between the Circes of ancient Greece and the Melu-
sinas of Gaul? Why are the enchantresses of the
latter nation guardian angels, workers of good and
beneficence, whilst with the former they are dire
sorceresses only ? And he sees herein, as well as in
the equality of Druids and Druidesses, a feeling due
to the inherent respect for women of his remote
primogenitors. Again, he remarks that we need not
be astonished in France at the tenacity of belief in
fairies, despite clerical anathemas. " It is a belief
that comes not only from the imagination, but from
the heart, a perpetual protest of the Gaulois charac-
ter against the too sombre importations of Rome and
Judea."
GOD-INTOXICATED ' FRENCHMAN 139
Let us see his appraisement by contemporaries.
In a notice of Schopenhauer by M. Paul Janet
(Revue des Deux Mondes, May 15, 1877) occurs the
following : " The only contemporary French philo-
sopher for whom Schopenhauer shows any admira-
tion is Jean Reynaud " ; and he cites this sentence of
the great pessimist
" I see that Jean Reynaud thinks exactly as I do,
and that he naturalizes without needing either Kant
or the transcendental philosophy. He teaches the
innateness of the moral character, believes that we
have existed before our birth, and, in fine, sets forth
doctrines altogether Brahmanistic and Boudhistic.
Bravo ! "
Had Schopenhauer studied Reynaud's writings,
he would have discovered his error. Jean Reynaud
has as little in common with the doctrines of Boudha
as with those of their latter-day apostle, Schopen-
hauer himself. The characteristic of Reynaud's
teaching is its hopefulness. For him, life and the
world are mere synonyms of progress, and thus
putting himself directly in opposition to the theory
of the Nirvana, he says : " It is, above all things, the
principle of action and progress that likens us to
God." He could not conceive of any religious or
philosophic system which should exclude hope and
movement as the first and best gifts of the Creator
to man.
Let these last words, cited from the essay called
Elevation vers Dieu par la Nature, close this sketch,
since they better portray the author's mode of
thought than any commentary could do
" No exercise gives the soul more strength and
140 GOD-INTOXICATED ' FRENCHMAN
vigour than its efforts to arrive at a contemplation of
God. The more it is chained down by the toils and
obligations of life, the more it needs deliverance
from time to time by search after celestial things.
This occupation, so different from those of every
day, becomes a kind of repose, and assuredly many
men, worn out with the daily vexations of existence,
would easily be solaced and revived if such aspira-
tions entered more regularly into their habits of
thought. It is only by such means that we can
succeed in freeing ourselves from the shadows and
illusions of the world, and dwelling on infinite per-
fection. By these exercises the loftiest geniuses that
adorn humanity have been formed, and all of us are
thereby gainers, since the best way to maintain inner
calm amid worldly agitations is to know how to rise,
no matter how transiently, above the horizon of daily
life."
Deep religious faith and hope in the destiny of
humanity, tenderest sympathy with his kind, patriot-
ism in the loftiest sense of the word, and noble
ideals, such were the teachings of a Frenchman
condemned by a conclave of bishops in the nine-
teenth century as an enemy of religion, a perverter
of youth, and a blasphemer ! 1
In 1879 I often met Jean Reynaud's widow; she
used to call upon me in her handsome carriage, and
receive me in her vast reception-rooms superbly fur-
1 With regard to Jean Reynaud's condemnation of the theory
of eternal punishment, the conclave of bishops at Fe'rigueux
decreed as follows : " Quant a la doctrine que 1'auteur met princi-
palement en relief dans son livre touchant les peines des me'chants
apres la mort, nous la condamnons pareillement, nous la repous-
sons, et nous 1'avons particulierement en horreur, parce qu'elle
'GOD-INTOXICATED' FRENCHMAN 141
nished with gold brocade and ebony a pathetic
figure. All but stone-deaf, childless, apparently
very much alone in the world, and of unattractive
appearance, one spiritual ray, and one only, illumin-
ated that heavy personality Jean Reynaud and the
memory of what to her was a supreme, an immortal
nature constituted her inner joy, her very life. I
fear that his name is chiefly remembered now by the
.400 a year Prix Jean Reynaud accorded to the
Academic in perpetuity by his widow. It is a legacy
given to works written in the interests of moral
science and philosophy, also of any conducing to
the intellectual advantage of mankind. Most
worthily was this prize awarded a few years ago to
Arsene Darmesteter and his collaborator Hatzfeld
on the completion of their great etymological-
historic literature of the French language.
est infiniment pernicieuse. Certes, 1'amour divin n'est que trop
souvent e'touffe' dans le cceur de 1'homme sous le poids des
passions : qu'arrivera-t-il si une doctrine hypocritement flatteuse
vient y de*truire la crainte, et offrir a la ge'ne'ration des pervers un
Dieu sous le gouvernement duquel les vices affranchis se mettraient
a 1'aise ? " But the closing sentence best shows the temper of the
bishops: "Enfin, nous de'clarons que quand bien meme, non
seulement un homme ou le monde entier, mais, par impossible,
un ange du del ensetgnerait une doctrine contraire, la ndtre doit de-
meurer pour tous les chre'tiens 1'objet d'une foi tres-ferme et tout-
a-fait immuable. Si quelqu'un agit autrement, qu'il sache qu'il
s'est exclu lui-meme de la foi catholique et qu'il a encouru ces
memes peines e'ternelles dont il nie 1'existence." (The italics are
my own.)
VI
THE NEW FICTION
MM. BOYSLEVE AND HENRY
BORDEAUX
RENE BOYSLEVE
[facing p. 145.
THE NEW FICTION: MM. BOYSLEVE
AND HENRY BORDEAUX
FRENCH fiction has passed through many phases
since the death of Balzac, in Henry James's opinion
"the father of us all." First, and questionless, the
outcome of Balzac's stupendous achievement, came
Zola, Zola, gros, grossissant, grassier (immense,
coarsening, coarse), thus the historian of contempor-
ary France sums up his genius. And cruelly, yet,
it seems, presciently, M. Hanotaux adds: "The
future will remember his name, but future genera-
tions will not read him. Celebrated alike for his
strength and his falsity, finisher of romanticism
already in its decadence, Zola will figure as another
Petronius, a Petronius sombre and lacking all sense
of proportion."
Paris booksellers tell you now-a-days that whilst
Zola lies on the shelf, Flaubert is as much in.
demand as ever; but Flaubert was an artist. Mau-
passant, his disciple and follower, for the same
reason perhaps unfortunately will live. In any
case the arch-pessimistic psychological, or rather
physiological, novel has suffered eclipse.
First an epidemic of ethical enthusiasm suddenly
seized French novelists, just as the drama had of
late usurped the pulpit, play after play being pro-
duced, and successfully produced, having a moral
L us
146 THE NEW FICTION
purpose; so romancers turned from too familiar,
nauseous themes to social propaganda.
That facile and pleasantly unexciting writer Rene
Bazin led the way with his novel against wet-nursing,
showing the evils of a system rife to-day as when
Rousseau wrote over a hundred years ago. Then
followed stories written in the interests of temper-
ance, especially abstention from absinthe, disinter-
ested marriages, voluntaryism in the choice of
partners, and other questions, social as well as
material, co-operation, among the latter. And of late
years we have seen, especially in the time-honoured
but consistently reactionary Revue des Deux
Mondes, a long series of what may be described as
Ultramontane, anti- Progressive, anti-Republican
fiction, with wearisome reiteration being insisted
upon, the evils of divorce, the sufferings of law-
breaking, self-exiled priests and nuns, the evils of
toleration in theological matters, in fine, a mass of
literature curiously mediaeval both in expression and
in spirit. This phase has now happily been varied
by another, that one with le tennis, le golf, le five
o'clock, tailor-made costumes and many other 'things
a direct importation from England, and in other
respects not the least happy results of the Entente
Cordiale.
French novelists have at last begun to find them-
selves, that is to say, their ordinary selves and their
fireside life, absorbing. They have turned from the
interminable stories of three, la jeune femme, her
husband and lover, to the domestic novel. We have
now pictures of existence a la Trollope, a la Gaskell
and other mid- Victorians. The late Edouard Rod
THE NEW FICTION 147
made an unsuccessful venture in this direction> his
Annette proving a narrative of unmitigated boredom.
Treated by other hands, middle-class life, alike
Parisian and provincial, is full of interest, especially
for the insular reader. To many, what I venture to
call the new fiction will prove a revelation. " Home
Life in France ? " asked an untravelled English-
woman, taking up a work thus entitled; "have the
French really any home life ? " Such novels as the
two here noticed answer the query.
Each, as will be seen, illustrates a striking char-
acteristic of the French bourgeoisie, the first, that
Philistine attitude towards things aesthetic with
which Matthew Arnold formerly twitted English
Nonconformists; the second, that tremendously
strong family feeling, those " hooks of steel " bind-
ing kinsfolk together, without a counterpart here or
perhaps in any other country.
In the concluding volume of his great history,
M. Hanotaux mordantly hits off the first-named
aspect
" The Third President of the Third Republic, the
avocat of the Jura, represented," he tells us, "the
provincial middle classes that (like the Royalists) had
learned nothing and forgotten nothing, even after the
terrible disasters of 1870-71, remaining absorbed in
daily routine, ignoring international interests, holding
aloof from the great intellectual awakening of gener-
ous souls, the emotions of thought and art, loving
France but without comprehending their country."
Humdrum respectability, almost Puritan indiffer-
ence to the beautiful, characterizes the bourgeoisie
of to-day as of a former generation. Here is an
L 2
148 THE NEW FICTION
illustrative anecdote. Last year a distinguished pro-
fessor of elocution was reciting French poetry to an
English friend, who asked his wife why, seeing his
dramatic gifts, he had not taken to the stage. The
reply was, " Simply because his parents were too
bourgeois to entertain the notion." And the other
day we read in Fromentin's charming letters that
his fiancee's mother burst into tears as she announced
the fact to her relations : " Alas ! my future son-in-
law is an artist ! " The elder Coquelin's history is
another case in point. Admirable as are the moral
and social qualities of the F/ench middle classes,
too often is the aesthetic sense lacking. It is here
that the story before us will be found illuminating.
" La jeune fille bien elevee " i. e. conventionally
brought up only risked the loss of that all-sufficing
endowment because she developed musical tastes !
Owing to family losses she finds herself dowerless,
the forfeiture being atoned for, she feels, by these
newly-discovered gifts. No sooner, however, do
her parents discern the working of the girl's mind
than they determine to marry her, willy-nilly. Mar-
riage at least was respectable, whereas the career
of a professional musician was not. So after many
matrimonial peripatetics such a calamity was avoided
by the advances of a priggish but well-placed archi-
tect, ten years the demoiselle's senior; the mother's
farewell after the wedding ending thus : " Never
forget, my daughter, that your husband has chosen
you because you have been ' bien elevee? '
This is the theme, and of plot the story possesses
none. The touch of a master hand lies elsewhere.
We have here, as focussed on a Dutch canvas,
French provincial life, every figure is a distinct per-
THE NEW FICTION 149
sonality; every incident is part and parcel of the
little domestic drama, not a scene, not a conversation
could be left out. Nor is the background forgotten,
and herein conies under notice another feature of
the new fiction. Local colour contributes to the
reality of these realistic but non-repellent studies.
Those of us who can number good friends among
the French bourgeoisie feel here transported to
familiar scenes and circles. Skilfully, too, does M.
Boysleve put the story into the heroine's mouth.
One fancies all the while that instead of a man's
novel, we have a young girl's diary in our hands.
M. Henry (note the prevailing anglicizing of
French names) Bordeaux's essentially French novel,
Le Croisee des ckemins, deals also with middle-class
life. We have here no would-be English types and
no Anglicisms. Folks do not reiterate " Play " over
lawn tennis, or in every sentence use English collo-
quialisms. The subject is thoroughly French, and
for once we have no history of a fascinating and
erring wife, divorcee or widow. The unmarried
heroine is a young, beautiful and needless to say
always prefectly dressed Parisian. Indeed, all
French novelists of the other sex might be supposed
to get hints from the Paquins and Worths, so
minutely and elaborately are their ladies' dresses
always described.
To enter thoroughly into the spirit of this life-
story we must have been familiarized on French
soil with narratives of a white elephant in the shape
of une succession, in other words, property, or the
reversion of property, handicapped with debts and
charges. ! ;
Pascal Rouvray is a brilliant young doctor in
150 THE NEW FICTION
Paris, fairly on his way to fame, fortune and a most
desirable marriage, when he receives a telegram
from Lyons announcing the death of his father, he
also a medical man of high position in that great
city. But the elder Rouvray had been the victim of
a most cruel succession, heroically striving through-
out life to pay off the financial burdens encumbering
the ancestral estate, and all the while keeping his
anxieties and responsibilities to himself.
Here, then, comes Pascal to the parting of the
ways. Shall he, must he renounce the dazzling
career dreamed of and already entered upon in the
capital, or what, from a pecuniary point of view, is
much more certain, take up his father's practice,
prevent his mother's patrimony from absorption,
educate his young brother and sister and, above all,
perhaps relinquish his love? For in this case pas-
sion and worldly advantage have been allied. The
young scientist has fallen deeply in love with the
handsome, elegant, spirited Laurence Aveniere,
Parisian of Parisians. Will she follow him into
what, to her, would be dreary exile ?
Conscience, or rather that intensity of family feel-
ing so characteristic of French natures, decides
Pascal. Individualist as he is, he chooses self-
sacrifice, hoping against hope that Laurence will
follow his example. She fails him, and there the
first portion of the story ends, the second taking up
the hero's fortunes thirteen years later. By this time
his duty has been nobly but coldly done. He
returns to Paris, there to take up the dreamed-of
career of former days, and there to meet the same
evil genius, that worldly Parisian to whom love only
THE NEW FICTION 151
meant power and social advancement. The old
spell is cast over Pascal's unforgetting love, wife
and children are momentarily relegated to a second-
ary pla<^, when a most dramatic scene, a scene to
which only Sarah Bernhardt could do justice, cuts
the Gordian knot. M. Bordeaux's long and forcible
story lags in places, and none of the characters,
except the doctor's mother ah ! how lovingly do
French novelists draw these maternal portraits !
arouses sympathy, but as a study of French life it is
to be warmly commended.
M. Boysleve's novels are divided into two catego-
ries, the first dealing with middle-class life, one of
which has been translated into English. This is
LJ Enfant a la Balustrade The House on the Hill
(Nutt), La Becquee having followed it as a sequel.
Under the second head come stories of love and
romance, Le Bel Avenir and Le Meilleur Ami. An
author's favourites among his own works is always
an interesting point, M. Boysleve's being the trans-
lated story and the last two.
M. Henry Bordeaux's novels are familiar to
readers of La Revue des Deux Mondes, in which
also appeared La jeune fille bien elevee. Both
novelists are in their prime, so that their readers may
hope for many more " French novels to read," as
the two here outlined may safely be labelled.
VII
A GREAT PROSE EPIC, 1870-71
THE BROTHERS MARGUERITTE
VICTOR MARGUERITTE
[Facing p. 155.
A GREAT PROSE EPIC, 1870-71
THE BROTHERS MARGUERITTE
SONS of a splendid soldier, rendered fatherless by
Sedan, inheritors of a legend, what more natural
than that Paul and Victor Margueritte should be-
come the chroniclers of Vannee terrible, year of
bloodshed, devastation and fiercely combated
despair ?
Appropriately is their first volume dedicated to
the memory of a father they were not too young to
forget, and whose name will ever live in French
military annals. Among the many dramatic in-
cidents of the Franco- Prussian War, none are more
striking than the great cavalry charge, the last, so
say military authorities, that will ever be recorded,
in which General Margueritte lost his life.
Those who, like myself, witnessed the grand
review at Betheny near Rheims in honour of the
Czar a few years ago, can realize such a spectacle,
and a fearful one it is even when given as a gazing-
stock, a mere parade. Upon that occasion 25,000
foot and horse soldiers were mustered, the greatest
number, I learned, ever taking part in a French
review. The culminating feature of the day was
the cavalry charge. The dark, immovable lines on
the heights above the vast plain slowly breaking up,
deploying as if mechanically set in motion, by little
155
156 A GREAT PROSE EPIC, 1870-71
and little becoming visibly human, not moving walls,
but living men the cycling contingents the
mounted bands the flags martial strains, and
prevailing enthusiasm all these were forgotten in
the cavalry charge. It was an avalanche, a cataract,
a swooping horde, cavaliers and their chargers so
uniform in movement, so closely serried as to form
one huge, compact and, as it seemed, invincible
body, no more to be withstood than earthquake,
thunderbolt or mountain torrent.
All was lost when General Margueritte headed
that final rally, the cavalry charge, at Sedan, a stand
now being made, as another brave commander,
Douai, declared, for honour only.
At the onset a ball struck the leader, shattering
his jaw and carrying off a portion of his tongue, but
before falling, and with a supreme effort, he got
out a resonant, guttural cry
"En avant y en avantf" (Forward, forward!)
"En avantf" echoed chasseurs d'Afrique,
lancers, hussars. " Vive Margueritte ! Let us
avenge his death ! " without another thought thou-
sands rushing to their own.
Gallifet at once took command, coolly saying to
his officers, "Our business is to protect the army.
In all probability, gentlemen, we shall not meet
again. I wish you farewell ! "
This iron soldier, however, lived to see many
another bloodstained day, in those playing a merci-
less part, and only died last year.
It was in this awful melee, or rather wholesale
massacre, that the Emperor William cried
" Ach, die tapfere Kinder!" ("Ah, the brave
A GREAT PROSE EPIC, 1870-71 157
boys !) so lost was he in admiration of the French-
men's bravery.
It was Coventry Patmore who thus parodied the
old king's pietistic telegram that evening to his
consort Augusta
Thank the Lord, my dear Augusta,
We have fought the French a buster,
Ten thousand Frenchmen sent below
Praise Him from whom all blessings flow !
The prose epic written by the two brothers in
collaboration appeared in four volumes Le
Desastre (Metz, 1870); Les Tronfons du glaive; La
defense nationale, 1870-71; Les braves gens con-
tinuing the history of the same struggle ; lastly came
La Commune.
The first volume opens strikingly. We have here
a picture of that final and sinister gala at Saint
Cloud, the Emperor perhaps seeing the Mene, menc,
tekel, upharsin written on the wall. Amid the bril-
liant scene he is described as evidently feeling him-
self alone, on his face, usually inscrutable, a mask,
now written only passive resignation, his whole
aspect that of a man worn out in body and mind.
Then for a moment his half somnolent physiognomy
lit up, the approach of the little prince his son calling
up a sad, faint, adoring smile.
Next is described the Empress as in all the blaze
of her despotic beauty and surrounded by obsequious
courtiers she passed through the reception-rooms,
" her eyes shining with frigid splendour, her expres-
sion of mingled pride and determination; now
according a smile to one, now a word to another,
158 A GREAT PROSE EPIC, 1870-71
now an inclination of the head to a third, she was
seen for a moment, leaving behind an unforgettable
image." Follows a sketch of the delirium in Paris,
the performance of Masaniello at the opera, the
frenzied acclamations of the audience when at the
close the prima donna, draped in white and gold like
a priestess, and holding aloft the tricolour, recited
the long-forbidden, but to-day resuscitated Mar-
seillaise, finally the shout, caught up by the crowds
outside, echoed that sleepless night from one end of
Paris to the other
" Vive V Empereur, vive la France, a Berlin ! "
With this volume ends the first stage of the war,
indeed the war itself, properly speaking. The
Emperor a prisoner, MacMahon's army broken up,
Metz on the eve of surrender, henceforth French
blood was shed like water, but the struggle was no
longer for mastery; legion after legion, as if mira-
culously, came into being on behalf of national
existence.
The second volume, of which I give a sketch, is
still more absorbing than the first, and is planned in
similar fashion. Whilst strictly adhering to historic
detail, each narrative reads like a romance, domestic
tragedy and even comedy being interwoven with
public events. An air of verisimilitude is thus
accorded to the shifting scenes, and whilst following
these we also follow individual fortunes.
The book opens at Tours with the arrival of Gam-
betta, escaped from Paris in a balloon. Like the
great Revolutionaries of 1792, Gambetta was then in
the very flower of his youth. The young tribune at
whose voice armies sprang up from every corner of
A GREAT PROSE EPIC, 1870-71 159
France, who by his colossal energy and sway over
men, without doubt, changed her destinies, was only
thirty-two ! Eight years later Gambetta was known
as " the old man of forty." When the present writer
heard that stupendous voice at Versailles in 1878,
he was already grey, haggard, a mere wreck, ex-
hausted by conflicts that might well have undermined
the constitutions of the most robust. In what a posi-
tion did the young dictator take the reins !
" Sedan having capitulated with a hundred thou-
sand men, fifty generals, a marshal of France and an
Emperor, our remaining troops, a hundred and
seventy thousand men, pent up in Metz under
the eyes of Prince Frederick Charles, the flood
of invasion continuously pouring in through the
blood-stained breach of Alsace and Lorraine; the
heels of the conquering Prussian tramping Gaulish
soil; a fourth of our departments under sway of
Teutonic prefets; Paris, despite her girdle of forts
and her immense improvised army, separated from
France, hemmed in by the enemy. The war seemed
to have come to an end. It had only begun ! "
write our authors.
Gambetta's arrival checked the general de-
spondency and changed the face of everything.
But the magnificent stand now made against Ger-
man arms on behalf of Republican France was in
part due to another civilian one, alas ! for whom
his countrymen have shown sparse gratitude. It was
Freycinet, a railway engineer, who speedily organ-
ized the transport, telegraphic and cartographic
service, also the commissariat, and managed all so
well that General Chanzy, the hero of Le Mans, said
160 A GREAT PROSE EPIC, 1870-71
of his men, " Not only did they never want for any-
thing, but enjoyed une orgie " (a feast).
We are here introduced to one of those large
family groups which form a veritable clan, and for
which we have no equivalent among ourselves.
Three generations of Reals, a good old Touraine
family, people these pages, their fortunes being skil-
fully interwoven with moving incidents and cata-
strophes of the war. The scene changes from the
ancestral chateau near Amboise, now to a young
sculptor's studio in besieged Paris, now to an en-
campment on the banks of the Marne, now to Autun,
head-quarters of the Garibaldians, and so on, the
immense canvas being filled with life-like characters
and stirring events. Where the brothers Margueritte
have eminently succeeded is in giving us the
psychology of war, the waking up of average men
and women to a hideous reality, the gradually hard-
ening effect of bloodshed and international hatred
upon naturally noble natures.
In the hero, Eugene Real, the bridegroom torn by
patriotic duty from his two- days' wife, this present-
ment is especially striking. His first impulse when
brought face to face with a horrible death is flight,
then, higher motives asserting themselves, he plays
a soldier's part valiantly, yet with bitterest recrimin-
ation " The monstrosity of war revolted him
beyond measure. As a schoolboy the hateful word
had meant glory, trumpet blasts, waving trophies,
hurrahs, Turenne victorious, Ney galloping after his
men in the snow. Never had he conceived these
revolting realities, this delirium of massacre, this
exaltation of brutal instincts, this letting loose of
A GREAT PROSE EPIC, 1870-71 161
the wild beast in man. He execrated those mis-
creants who with light heart had plunged his country
into the bloody vortex."
The victory of Coulmiers was followed by defeat
after defeat, mainly due to want of concerted action
on the part of the generals. During the terrible
retreat from Loigny, Eugene not only loses heart,
his very instincts of humanity seem to have forsaken
him
" So great was his moral torpor and physical lassi-
tude, that he thought no more of his young wife,
of his home, his past life. A smouldering rage con-
sumed him, the rage of outraged patriotism, the
shame at having to retreat before the invader. Only
to have done, was the inward prayer. As the march
continues he grows more and more insensible to
everything but brutalizing, bodily suffering. So
weary was he that he would gladly have thrown
himself down upon the miry road as upon a downy
bed. But to do that was to die ; he knew well enough
that once on his back he should never rise again. It
was no longer duty to his country or love for Marie,
that made him cling to life, but the purely animal
instinct of self-preservation. He had become a
moving automaton."
The tragic fortunes of Eugene Real and his house
take us from one scene of the terrible year to another,
his father, brother, uncles, and cousins all risking
their lives in the cause of France and her young
Republic. Domestic life had come to a standstill,
the wheels of routine are silent, every moment is
fraught with cruel experience, with national and
individual suspense.
M
162 A GREAT PROSE EPIC, 1870-71
Yet amid these fearful scenes we get occasional
touches of cheerfulness, even of humour.
Here is a charming account of the carrier pigeons
just arriving at Tours from Paris
" ' Come here/ said Poncet to his visitor, ' I have
something to show you.' Noiselessly and carefully
he opened the door of a room in the Prefecture trans-
formed into a pigeon-house. On a perch near the
wall a number of the birds were asleep, others were
bathing and pluming their wings in pans of water.
' The first thing they do on arriving/ said Poncet,
as he fed them from his hands, ' is to take a bath and
perform their toilette. Famished they may be, but
after confinement in the car of the balloon their
desire is to disport themselves in water.' Then,
taking up a pigeon in his hands, he kissed it, crying,
' Dear little creature, little thou knowest, when in-
stinct takes thee back to the dove-cote, the part thou
playest, the prayers that follow thee, the hopes with
which thy arrival is awaited/ '
Here is a serio-comic scene from besieged Paris
' What should we have said this time last year/
said M. Delourmel, 'had any one told us that we
should now be eating rats ? '
' Jules had some for dinner yesterday/ replied
Mme. Thedenat, ' it was a dinner given by professors
of natural history. Here is the menu : Horse soup
thickened with millet, minced cat with sauce mayon-
naise, dog's liver with sauce tomate, dog cutlets, and
green peas (dried, of course), dog gigot garnished
with rat-tails, plum-pudding a VAnglaise (horse mar-
row instead of suet)/ ' How disgusting/ exclaimed
a lady present, whereupon she was airily reminded
A GREAT PROSE EPIC, 1870-71 168
that under the circumstances, the twenty million
rats in the Paris sewers afforded a resource of the
greatest value."
Paris took refuge in bravado. Never in her dark
est moments did the heroic city lose gaiety of heart
and a hopefulness not always conspicuous in her
children when everything goes well. Among the
most touching episodes is the story of the young
sculptor Martial, and his model, the frail little child
done to death by privation during the siege.
Our authors make no attempt to minimize the
brutality of German reprisals. " At Chateaudun, by
order of the General in command, soldiers went from
house to house smearing the woodwork with petro-
leum, each house being deliberately fired in turn,
their owners, compelled by pistols held to their
throats, to assist in the work. A mattress was
ignited on which lay an aged paralytic. The old
man was stabbed and thrust into the flames/'
In a prefatory note they add that they should
consider themselves well rewarded if a picture so
harrowing and so unvarnished might inspire a
detestation of war, and of those who would outrage
humanity by daring to force it on the world. The
brothers, be it remembered, here addressed a French
public, let us hope to good effect, also publics out-
side the Republic. The enormous popularity of the
series is attested by the following fact. A few
weeks after the issue of Tronfons du glaive the
volume had reached its thirty-eighth thousand !
M 2
VIII
A TYPICAL ARTISAN
AND
THE PEOPLE'S UNIVERSITIES
THE Universite Populaire, or People's Uni-
versity in France, is a movement of recent date. No
allusion is made to these institutions by M. Rambaud
in the revised edition of his work on French civiliza-
tion (1901), yet within a few years they have spread
all over the entire country. Townlings of not more
than two or three thousand souls now possess their
active centre of popular instruction. Experienced
lecturers give their services gratuitously during the
winter; literary, technical, and linguistic classes are
held, and the fraternal spirit is fostered in various
ways. The aims of the movement may be gathered
from an interesting novel called LJOpprobre
(Opprobrium), by a lady, the hero of which is an
artisan. It is worth while to read this book, as it
shows the wide scope of certain popular universities,
material interests being combined with intellectual
advancement. In Mme. Campain's novel an import-
ant feature, namely, a co-operative society, is intro-
duced. I have been assured, however, that such
objects are quite secondary, instruction, intelligent
recreation and the knitting of social bonds being
primarily held in view.
I will now describe a visit paid by myself a few
years since to the Universite Populaire, or Co-opera-
tion des Idees, in the Faubourg St. Antoine.
167
168 A TYPICAL ARTISAN
Not without a sense of relief I drove from the
Paris that plays to the Paris that toils. So tremen-
dous in the fashionable season is the press of
vehicles between the Place de la Concorde and the
Bois de Boulogne that the tail end of the long
straight Rue de Rivoli and Rue St. Antoine seem
almost quiet and provincial by comparison.
The once turbulent workman's quarter, that has
figured in so many revolutions, is now primarily an
emporium of upholstery. One shop-front after
another has a display of the carved oak furniture that
supplies France and Algeria. Handsome, massive
furniture it is, although alike in workmanship and
design inferior to the wares turned out in former
days, so at least French folks aver, but, as we know,
our neighbours are nothing if not hypercritical.
At the extreme end of the Faubourg I alighted
before a doorway bearing the inscription in large
letters, " Universite Populaire," where a quietly
enthusiastic cicerone awaited me. It is odd how
everyday experience contradicts preconceived
notions in France ! This quiet, unassuming, neatly-
dressed artisan, who had made time to run over
from Charenton in his dinner-hour on my account,
had nothing in common with the fiery French work-
man of tradition. What most struck me was his
air of deep seriousness and profound convictions.
Great pride he evidently took in what was partly his
own creation, but in speaking of the institution I
had come to see, he made me feel that merely intel-
lectual aims were considered by him quite subsidiary
to social ideals. As will be gathered from the fol-
lowing brief account, the primary notion underlying
A TYPICAL ARTISAN 169
these popular associations is that of cementing
human fellowship, the embodiment indeed of
Fourierist theories put forward three generations
ago. Humanity is to be regarded not as broken up
into nations or separated by racial distinctions, but
as consisting of one large family. Towards this end
all efforts are directed.
The very first explanation M. F gave me
made this fact patent. Entering a long, somewhat
dark corridor, where two women were busy with
pails and scrubbing-brushes the day being Satur-
day my conductor opened the door of a small
room or closet. " This little room," he explained,
" we have set aside for the exclusive use of Russian
refugees. The Universite Po-pulaire is absolutely
non-political," he added emphatically; "politics,
whether home or foreign, are rigidly excluded from
our programme, but it has been felt that a place in
which these unfortunate exiles could meet undis-
turbed would be an inestimable boon to them. They
assemble here to talk, write letters, and otherwise
profit by quiet and privacy."
" Your association is then open to outsiders ? "
I asked.
" Naturally, the sole conditions of membership
being a subscription of half-a-franc a month and a
consistent utilization of the opportunities offered, that
is to say, we admit no nominal members. We now
number 800, and of these a considerable number are
foreigners, Russians, Poles, Germans, Spaniards
and Italians, many of these having been exiled for
political reasons. We have no English adherents,
your country, happily like my own, being a free one.
170 A TYPICAL ARTISAN
Another point I will mention. We are not only non-
political, but secular and non-alcoholic. Neither on
these premises, nor at our chateau in the Bois de
Boulogne, of which I will speak presently, are
alcoholic drinks or stimulants permitted." We then
passed through a succession of class-rooms, library
and reading-rooms, finally reaching the vast lecture-
hall, which also forms the auditorium of the theatre.
One and all were characterized by the severest sim-
plicity. No attempt whatever had been made to
embellish the long suite of rooms, chairs and
benches, tables and bookshelves forming the only
furniture.
My guide's explanation, however, lent bare walls
and unbeautified surroundings a quite different
aspect.
''' The first lecturers, the foremost actors of Paris
come here," he continued, with pardonable pride.
" Mounet-Sully, the Coquelins, not to mention
others almost as famous, have acted on our stage,
giving their services gratuitously. In the case of
the former we do not even pay carriage hire. With
lesser actors and actresses it is different ; as they are
put to considerable expense in bringing costumes
and dressers, the cost of fiacres is always reim-
bursed."
Behind the stage I was next shown the dressing
closets with which the stars of the Comedie Fran-
(jaise and other leading theatres are content when
making this artistic pilgrimage. Scenery is given
on a restricted scale.
When we had completed our survey, M. F
recurred to the Chateau de Dimanche, or Chateau
du Peuple.
A TYPICAL ARTISAN 171
"We have recently hired a house on the Neuilly
side of the Bois de Boulogne," he said, "for the
purpose of enjoying fresh air and wholesome re-
creation on Sundays and fete days, also in order to
promote social intercourse. Meals are taken out
of doors at a common table, and only members are
admitted. The monthly subscription is one franc,
with small extra fees for certain entertainments."
My conductor then dwelt with emphasis upon what
he evidently regarded as the most important feature
of these people's universities, namely, the develop-
ment of the fraternal, or rather the international,
spirit. From this point of view the programmes of
lectures and studies are highly suggestive. Not
only is the choice of subjects cosmopolitan in the
extreme, but for the advantage of foreign associates,
lectures are occasionally given by natives in German,
Russian or Italian, inter alia. Thus, during May of
the year in question, a Milanese professor had de-
livered a course of lectures on Italian poetry in his
own language, whilst Belgian, Swiss, South Ameri-
can professors, and others, have discoursed in
French upon literary and scientific subjects mainly
chosen from an international standpoint. The
philosophy of Herbert Spencer had found a Russian
exponent. Constantinople, with limelight views, had
been described by a native ; the agrarian movements
in Italy, the Republic of Costa Rica figuring among
the topics, showed the universality aimed at and the
fundamental principle of the association. The motto
of this especial people's university might be the
following variation of a celebrated dictum often
erroneously attributed to Voltaire, but which in real-
ity was pronounced by Diderot : largissez Vhomme
172 A TYPICAL ARTISAN
(Enlarge mankind), This attempt at promoting an
international spirit I should set down, therefore, as
the cardinal feature alike of the Faubourg St.
Antoine and the Chateau de Dimanche.
Next in significance is the prominence given to
the formation of literary and artistic taste. Music
and the drama are assiduously cultivated, the
best classic and modern pieces and compositions
being given by amateur performers. Thus Bizet's
Arlesienne had been recently put on the stage, also
Le Medecin malgre lui and Musset's On ne badine
pas avec V amour. Besides these a variety of musical
and dramatic entertainments had been given. Nor
are the technical arts neglected. Among the courses
of the last session had figured a series illustrating
the progress of arts and crafts from the earliest times
down to the present day, jewellery, tapestry, wall-
papers, porcelain and pottery, soap-making, glass-
making, furriery and other subjects being alternately
taken in hand. Thus not only taste but technical
skill are fostered by the French workman long after
the termination of his apprenticeship. Such facts help
us to understand French supremacy in so many
branches of technical decorative art.
A third point I would emphasize is the moral,
rather, I should say, the civic, training afforded by
these people's universities. The institution of the
Faubourg St. Antoine is absolutely without rules
and regulations. Members are expected to make
and observe laws for themselves, to maintain har-
mony and good order by means of self-imposed
discipline and restraint. This is a highly commend-
able feature.
" New members," runs the prospectus of the
A TYPICAL ARTISAN 173
Chateau de Dimanche, " are greatly surprised to find
no rules or warnings either in the buildings or
grounds. We are convinced that these are un-
necessary, and that each of us can advantageously
act the part of his own monitor. If in the excitement
of sport or in exuberance of spirit any member
should be guilty of damaging, no matter how
slightly, what is common property, more reprehen-
sible than the culprit is that by-stander who should
witness the act without administering a friendly
reproach."
And in the same programme we read : " No matter
how heated becomes any discussion following a
lecture, let us take part rather as seekers after truth
than as partisans, abstaining from turbulent mani-
festations alike of disapprobation or applause. It is
also incumbent upon us to avoid anything that looks
like pressure or an onslaught upon convictions.
Within our free walls there must be no oppression
of minorities. It is by such voluntary discipline that
the institution confers dignity upon itself."
Thus it will be seen that in Paris large bodies
of working men are leagued together, not for pur-
poses of material advantage, personal aggrandize-
ment or political propaganda, but for purely social
and intellectual ends. The marvels of Paris almost
sink into insignificance when brought face to face
with such manifestations of human progress, morally
speaking, as these Universites Populaires.
IX
ANGLOPHILE AND REFORMER
EDMOND DEMOLINS
EDMOND DEMOLINS
[Facing p, 177.
ANGLOPHILE AND REFORMER
EDMOND DEMOLINS
IN 1906 occurred the death of a great educational
reformer and enthusiastic admirer of English institu-
tions and character.
It is now nearly four hundred years since, under a
mask of pleasantry, Rabelais satirized the educa-
tional system prevailing throughout France. De-
spite Voltaire's famous axiom, " Ce n'est que la
ridicule qui tue " (only ridicule kills), the deaden-
ing influences combated by the great wit, Montaigne,
and other would-be reformers were in vain. Napo-
leon, in so far as possible, turned the Lycees into
barracks, scholars wore a semi-military dress, and
were summoned to meals, lessons and recreation by
the sound of a drum. With few and very ineffectual
modifications the intellectual training and scholastic
atmosphere of French youth underwent little change
from Rabelais' day until the establishment of the
Third Republic. And during the first two decades
of this, the final regime, the hands of the Govern-
ment were too full, and educationalists were too
much occupied with primary instruction, to undertake
a reformation of the Lycee. It was not till 1899 that
a Government Commission was appointed with that
end, the President being M. Ribot, whose report on
the subject is of great interest.
Among the members of the Commission also
N I77
178 ANGLOPHILE AND REFORMER
figured M. Lavisse, one of the first living French
historians. Whilst this body of experts were labori-
ously preparing its four enormous tomes of reports
and maturing schemes, a Frenchman, already famous
in other fields, had taken the bull by the horns.
Edmond Demolins' work, A quoi tient la superiorite
des Anglo-Saxons ? (To what cause is to be attri-
buted the superiority of Anglo-Saxons?), had taken
the world by storm.
Edition after edition was speedily published and
devoured in France. With the utmost dispatch
translations were prepared not only in the principal
European but in several Oriental languages. No
modern author has been more widely read and
translated.
The principal points insisted upon in this work,
namely, individualism, self-government and expan-
sion, were made the basis of a practical experiment.
At Verneuil, Eure, in 1898, M. Demolins opened a
school, designed, in the matter of sports, inde-
pendent habits and methods generally, to anglicize
French education.
Warmly seconded by an influential body of men,
the innovator was soon enabled to extend his scheme.
From very modest beginnings, Les Roches, as the
school is called, has become an important public
institution, having a charter, a board of directors,
and a staff of university professors, native and
foreign. The premises comprise a congeries of
spacious buildings standing amid several acres of
garden and recreation ground.
Full particulars of his methods are given in the
author's work, LJ Education nouvelle, first published
ANGLOPHILE AND REFORMER 179
in 1898, and reprinted again and again. Regarded
alike from the physical and ethical point of view,
Les Roches no more resembles the Lycee of former
days than our own public schools resemble barracks.
I say of former days, because many of the projector's
innovations have within the last few years been
carried out in Lycees. Football, cricket and other
sports have become the order of the day. The
system of constant supervision has been modified,
and the famous dictum, that at a certain hour of the
day the Minister of Public Instruction knows exactly
what every school-boy throughout France is about,
no longer holds good. On this subject M. Lavisse
passed a scathing criticism " The uniformity of our
school routine," he wrote in his report, " is ridiculous.
How inconsistent is it, for instance, that hours of
recreation should be timed in all climates precisely
at the same hour ! From one to two o'clock p.m.
in the south of France, torrid heat quite prevents
pupils from enjoying the recreation ground. But
similar rules are in force at Marseilles and Dun-
kirk ! "
M. Demolins' successful experiment may be
called the thin end of the wedge. Two vital changes
introduced at Les Roches are hardly likely to find
their way into the Lycee as yet. From the latter,
feminine influence is as completely banished as from
a monastery. A mite of nine who enters this
scholastic prison never beholds a woman's face
except on those days when his mother, sisters or
aunts are permitted to visit him. Little boys at the
new school, on the contrary, are placed in a pre-
paratory school conducted by certificated lady
N 2
180 ANGLOPHILE AND REFORMER
teachers, and are under the charge of a matron,
whilst elder boys are lodged in the various houses
of married tutors, social intercourse and home in-
fluences being thereby fostered.
Another and most desirable innovation, from a
quite different point of view, is that of the foreign
professor. Since the Franco- Prussian War, German
as well as other native teachers of modern languages
have been rigorously excluded from Lycees and
State colleges.
Thus, when in Paris three years ago I was per-
mitted to hear an English lesson given to the pupils
of the Lycee Fenelon for girls, I found no country-
woman of my own in the professorial chair, but a
French lady professor inculcating English grammar,
idiom and pronunciation, which she did, I must say,
the latter excepted, very creditably. In a private
ladies' school that I know near Paris the difficulty is
got over in this way. Paid foreign teachers being
out of the question, English girls are received au
pair, i. e. on reciprocal terms. And some years since
I heard that a friend of mine, a French professor of
German in one of the great Paris Lycees, "was
spending the vacation on the other side of the Rhine
in order to rub up his German." No wonder that,
brilliantly intellectual though our French friends
are, they do not usually shine as linguists !
It was a year or two after the opening of Les
Roches that I spent a day with the founder and his
family. A delightfully French day it was from
beginning to end, one non-educational and whimsical
incident proclaiming how, in a certain sense, our
neighbours live from hand to mouth.
ANGLOPHILE AND REFORMER 181
Three other guests had travelled by the same
train from Paris, and with the Demolins family we
numbered a large party. As we waited rather an
embarrassingly long time in the drawing-room before
the midday dejeuner, the lady of the house frankly
explained such unpunctuality.
" The fact is," she said, " the baker has not arrived
with the bread."
Our neighbours over the water are not only super-
eminently endowed in the matter of wit, but of
digestion. From babyhood upwards they consume,
and pretty largely, bread almost hot from the oven,
hence the supply is taken from day to day, almost
from meal to meal. The same is the case with other
eatables, provisions being laid in for twelve hours'
consumption only.
The baker having at last arrived we sat down to
an appetizing meal. After a long survey of school
buildings, some already completed and some in
embryo, and the delay aforementioned, knives and
forks clattered with unusual alacrity. M. Demolins'
enthusiasm in the cause of education and his appre-
ciation of all that is best in English methods were
delightful to hear.
" See, yonder, that boy of mine," he said, pointing
to a lad of thirteen ; " he was so happy in his English
school that hei did not want to return, and has
actually acquired an enthusiasm for porridge." The
lad did not deny the soft impeachment.
The founder of Les Roches was above all things
a Free Trader in education. What he wanted to
see broken down was a narrowing sense of nation-
ality. Hence a most original feature in his system
182
is the foreign sojourn. Each boy, before quitting
Verneuil, is sent for a few months either to England
or Germany, in order to acquire the idiom and
accent of whichever tongue he has been studying.
The expense of this so-called stage is included in
the yearly terms.
Since my visit M. Demolins 5 scheme has been
immensely developed. Additional buildings on a
handsome scale have sprung up around the parent
home, and the number of applications from parents
is still, I hear, far in excess of accommodation. Such
an experiment, some critics will say, cannot count
for much as a factor in French education considered
as a whole. But ideas spread fast, and, as we have
seen, already some of M. Demolins' theories have
been put into practice elsewhere. Even the late
celebrated Pere Didon in his college would loop up
his soutane and have a bout with his pupils !
Here are a few extracts from French boys going
through the English stage of the school curriculum,
the letters being in each case addressed to Madame
Demolins during 1900.
M. M., aged 13, writes : " Dear Madame, I write
to thank you for having sent me to Hartford House,
for every one is very kind to me, and I am not at all
sad in England."
H. D., aged 12, writes: "Dear Madame, My
brother and I are quite well. We are four in our
bedroom ; one boy is an Australian, who is very nice,
the other an English boy, who is very amusing."
A. C., aged n, evidently had crossed the Manche
with fear and trembling, for he says : " The English
boys here are not, as I expected to find them, dis-
ANGLOPHILE AND REFORMER 183
agreeable and naughty; on the contrary, one of
them especially is very nice." L. N., aged 12,
writes: "During the holidays I stayed at Dulwich,
but I did not mind it at all, for now I am very fond
of England, and of everybody here. The boys are
very nice." R. I., aged 10, says : " I have now been
six months in England, thanks to you, chere madame,
and have been very happy there. I shall always
like to think of Dulwich School, and of the family
I lived with." And so on, and so on, with delightful
reiteration occurs the sentiment, the English boys
are ires gentils.
It may be averred that few Frenchmen have done
so much for the health, happiness and formation of
character of his youthful compatriots as my lamented
host of Les Roches. The joyousness by which
Rabelais sets so much store is there made to enter
into school life. " My master whipt me very well,"
said Dr. Johnson to his friend Langton. " Without
that, sir, I should have done nothing." Wiser far is
the theory carried out at Verneuil, that system
according to which a boy's curriculum, in the words
of Rabelais, "was so gentle, easy and delightful
that it resembled rather the pastime of a king than
the working hours of a scholar."
M. Demolins was a voluminous but always sug-
gestive writer, and soon after the appearance of his
famous book, was issued Les Franfais d?aujourd > hui
(Frenchmen of to-day), an attempt at sociological
geography in other words, the mapping out of
France into different sections and the tracing of
collective character to pursuits.
Thus, according to this writer, the culture of the
184 ANGLOPHILE AND REFORMER
vine originates one type of peasant, the care of
flocks another, and so on, speculations, if not wholly
convincing, certainly suggestive and interesting.
Later from this trenchant pen came a work
essentially differing from its predecessors a work
paradoxical, if you will, but forcibly written, and
showing great gifts in generalization. A-t-on interet a
s'emparer du fiouvoir f (Should political power be
the aim of life?), like the volume dealing with
Anglo-Saxon superiority, is a plea for individual
action, a protest against the two dead weights upon
French social and material progress bureaucracy
and militarism. In a series of striking parallels M.
Demolins runs counter to accepted historic verdicts,
showing that the true apogees of history were neither
the imperial supremacy in Rome nor the autocracies
of Philip II, Louis XIV, nor of Napoleon; instead,
he says the real zeniths of progress and prosperity
must be looked for in the Greek and Roman
Republics, in the great French agricultural pro-
prietors of the Middle Ages, in the rise of Parlia-
mentary institutions and self-government . among
ourselves, in the colonial expansion of the British
Empire, and in the rise of the United States of
America.
Among the many original passages of this volume
is M. Demolins' plea for the Middle Ages "a
period when as yet the weight of the State had not
paralyzed individual action, and when silently and
slowly were effected the suppression of slavery in
France, the emancipation of the serfs, the abrogation
of military service, the formation of the national
ANGLOPHILE AND REFORMER 185
language, the growth of communal liberties, the
development of architecture; lastly, the expansion
of the Norman race and the conquests of England,
Sicily and other regions. Less convincing is M.
Demolins' views of the French Church and what he
considers its neutral attitude towards the State and
society. Has not the Church from the beginning
nursed and upheld the very influences he holds so
disastrous? Was not the Church ever on the side
of the legists in M. Demolins' own words, the
fabricators of absolute power ever on the side of
that personal government which, under another
form, to this day makes its tradition felt and would
keep the French people under the tutelage of the
State? When, moreover, comparing Anglo-Saxon
individualism with French bureaucracy, M. Demo-
lins leaves out of the question one essential factor
namely, Protestantism and free inquiry. Of deeper
insight is M. Fouillee's conclusion in Psychologie du
Peuple Franfais: " France missed her Reformation,
and the consequences are felt to this day."
M. Demolins here avers that France is hypnotized
by what, in sociological terminology, is called la
politique alimentaire in other words, the disease of
place-hunting. France, to his thinking, is attacked
by a hypertrophy or unhealthy growth of the political
organization. Bureaucracy destroys individual initi-
ative and reduces the bulk of young Frenchmen to
mere administrative automata. If there is exaggera-
tion in this view, there is also a good deal of truth.
All things considered, however rival factions, love
of change, and the ebullient French temperament
186 ANGLOPHILE AND REFORMER
it is not altogether a disadvantage that the huge
administrative machine, as the phrase goes, marche
tonte seule, goes of itself.
Our imitator, as we should expect, has many
charming things to say about England and English
methods, and also tells us some home-truths we
should do well to lay to heart. He happened to be
in England during the railway race to Scotland a
few years ago, an incident which increased his pro-
found admiration for Anglo-Saxon enterprise; at
the same time, we get from him a note of warning
against the rising spirit of militarism on this side of
the Channel, so contrary to the pacific, practical
side, the true source of England's greatness.
X
THE HISTORIAN OF A TRAGEDY
M. JOSEPH REINACH
JOSEPH REINACH
[facing p. 1 2
THE HISTORIAN OF A TRAGEDY
M. JOSEPH REINACH
ONE afternoon of August 1899 a large party was
assembled for coffee in a beautiful old-fashioned
garden at Montfort I'Amaury (Seine-et-Oise), con-
sisting of several families who were here near neigh-
bours, an English guest and one visitor who had run
down from Paris for lunch. Meantime two of the
number had quitted the group on the lawn, and now
paced a shaded walk in earnest conversation. Coffee
having been brought in, cups were rattled, other hints
given to the laggards. Utterly oblivious of every-
thing but the topic in hand, the pair still paced to
and fro. " Shall I fetch Maitre Demange and M.
Reinach, papa?" asked a young girl of her father.
" No, no," was the reply. " Leave them alone ; don't
you see that they are hard at work ? "
Hard at work indeed were those first brave de-
fenders of Dreyfus throughout every day one
might almost say every hour of that year's long
vacation. The great advocate would indulge in a
little trout fishing with his young sons; the brilliant
journalist would find distraction in society and cos-
mopolitan literature. But one subject, and one only,
absorbed their thoughts, time and energies namely,
the vindication of a man condemned for a crime of
which he was not guilty. Even at this stage of
affairs the prospect of success was far from promis-
189
190 THE HISTORIAN OF A TRAGEDY
ing. " We were at first alone," said Maitre Demange
to the present writer, the " we " meaning Zola,
Mathieu Dreyfus, Joseph Reinach and one or two
others. By that time, according to the same
authority, ten thousand Frenchmen and French-
women, and ten thousand only of the thirty-seven
million, clamoured for revision. Zola, indeed, had
reckoned without his host. That brave and generous
challenge, "J'accuse," had not roused his country-
men as a rally. Alike Church, Army, fashionable
society, bourgeoisie and the people ranged them-
selves on the side of injustice and fanaticism, and,
what was more remarkable still, with very few
exceptions, the leaders of science and learning also.
M. Anatole France alone of Academicians boldly
quitted the reactionary ranks and joined the pro-
testors.
A few days before this coffee-drinking the Henry
incident had given a new aspect to affairs. As we
were all sitting on the morrow in Maitre Demange's
drawing-room discussing probabilities, he had said,
with a peculiarly significant look
" You will see ; to-morrow we shall hear that
Henry has committed suicide/' And, true enough,
next day's papers brought the news !
Even these events did not change the advocate's
judicial frame of mind; he ever balanced the for and
against, refusing to be buoyed up by ill-based hopes.
M. Joseph Reinach's attitude, on the contrary, never
swerved ; from the first he believed in ultimate suc-
cess. " Would you believe it ? " said our hostess, a
brave lady, from the first standing up for justice;
"weeks and weeks ago, when things looked their
very darkest, M. Reinach was every whit as cheery,
as assured of victory as he is to-day. Nothing has
ever daunted him." The great lawyer's misgivings,
however, as to legal redress were but too well
founded. The other's faith in moral triumph only
years later vindicated itself. And if such moral
triumph needed further attestation, we have it in his
own words. 1
Let not readers impatiently throw it aside, saying,
" We have had enough and to spare of the Dreyfus
drama." We have here no mere record of familiar
facts, no putting together of stale material. From
one point of view, indeed, M. Reinach's book is as
absorbing as a detective novel by Gaboriau or Conan
Doyle. It gives not only the genesis and elaboration
of a crime, but shows us plain as day the motives for
that crime, black as any defacing contemporary
annals. With the proceedings of Revision and the
Rennes trial we are here not concerned. The narra-
tive begins with the discovery of the bordereau, and
ends with the court martial and degradation of
Dreyfus in 1894. Step by step, stage by stage, we
are led through the labyrinthine intricacies of the
abominable conspiracy, the entire plot in such hands
becoming transparent. But the work does not only
excel in insight and arrangement, as the following
passages will show. M. Reinach's vigorous French
often attains a high level of eloquence.
The book begins with a portrait of General
Mercier, named Minister of War by M. Casimir
Perier in 1893. At this time M. Joseph Reinach
1 See Le proch de 1894, LHistoire de F Affaire, par Joseph
Reinach.
192 THE HISTORIAN OF A TRAGEDY
had a seat in the Chamber of Deputies. He writes :
" A man of tall stature is Mercier, attenuated, always
well dressed, with sharp features, and an expression
of coldness and reserve. His smile at this time, ever
somewhat forced, became later a fixed parting of the
lips, a grimace ; his eyes remained provokingly half
open. Courteous, self-centred, he gave an impres-
sion of energy, whilst with attention and not at first
without surprise he followed the debates, studying
a scene new to him. On the day when the Anarchist
Vaillant threw a bomb filled with nails into the
Chamber I was sitting just behind Mercier. A nail
rebounded from my desk to his own. In the midst
of the smoke, noise and confusion he handed it to
me, saying, ' Cela vous revient ' (This comes back to
you). Not a muscle of his face moved." It may be
remembered that on this occasion the President of
the Chamber, M. Dupuy, in the words of a leading
English journalist present, showed coolness worthy
of the Roman Senate at its greatest. " Gentlemen,"
he said, without so much as a start or change of
countenance, " the sitting continues."
Such impassibility did not always mask unswerv-
ing purpose. Early in this awful history our author
writes : " Thus, on a sudden, the following problem
presented itself to Mercier's mind. If scruples of
conscience should prevent his colleagues from con-
demning a man hitherto unsuspected, on the mere
fact of similarity of handwriting (the authorship of
the bordereau had now been fastened upon Dreyfus),
what would be his own position, himself already an
object of general animosity, equally discredited by
the Etat-Major and public opinion? To incur the
THE HISTORIAN OF A TRAGEDY 193
responsibility of such a scandal, namely, to proceed
upon no other grounds than that document, would
be to risk disavowal by the Government and dis-
missal at the hands of the President. On the other
hand, to draw back, to resist the influence of his
surroundings, was to pose before the General Staff,
the public and the press as the protector of a traitor,
of a rich Jewish officer. Who will ever know what
was the inner conflict of this man, what counsels he
now decided to follow, what arguments finally de-
cided him ? Only a great poet could re-create such
inner warfare. The historian can merely relate
facts." The chapter entitled "The Surrender of
Mercier " is one of the most painful throughout the
book. With no light heart evidently did a French
general and Minister of War consent to the deed for
which he is branded in the eyes of his contemporaries
and of history.
Thus is another of Dreyfus's evil geniuses, the
ignoble Henry, portrayed
; 'The Commandant Henry was an officer risen
from the ranks, gifted with good sense, unscrupulous,
ambitious, pliant and quite uncultured. This peasant
veneered, at home in all the cunning of Cheap Jacks
at a fair, knew how to make his trickeries look like
good faith. Plebeian although he was, he could
read character, he understood with whom he had to
do; brainless aristocrats and superficial savants, he
could measure their detestation of the Jew and their
thirst for his condemnation. W'hilst Du Paty with
the ferocity of an inquisitor casts about for proofs
of guilt, Henry quietly sits down to forge them."
And whilst so occupied he pretended to sympa-
194 THE HISTORIAN OF A TRAGEDY
thize with his victim. It was Henry's task to escort
the dazed, distracted Dreyfus to the prison of
Cherche-Midi, pending his court martial. " My
Commandant, this is frightful. I am accused of a
hideous thing," said Dreyfus. "What kind of
thing?" asked Henry, affecting kindliness. "My
Commandant, I am accused of high treason." " The
devil you are ? " retorted the other with an innocent
air. "On what grounds?" And all the while the
apparent sympathizer with a comrade in distress
knew exactly what had passed, was in part engineer
of the crime. Hidden behind a curtain,- Henry had
just before heard the dictation of Du Paty and
Dreyfus's consequent arrest. Du Paty, perhaps one
of the most odious figures in M. Reinach's portrait
gallery, had forsworn a splendid ancestry.
" The wrong-headed representative of the new
military caste recruited from Jesuit schools, the in-
quisitor not only of Dreyfus, but of his young wife,
his brother and nephew, was descended from an
emulator of Voltaire, the rehabilitator of Calas. It
was his great-grandfather, President of the Bor-
deaux Parliament, who, in 1786, rescued three men
unjustly condemned to the atrocious punishment of
breaking on the wheel. His Memoire Justificatif
produced a profound sensation at the time. In
scathing terms he assailed the would-be miscarriers
of justice. 'At least I demand/ he said, 'that the
accused may be allowed means of defence ! '
"Thus," adds M. Reinack, "spoke a former Du
Paty under Louis XVI, just three years before the
Revolution. But the Jesuit having again obtained
authority in France " (as Gambetta truly said, " when
THE HISTORIAN OF A TRAGEDY 195
the country sinks, the Jesuit rises "), " a hundred and
five years after the Declaration of the Rights of
Man, another Du Paty assists in the destruction of
liberty."
Once arrested and, according to military terms,
placed " in pace," Dreyfus was as completely buried
alive as is the Russian political prisoner of to-day.
For seven entire weeks he was left to himself and
his agonizing thoughts, no communication being per-
mitted him with his family or his friends. By a
refinement of cruelty, books, pens, ink and paper
were forbidden. It was the hope of his persecutors
that such treatment would madden him into some
kind of avowal. Here M. Reinach's pen is truly
eloquent
" And not a book ! Yes, that balm and consola-
tion even of the murderer awaiting his doom was
denied him. The narrative of travels, the story that
for a passing hour makes the prisoner oblivious of his
wretchedness or of his crime, that lifts him from his
dungeon walls, transporting to blue skies of far-off
lands or to the world of romance ; this sacred thing
was denied to another object no less sacred, namely,
misfortune personified."
Having made clear the origin and motives of the
conspiracy against justice, M. Reinach next shows
how the condemnation of a man behind his back
became possible. We have only to read the chapter
entitled La Libre Parole to understand by what
means the verdict was brought about. " In order
that Dreyfus should be condemned by his judges,"
writes our author, " he must first be condemned by
the people. Nothing easier ! Rochefort, but above
o 2
196 THE HISTORIAN OF A TRAGEDY
all, Drumont, had for some time systematically
undertaken the poisoning of the public mind. Per-
petual invective, however, by degrees loses per-
suasiveness. Reiterated mendacities fail to convince.
But what pious soul can distrust the utterances of
La Croix, that journal whose emblem is Christ
crucified, and Le Petit Journal, an innocent little
newspaper disclaiming politics? Can simple folks
feel suspicious of being led astray here? The sec-
tion of the press still remaining honest is soon
silenced by the torrent of barbarism revived, the hue
and cry of the anti-Semites stifles their voice.
Drumont, as did Robespierre during the Terror,
calmly looks on. The French people, naturally
kindly and good at heart, are goaded into ferocity.
Even the peasants besiege their Deputies with the
cry, ' When, then, are you going to deliver us from
the Jews?'"
One especially revolting feature of this campaign,
as M. Reinach shows, is that among its most
ferocious leaders were Jews, or men having Jewish
blood in their veins, these renegades hounding down
their victim as if in his person to avenge 'the in-
dignities suffered by their race. This portion of the
book should be carefully read. No citations give
an adequate notion of the French press as then
represented by Drumont and his crew.
We now come to the trial. Here is a sketch of
Maitre Demange : " In the first instance, Mathieu
Dreyfus had recourse to Waldeck-Rousseau for the
defence of his brother, but this great advocate had
long since confined himself to civil causes. He next
recommended Edgar Demange, a brilliant pupil of
THE HISTORIAN OF A TRAGEDY 197
Lachaud. Demange, without identifying himself
with any school of politics, by taste and family
belonged to the traditions of the Empire. A sincere
Catholic, a passionate lover of the Army, penetrated
with the spirit of Berryer, the principles of liberty
and justice were to him a religion. ' I will study
your brother's case,' he replied. ' If I find the
slightest reason to doubt in his innocence the dossier
shall be returned to you.' Having thoroughly gone
into the matter, he betook himself to the prison of
Cherche-Midi, and informed the Jew that his inno-
cence was patent, and that he would plead his
cause."
But, as M. Reinach asks, on behalf of the seven
officers who convicted an innocent man, how could
it have occurred to these that Henry was a perjurer,
and that the Mercier report was made up of forgery
upon forgery? And here we are reminded of a fine
passage in one of M. Anatole France's works.
Under the head of Le Bureau, he pleads for
Dreyfus's judges, and his country-people generally,
on similar grounds. How was it possible to connect
the French army with a gang of forgers shut up in a
closet, men busy with penknife, pen and ink and
sand-paper, inserting a word here, erasing another
there, their business secret as that of false coiners ?
And Drumont had done his work well. A wave of
veritable savagery now swept over the country.
Even the poet of love and tender emotions, the once
gentle, somewhat namby-pamby Coppee, now old
and " converted " rather, like some others, re-con-
verted could thus gloat over the coming degrada-
tion of the Jew. "Ah," wrote the author of Le
198 THE HISTORIAN OF A TRAGEDY
Passant, " let us all be allowed to see the vile face
of the traitor ; one by one let us spit upon him ! "
Mercier wanted the spectacle to be a sort of personal
triumph, to have his unhappy victim marched from
one end of Paris to the other in the eyes of the
people ! The Government, as we know, decided
otherwise, but, even under more decent conditions,
this scene was, without doubt, as shameful as any
transacted in modern times. The report of it in
English papers remains on the memory a permanent
horror.
When all is said and done, the most astounding
feature throughout this history is the character of
Dreyfus himself. Very near madness he evidently
was in the early stages of his martyrdom, but having
once resolved to live, he resolved, at the same time,
to remain sane. And shortly after his " pardon "
a French friend thus wrote to her English corre-
spondent : " I have seen Dreyfus. He talks calmly
of the past, and without manifesting a trace of
vindictiveness towards his judges, much as any man
might do of another's misfortunes." But we have
only to compare the portraits of the brilliant young
officer before his arrest and the white-haired, prema-
turely aged man rescued from the Devil's Island, in
order to realize the nature of his sufferings. Well,
not only for France, but for other countries where
Clericalism and anti-Semitism go hand in hand, that
this tragedy has found so able an historian ! M.
Reinach's voluminous history of the final phase, the
proceedings followed by Dreyfus's public rehabilita-
tion and promotion in the army, I do not touch upon
here. A word or two, however, about the writer,
THE HISTORIAN OF A TRAGEDY 199
whom I had the honour of meeting so often and
under such memorable circumstances.
Born in 1856 of rich Jewish parentage, M. Joseph
Reinach's honourable career as politician, historian,
political economist and social worker has been un-
interruptedly and colossally active. The French
Who's Who for 1910 (Qui etes vous?} gives a list
of the high positions he has filled since first entering
the Chamber in 1889. Were not the Dreyfus story
so unutterably revolting, no little pleasantry might
be extracted from the invectives uttered concerning
him in fashionable and, it must be admitted, devout
circles. Against a man who had risked position, loss
of friends, the social ban, even imprisonment and
life itself for the sake of truth, society rose in horror !
M. Reinach's ofius magnum is his voluminous and
exhaustive history of the Dreyfus tragedy, of which
the volume here noticed was the introduction, the
entire work being published in 1908. Only those
who were at pains to follow the procedure of the first
trial as afterwards given in the Figaro, can realize
the time, labour and thought involved in such a work.
It is indeed a stupendous, intellectual achievement.
A few words about his noble colleague, Maitre
Demange, in whose company I have also spent many
pleasant and instructive hours. So near was my
host's country-house to the great advocate's villa that
we always heard his indoor breakfast and dinner
bell. The two families, a neighbouring artist and
his wife and a fourth resident living a mile or two
off, constituted the pro-Dreyfus circle. Outside our
little coterie all was downright hostility, or at least
acceptance of unsifted evidence. Among ourselves.
200 THE HISTORIAN OF A TRAGEDY
telephone and telegraph were constantly at work,
every day was marked by alternating hopes and
fears, the entire period was one of excitement and
tension. But there would be breaks, oblivious inter-
vals, momentary relief from the strain.
The lead of a brilliant hostess, animated discus-
sions on literature, art and social questions, M.
Reinach's pointed, clear-cut sentences, Maitre
Demange's inexhaustible fund of stories, made table-
talk a thing to remember. Amongst other clients
of whom he told us had been the treasurer of the
Paris pickpockets, a very gentlemanlike personage
who brought up his sons to the learned professions !
An amiable trait of the criminal lawyer was his
cordial feeling towards England at a time when
such an attitude was wholly exceptional. English
cookery he held in high esteem, especially that chef
d'ceuvre, a plum-pudding, (le roi des suets the king
of suets as he called it). Upon several occasions I
have had the pleasure of sending a Christmas pud-
ding for the family gathering at Montfort-PAmaury
or in the Rue du Bac, Maitre Demange, like every
other professional man in France, being two-housed,
having his town flat and his campagne or country
retreat.
XI
FRENCH VIEWS OF ENGLAND
MM. CHEVRILLON, COSTE, BOUTMY
AND OTHERS
FRENCH VIEWS OF ENGLAND
MM. CHEVRILLON, COSTE, BOUTMY
AND OTHERS
I
HERE are set forth the views of several French-
men upon that all-engrossing topic ourselves.
However much the writers quoted may differ, from
whatever standpoint we are regarded, their criticisms
should prove suggestive and informing, not the least
so such cursory and careless notes as those of a free-
lance among the Boers. The well-known names of
the late M. Boutmy and of M. Chevrillon head the
list. In taking up French studies of English char-
acteristics and institutions, meet subject for pleas-
antry as many of these may appear to the average
French mind, we must remember that there is one
European nation, and one only, for which our neigh-
bours entertain not perhaps liking, but admiration,
and that nation is England. Little enough of
French opinion regarding ourselves is known at
home. To use a homely Suffolk colloquialism, we
must summer and winter folks before really learning
what they think, and all who have summer'd and
winter'd our friends on the other side of the Manche
will doubtless assent to the above-named opinion.
M. Andre Chevrillon is the nephew of Taine,
203
204 FRENCH VIEWS OF ENGLAND
and on his shoulders seems to have fallen the literary
mantle of his illustrious relation. His studies of
England and English life (Etudes Anglaises),
originally published in the Revue de Paris, are not
only delicate pieces of criticism; they abound in
psychological insight. Thus the account of his
experiences in England four months after the
beginning of the Transvaal War is quite startling
in its realization of the national mood. No English
writer could have treated the subject so lightly and
with so penetrating an irony. And we feel as we
read that this genial guest on our shores finds himself
in a land that is twofold strange. It is England, a
country and a people as unlike his own as well can
be, but it is not the England of tradition, of history,
or of ideals.
M. Andre Chevrillon understands England and
English literature perhaps better than any French-
man living, and speaks our tongue as if to the
manner born. In the flower of life, his contributions
to literature, if not numerous,are one and all literature
in the proper sense of the word, the most remarkable
being the Etudes Anglaises and Oriental Studies.
M. Chevrillon reached London in February of
1900, finding, of course, the conventional fog. The
month may be February or July, in England a
Frenchman ever finds fog, or, which answers every
whit as well, he imagines fog everywhere. He no
more expects a blue sky or sunshine here than
an English statesman suspected the possession of
horses and guns by the Boers.
The first thing M. Chevrillon did was to attend
the music-halls and other places of popular enter-
tainment.
FRENCH VIEWS OF ENGLAND 205
" I looked about me," he writes. " When will
any one be enabled to compare a hundred Parisians
and a hundred Londoners similarly brought to-
gether? How would such an experience enable us
to understand alike the past, the present and the
future of both countries ? On the countenances here
collected I read on every face, calm, force, sim-
plicity, the features are clear-cut, stamped with
energy, not coarse and unformed as those of the
same class in Germany and Russia; on each physiog-
nomy one could read stability of character and con-
victions, each reflected a life of repose and self-con-
tainment, as a rule free from violent perturbations
either of heart or brain. The Parisian crowd I
conjure up from memory is more impulsive, more
impressionable, more easily intoxicated, more effem-
inate, and much more intellectual I do not say
more intelligent. The Parisian crowd is also more
varied in type, less homogeneous, but equally
stamped with the impress of nationality."
A philosophic Englishman could not more deli-
cately and truthfully give us the word of " the man
in the street" at this epoch. With keen-edged but
playful irony, M. Chevrillon describes the crowds
applauding limelight representations of our defeated
generals. " One detail," he writes, " appeared to me
extraordinary. Not only were the heads of the
army cheered, but those just then conspicuous for
their failures Duller, Gatacre, Methuen. And in-
credible as it may seem, hip, hip, hoorays greeted
one of the most disastrous incidents in the cam-
paign, namely, a view of Lord Methuen watching
the slaughter of Magersfontein ! .Three reasons
explain this popularity of misfortune. To begin
206 FRENCH VIEWS OF ENGLAND
with, the sporting spirit, the dictum give a fellow
another chance the give and take of athletics, by
which a man learns to honour his victor. Secondly
is to be taken into account English pride. An
engagement lost by the Queen's troops was never
a defeat. Let a general announce a regrettable
incident, all the same he is acclaimed out of respect
for his nationality and the uniform he wears. Thirdly
must be considered the remainder of the feudal
spirit. The masses respect the old nobility to which
Lord Methuen belongs in their eyes, indeed, the
only aristocracy existing."
Our author has much admiration for the "vast"
policemen of London, any other word seems in-
adequate for the description of such physical pro-
portions, also for the equally " vast " cooks of public
grill-rooms, but he flees the capital in horror. The
announcements and head-lines of Jingo newspapers,
"Cronje dying hard," "Cronje in a death-trap,"
" Boers withering in a very hell of fire," fill him with
repugnance.
As the guest of country gentlefolks and of
University professors, he finds what to a thoughtful
mind is infinitely sadder and more surprising than
the popular demonstrations of London. Dropping
his light ironic vein, M. Chevrillon writes with real
eloquence on the extraordinary and most lamentable
phase through which the majority of Englishmen
and Englishwomen were at that time passing. Here
are his impressions after attending a farewell service
given to Volunteers in a cathedral town
'The preacher having finished his peroration,
buried his face in his hands, and the congregation
FRENCH VIEWS OF ENGLAND 207
silently offered prayers for the Volunteers present
who were afterwards to receive the communion.
Then, subdued, full of suppressed emotion, the
crowd passed out, the organ pouring forth a strain
that seemed to express the dream of a people !
During that service every one present had become
more intensely English. Clearer, more imperious
now seemed to each the destiny of their race. The
worship, with its poetry and music, had just reached
the level of conscience. Still stronger was faith in
self, belief in the national, the normal type. I could
better understand that proud toast of British officers
in the Transvaal Our men, our women, our swords,
our religion ! I realized how without scruple, in
good faith, an injustice could be planned and
accomplished, and how here there could be no pity
for a small, heroic people."
We have also an interesting article on the " Apollo
of the Music-Hails," in other words, Mr. Rudyard
Kipling ; also critical studies of Shelley and Burne-
Jones, all well worth reading.
Several years late (1909) has come another and
equalling absorbing book from the same fascinating
pen. To M. Chevrillon, Ruskin must have proved
a far more engrossing and sympathetic study than
Mafeking or the Apollo of the Music-Hails.
Ruskin, with Darwin and Spenser, M. Chevrillon
tells us, is one of the best-known Victorians in
France. He adds that, for his countrymen, the man
himself and the genesis of the aesthete, moralist and
social reformer, possess greater interest than his
teaching. From this point of view M. Chevrillon's
work is written, and English readers will find its
208 FRENCH VIEWS OF ENGLAND
pages of staying interest. Ideas, he writes, exist
only in individuals, are only by the intermediary of
individuals rendered manifest and active. By
studying Ruskin and the influences which developed
and fructified his genius, Frenchmen will perhaps in
some degree be able to unriddle that strange com-
pound of personalities making up the English race.
The writer was well qualified for such a task, and
the adaptability of the French language in hands so
competent is here conspicuous. Ruskin's exquisite
prose loses neither force, colour, nor, what Michelet
considered more important that either rhythm in
the numerous and highly characteristic citations here
given. Take, for instance, the passage beginning,
" Lichen and mosses how of these ? " or the won-
derful description of Turner's Slave Ship " It is a
sunset on the Atlantic. . . ." Alike the tender grace
of the first and the lurid power of the second are
given without the loss of meaning or point. Indeed,
something is gained by the breaking up of too long
sentences and the occasional substitution of one
word for two or three.
From Ruskin's theories of art the French critic
passes to his role as moralist and social reformer.
The following reflection is what we might expect :
" It is under the latter head that Ruskin's apparent
contradictions shock a Frenchman. Champion of
poverty and wretchedness, he is at the same time
the champion of authority. Whilst passionately de-
nouncing social abuses, he nevertheless scoffs at
democrats and their dreams of equality, and with
even greater bitterness derides the Liberal concep-
tion of liberty. He attacks the rich, but would shut
FRENCH VIEWS OF ENGLAND 209
out the people from power. He declares that society
is founded upon theft and usury, and at the same
time abhors revolutions. He can imagine no reform
that does not emerge from existing social and
political conditions." It is not only French admirers
who see in Ruskin's beautifully expressed theories
contradiction upon contradiction. Ruskin finds in
the Venice and Florence of the thirteenth century
models of life and society, and tells us that, with the
Bible, Walter Scott and Roger's Italy formed the
intellectual nutriment of his childhood.
But how strikingly do recorded facts bear out
Schiller's dictum that the highest artistic develop-
ment may exist side by side with the utmost moral
depravity ! Roger's poem in other respects delight-
ful describes some of the most atrocious crimes
that ever stained human annals. And what about
Beatrice Cenci, a story of unspeakable horror, occur-
ring during the apogee of Italian art? Could not the
nineteenth-century England, of which Ruskin wrote
so scathingly, show better "models of life and
society " than republican Venice and Florence?
Despite such inconsistencies, such leanings to
feudality and blindness to signs of the times, Ruskin
and his work form a noble theme. Worthily has his
French interpreter dealt with what was evidently
a labour of love. La Pensee de Ruskin is a
philosophic and psychological study of sterling
literary merit.
210 FRENCH VIEWS OF ENGLAND
II
Nothing is more characteristic of the two nations
than the methods by which English and French
writers strive to make them acquainted with each
other. Mr. Hamerton, in his French and English^
jots down the experience of twenty-five years' resid-
ence in France, illustrating each proposition by anec-
dotes and traits of character that have come imme-
diately under his own observation. The late learned
M. Boutmy (Essai d'une Psychologie du Peuple
Anglais) sets to work systematically as a mathe-
matician proving his thesis. From a few principles,
laid down with admirable clearness, he traces the
evolution of the English mind as shown in literature,
art and social and political institutions. So true it is,
as another French writer affirms of his country-
people : " We reason more than we imagine, and
what we best imagine is not the outer, but the inner
world of thought " (M. Fouillee, Psychologie du
Peuple Francais).
Closely as M. Boutmy has kept to facts, wide
and accurate as is his knowledge of our history,
profound as is his admiration for England, her
political systems and her people, this instinct of
generalization occasionally leads him far astray. He
trusts too much to reasoning, and too little to experi-
ence. Mr. Hamerton spoke of Frenchmen and
Frenchwomen as he found them, and was seldom at
fault; M. Boutmy, although not without knowledge
of English people and their ways, cannot for a
moment relinquish his theories, and theories, how-
FRENCH VIEWS OF ENGLAND 211
ever sound, will not always accommodate themselves
to facts.
The book is a model of style : crystal clear is
every one of these short, telling sentences, similes
often occur of rare felicity, illustrating more than
one chain of arguments. " Taken as a whole,"
writes M. Boutmy, " English literature is certainly
one of the richest and most admirable of any in
Europe, and there cannot be two opinions as to the
class of works in which it excels. The vocation of
English literature is the delineation of individual
will and of human activity." One chapter winds up
with this charming and subtle figure : " A chemical
law of recent discovery shows that given the pre-
sence of certain bodies, and the possibility of several
combinations, that combination takes place which
exhausts the greatest amount of heat. We may
apply this formula to the English intellect, and
affirm that the creative faculty with which it has
most affinity is the faculty that develops, stimulates
and renders efficacious the activity of the human
race." The sovereign power of will, the imperative
necessity of something to overcome, the irrepressible
force of individuality these features, according to
M. Boutmy, characterize the chief glories of English
literature, namely, the drama, in other words,
Shakespeare and the nineteenth-century novel. On
the difference between English and the French
fiction, considered as works of art, also on English
art itself, the reader will find much that is new
and illuminating. The same may safely be averred
of all that M. Boutmy has so carefully thought out
upon our language, laws and system of government.
p 2
212 FRENCH VIEWS OF ENGLAND
It is when he takes in hand the Englishman of
to-day the man in the street that we are reminded
rather of John Bull as he figures in French music-
halls and penny dreadfuls than of the reality. With
all his admiration for " the rich originality " of
England and her sons, our author's method has led
him into something worse than caricature. For
instance, he describes the average Englishman as
devoid of sympathy and pity, and naturally cruel
and given to brutal sports. But to the honour of the
country, be it said, here was promulgated the first
law rendering punishable inhumanity to animals.
The French Government, tardily enough, so far,
imitated us as to pass the Loi Gramont, a law that
remains almost a dead letter. Visit a French
country town on market-day, or, for the matter of
that, Paris. Every day you will see acts of wanton
cruelty to animals, for which in England the offender
would be summarily haled to prison. Again, M.
Boutmy charges the working classes here with addic-
tion to brutal sports. But whilst the favourite pas-
times of Englishmen of all ranks are football and
cricket, there is hardly a town in Southern France
without its bull-ring, men, women and children flock-
ing thither on Sunday afternoons to witness and
applaud scenes of indescribable barbarity.
Further, M. Boutmy entertains the notion that of
all created beings Englishmen are the least sociable.
Now, nothing more strikes a ^resident in provincial
France than the lack there of sociability as we under-
stand the word. A hundred and one things bring
neighbours together in our English village cricket
matches, flower-shows, garden-parties, to say nothing
of the intercourse of both sexes and all grades
FRENCH VIEWS OF ENGLAND 213
brought about by Council Schools, County and
Parish Councils, Guardianships of the Poor, and
so on. Nothing of the kind exists in France a
point insisted upon by Mr. Hamerton and other well-
known writers on French life. Here is another
misapprehension. Even in our day, M. Boutmy
wrote, many of our labouring classes imagine the
Sovereign to be all-powerful in fact, Government
means to them the authority of Queen or King. But
the Council School, the halfpenny newspaper, the
village reading-room, last, but not least, the rural
vote, have long changed all this; our author would
be astonished, for instance, at the number of news-
papers and excellent periodicals supplied to English
villages of a few hundred souls. The money spent
thereon would make the hairs of a well-to-do French
peasant farmer stand on end.
Despite these and many other errors inseparable
from the plan of such a work, M. Boutmy's volume
is as much to be commended to English readers as
to his own countrypeople. And fortunately the
Manche is no longer regarded as a barrier not to
be overcome by our neighbours on the other side.
Every year sees an increased number of French
visitors to our shores. Many, let us hope all, will
soon convince themselves that the average English-
man is neither a tyrant in his own home, nor a
misanthrope when he has crossed the threshold; in
fine, that the originality and force of character this
writer so warmly admires are allied with graces he
unfortunately failed to discern.
From the same publishing house a few years since
appeared almost simultaneously two works equally
interesting to English readers. In his Le Colosse
214 FRENCH VIEWS OF ENGLAND
aux pieds d'argile (The Monster with Clay Feet], a
certain M. Jean de la Poullaine painted England as
a country wholly decadent and despicable, a civiliza-
tion fast falling into disrepute and decay. The
philosophic author of Les Prindpes d'une Sociol-
ogie objective takes an antipodean view. Judicially
and learnedly M. Coste surveys the social evolu-
tion of humanity from the beginning down to our
own time, without any hesitation placing England
in the foremost rank. This writer divides social
development into five stages, the fifth, embodying
the highest as yet found practicable, perhaps as yet
conceivable. England, and England alone, has
reached that stage, whilst some other States, notably
France and Germany, are slowly following in the
same direction. Briefly summarized, M. Coste's
generalizations may be said to amount to this, the
characteristics of English civilization are individual-
ism and a total absence of caste. The last-men-
tioned and dominant feature of primitive societies is
unknown in England, whilst in France it is not so.
" It is impossible to deny," sadly writes our author,
" that r esprit de classe (' caste ') is still a survival in
France, at any rate it exists in a latent condition,
ready at any moment to be called forth by popular
passion. A hundred years after the great Revolu-
tion, instead of individualizing, we classify, we are
constantly arranging bodies of men instead of in-
dividuals. The Panama and Dreyfus agitations
afford instances in point. Incrimination has been
collective., We may apply the same observation to
economic questions. Instead of discussions between
masters and men, we find capital and labour at
FRENCH VIEWS OF ENGLAND 215
warfare, socialism and property opposed to each
other. Whilst this survival of caste is witnessed
among us, we cannot say that we have attained the
fifth stage."
In matters speculative, artistic and literary he
rightly awards the palm to his own country. " Ideol-
ogically," he writes, " I am inclined to place France
in the front rank. Her intellectual initiative, her
artistic taste, her aspirations if somewhat Utopian
would seem to warrant such an award ; sociologically,
I have no hesitation in declaring England superior."
The work is full of interesting suggestion, and
need not frighten the non-philosophical reader by
its title. M. Coste finds in Carlyle's hero-worship
an exaggeration of individual action in any race or
age. The force of individualism tells collectively on
progress. ' The amelioration of society," he writes,
" is due, less to the intervention of exceptional char-
acters than to the continuous, unwearied co-operation
of upright and energetic men" (and, we presume,
women?) "who conscientiously do their work, per-
sonalities remaining lost in the crowd."
From class hatreds to international antagonisms is
but a step, and, as we should only expect, M. Coste
is a warm advocate of cosmopolitan intercourse.
Ill
Not the least instructive portion of the volumin-
ous literature devoted to the South African war was
that contributed by foreigners, soldiers of fortune
throwing in their lot with the Boers. M. de la
216 FRENCH VIEWS OF ENGLAND
Marche, author of Un Voluntaire chez les Boers,
entertains a warm affection for his second Father-
land, thus he styles the Transvaal, and in a lyrical
dedication declares himself ready again if necessary
to risk life and limb on its behalf. The first experi-
ence of the enthusiast was anything but alluring.
His narrative, brief, comprehensive and to the point,
is one unbroken story of mortification and dis-
appointment. Our artillery officer reached Pretoria
on March 25, 1900, and the shores of France just
five months later, evidently as delighted to return
as he had been to embark.
To the quick, excitable French nature the Boer
deliberation and slowness seemed maddening. At
Pretoria, writes M. de la Marche, the general busi-
ness of everybody seemed to wait. Folks seemed to
do nothing but wait.
:; The day after my arrival I learned, not without
astonishment, the line of conduct pursued by the
Transvaal Government towards strangers in my posi-
tion. A volunteer had to show his papers, take the
oath of allegiance and sign certain formularies. He
then got tickets entitling him to an outfit, saddle and
bridle, horse and gun, but no orders whatever ! He
was free to join any commando he pleased, and
received not a farthing of pay ! "
Still more disconcerting than the last fact was
the coldness with which volunteers were received.
Whilst grateful for sympathy, the Boers had found
these heterogeneous legionaries embarrassing in the
extreme, and at a council of war held at Kronstadt
it was finally decided to place all foreigners under
the command of Villebois-Mareuil, a choice, as our
FRENCH VIEWS OF ENGLAND 217
author writes, that filled every Frenchman's heart
with joy. In the highest spirits he set out with some
of his countrymen to join the French general's force.
At Kronstadt a curious experience awaits him
" Every day, train after train passed through the
town, crowded with Boers, horses and oxen, all turn-
ing their backs on the front. Here is the explana-
tion of a fact, bizarre to say the least of it. The
Boers do not like to remain long absent from their
farms. When matters seem at a standstill they
clamour for a short leave of absence. Their generals
humour them in this in order to prevent defections.
Thus it came about that during the two or three
days we spent at Kronstadt at least a thousand Boers
passed through the town on their way home. Such a
method of warfare seems incomprehensible to Euro-
peans, but we must take men as they are, and the
matter goes far to explain the strange dragging on of
this war."
Full of spirits and hopefulness when he quitted
Kronstadt, M. de la Marche returned thither a few
days later greatly dejected. Villebois-Mareuil had
met with his death, and the volunteers' first week of
campaign had proved wholly disastrous, the little
band undergoing all kinds of hardships without
encountering either British or Boer !
The following occurrence, as narrated by our
author, is worth citing, since it shows the difficulties
that these foreign legions gave to the Boer author-
ities
" Whilst we were at Kronstadt a mutiny broke out
among our company. A score or so of the men
wanted to separate from us, choosing their own
218 FRENCH VIEWS OF ENGLAND
leaders. President Steyn gave orders for the arrest
of the mutineers; nine on making their submission,
however, were retained; the rest lay down their
arms with the exception of an Arab, who betook
himself with his accoutrements to the Austrian camp.
Next day, by the President's orders, he was put
under arrest."
At Brandfort our author had an interview with
General Delarey and his brother
; ' Two thoroughly Boer types were these men with
untrimmed hair and beards, bronzed complexion,
intelligent, a slightly mistrustful expression, eyes
looking you frankly in the face, and drest so
simply as to suggest poverty, no indication whatever
of military rank. Conversation proved difficult, our
two hosts only speaking Dutch, my compatriot
Didier translating my French into English, and a
Boer interpreter putting his English into Dutch.
The General, as I feared was the case, appeared to
set little store by his new command, that is to say,
of the foreign legions. When I mentioned the
matter of artillery, he merely replied, with a smile,
" I have no cannon." This note of disillusion
runs throughout the entire narrative. Now it is
a field cornet "who receives the French volun-
teers very coldly." Now it is General F. Botha
who, on being appealed to for forage, coolly
replies
"At a farm half-a-mile off you will be able to
obtain hay at a shilling the truss." The night being
pitch dark and the said farm in consequence as good
as non-existent. Upon another occasion, M. de la
Marche presents himself at the head-quarters of
FRENCH VIEWS OF ENGLAND 219
Commandant Blignant, a Boer of French extraction.
" But he was in a surly humour, and would hardly
answer my questions." Nor were the burghers and
country folks generally ready to jump into the arms
of their would-be deliverers. Food and drink were
freely offered to them, but the loan of a waggon with
horses or oxen was grudgingly accorded. To the
infinite satisfaction of our Frenchman he was at last
granted an opportunity, as he hoped, of " driving
the English into a corner." The motley crew of
volunteers French, Russians, Germans, Portuguese,
Greeks, and how many more? took part in the
engagement of Taba N'cho, or Thobas-Berg, losing
several men and having a large number severely
wounded. Then followed the retreat to Pretoria,
now our author as a narrator being at his best. The
greatest difficulty occurred through the wandering
propensities of the horses. Let loose to pasture at
nightfall, they would stray miles from the bivouac
before dawn. " Here," writes M. de la Marche, " our
Russian volunteer, Padilewski, was of the greatest
service. Thanks to his Siberian experiences, he was
accustomed to wild horses and vast plains." Arrived
at Pretoria, after experiences which considerably
damped our author's ardour, he encountered the
same lukewarmness on the part of the Boers.
' Twenty officials were charged to look after the
volunteers, but on arriving we found their offices
closed, myself and my companions being thus thrown
entirely on our own resources." After a time he
succeeded in obtaining an interview with the heads
of the remount department.
' These gentlemen," he writes, " on hearing of my
220 FRENCH VIEWS OF ENGLAND
request for remounts, looked at me with some sur-
prise, saying, * There is not a horse to be had in
the town/
" ' Then, gentlemen, what are we to do? ' I asked.
' We cannot follow the army on foot.'
" * That is your own look-out,' was the answer."
Finding himself and his companions thus hope-
lessly at a loss, on the entrance of Lord Roberts,
M. de la Marche constituted himself a prisoner, with
the intention of getting back to France by hook or
by crook as expeditiously as possible.
His reception by our officers is thus described
" They received me courteously, and with mingled
surprise and curiosity. They seemed at a loss to
account for my conduct in taking up arms on behalf
of the Boers, and one or two put the question point-
blank had I been handsomely paid for my ser-
vices ? The gratuitousness of my services astonished
them no less than my motive."
Impatient at delays, the Frenchman and his three
fellow-prisoners decided upon escape. An amusing
account is given of the visit of an English officer and
his subordinate, their object being to inspect the
premises.
" Finding that we were all French, this officer
entered into conversation with us, speaking our lan-
guage fluently and without accent. I confess that
I was in no humour for a chat just then, for, were
our secreted arms discovered, it would have been a
case of St. Helena or Ceylon. Providence watched
over us. The sergeant having peeped into the
granary and seen nothing but dust and lumber, came
down, to my great joy, saying, ' Nothing here, sir ! '
FRENCH VIEWS OF ENGLAND 221
whereupon, with an 'All right/ and military salute
the officer took his departure."
The fugitives, in trying to get through the English
lines, were discovered, but, more fortunate than
many of their fellow-volunteers, were forthwith sent
back to France.
One story that the most instructive of the book
may fitly terminate our notice : " Not to be for-
gotten is this speech of the Russian military attache
to my countryman Jean Carrere : ' The best friend
your country and mine have ever had is Chamber-
lain' ' The italics are my own.
XII
POSTSCRIPT
[I venture to add, by way of a postscript, the following
pages contributed in French by request of M. Gaston
Bordat, editor of la Revue pour les Franpais, the chief
object of which is literary internationalization, the fruit-
ful, interesting and hitherto neglected study of nation by
nation. My French having passed muster on the other
side of the Channel, perhaps needs no apology on this.]
LA FRANCE VUE DU DEHORS
(Revue pour Us Franfais, Oct. 25 and Nov. 25, 1909.)
LA FRANCE VUE DE L'ANGLETERRE
I
RIEN assurement n'est plus renversant, plus para-
doxal, plus tragi-comique, que les rapports anglo-
fran^ais pendant le dernier siecle et meme aujourd 5 -
hui.
Voila deux pays separes seulement par soixante
minutes de bateau, deux peuples qui peuvent se
guetter de leur fenetre avec un telescope les habi-
tants de Boulogne voient leurs voisins de Douvres a
la promenade , deux races a 1'apogee de la civilisa-
tion, restes absolument etrangers Tun a 1'autre,
Absolument, dis-je? A peu pres, en tout cas.
Tandis qu'il y a toujours eu des relations amicales
entre les mondes litteraires, artistiques et savants,
" the man in the street," c'est-a-dire les peuples, aux
cotes opposes de la Manche, se sont perpetuellement
ignores. Ou plutot, Jacques Bonhomme et John
Bull, vis-a-vis Tun de 1'autre, n'ont ete que des
caricatures et des mythes, langues, mceurs, ideals
demeurant totalement incompris.
Cette ignorance ne se bornait pas au peuple.
Ecoutez les poetes et les romanciers. Notre Thom-
son dont les idylles soulageaient les dernieres heures
Q 225
226 POSTSCRIPT
de Madame Roland, Thomson, I'homme le plus in-
offensif au monde, en meme temps le plus paresseux,
1'oisif a qui manquait 1'energie de cueillir une peche
ou un abricot, qui les su^ait sur tige, Thomson est
devenu presque emporte en qualifiant " Insulting
Gaul, Presumptuous France " (la Gaule insolente,
la France altiere). Seul le nom de la France lui
donnait un peu de force, une plume virile !
Shelley glorifiait la Revolution, mais dans ses
charmantes notes de voyage on trouve cette phrase :
" II n'y a rien a voir en France."
Un bel esprit, contemporain du delicieux poete,
Thomas Love Peacock, a caracterise le peuple fran-
gais en termes dignes de Thersite. Pour lui, le
Fran^ais etait un Olla Podrida monstrueux, un
melange des qualites les plus odieuses. Meme de
nos jours, nos meilleurs ecrivains ont suivi ces
exemples. Tennyson, grand poete et en meme
temps grand chauvin s'y est signale. Sa jolie fan-
taisie, La Princesse, se termine avec un eloge
exagere de la toute puissante, toute estimable, toute
vertueuse Angleterre et une comparaison tres humili-
ante pour sa voisine. La Grande Bretagne ! voila
un modele social, politique, moral, la solidite meme,
tandis que la France est "une plume pour chaque
vent qui souffle," 1 le pays d'emportements, d'in-
stabilites, de cataclysmes.
Et nos romanciers ! leur fallait-il " the villain of
the piece," un type deprave ? c'etait en France qu'on
le cherchait. Notre bien aime Dickens par exemple,
avec sa Mademoiselle Henriette, la femme de
chambre de Bleak-House. Cette fille se croyant
1 Shakespeare.
POSTSCRIPT 227
insultee, otait has et souliers, traversait pieds nus
prairies et bois trempes par la pluie : vengeance peu
franchise. Plutot Henriette aurait donne a son insul-
teur une forte gifle ou se serait servie de ses ongles.
Les jolies heroines franchises de nos romans sont
egalement fictives.
Lisez A Daughter of Heth, de William Black. La
jeune orpheline dite franchise, jetee dans un milieu
ecossais, tres austere, peu sympathique, se laisse
appeler " Coquette ! " " Coquette " a ete son nom
depuis son enfance. Est-ce que jamais une jeune
Frangaise bien elevee aurait accepte un tel sobri-
quet? Et Meredith encore. L'heroine de Beau-
champ's Career possede au moins un nom conven-
able. Ici commence et se termine sa qualite
nationale. La Renee, de Meredith, aristocrate,
censee bien elevee, se conduit precisement comme
une Americaine emancipee. Cette demoiselle de
dix-sept ans n'a aucune reserve, pas la moindre
petite idee du bienseant. Sans arriere-pensee, elle
arrange des rendez-vous avec un jeune officier
anglais. En tete a tete avec lui, elle fait des excur-
sions en gondole a Venise, elle lui permet meme de
se declarer et Faccepte sans en souffler mot a son
pere. La fille d'un honnete savetier ne se laisserait
jamais conduire d'une telle fa^on.
Si chez des gens instruits, observateurs, fins,
lesquels ont voyage en France, on trouve tant de
mecomptes et de prejuges, chez "the man in the
street," 1'appreciation du peuple frangais est facile a
deviner. Le Frangais etait done toujours aussi petit
que Napoleon et Thiers (on n'avait jamais entendu
parler des athletes Bretons et Cevenols), il etait
Q 2
228 POSTSCRIPT
toujours tres leger, toujours il faut admettre, de
bonne humeur, aussi fort brave. Mais sans solidite
de caractere, une espece de papillon. Quant a la
femme fran^aise, elle reste toujours frivole, vani-
teuse, occupee principalement de la toilette. Et
quant aux moeurs franchises, n'en parlez pas, je vous
en prie !
De 1'autre cote du Detroit, memes bevues. Lisez
les caricatures de mes compatriotes dans les romans
Frangais, milady Dudley, de Balzac, avec son "my
dee " pour " my dear " (mon cher), le grand roman-
cier ne se donnant pas meme la peine d'epeler cor-
rectement ce joli mot de quatre lettres ! Prenez la
megere anglo-saxonne de Victor Cherbuliez dans
"Apres fortune faite," pour citer seulement deux
exemples. En effet, Balzac, tout court, declare :
"Les Anglais, je les deteste." Barbey d'Aurevilly,
dans ses charmantes lettres a Trebutien, qui vien-
nent d'etre publiees, s'exprime en memes termes.
Historiens, ainsi que romanciers, ne nous sont pas
moins antipathiques. Henri Martin, Michelet et tant
d'autres, tout en admirant " ce grand peuple," nous
ont trouves haissables.
Pour les petits Fran^ais, ainsi qu'a observe M.
Rambaud (Histoire de la Civilisation Franfaise), ce
ne sont pas les eveques fran^ais qui ont condamne
Jeanne d'Arc, mais les " Goddams anglais." Cette
legende se perpetue.
II y a quelques annees je regardais la mauvaise
statue de 1'heroine devant Teglise de Saint-Thomas
d'Aquin, lisant cette devise :
BRULE PAR LES ANGLAIS
POSTSCRIPT 229
Deux braves campagnardes avec leurs mioches
et leurs paniers, lisaient en meme temps 1'inscription
mensongere. L'une disait has a sa voisine :
" Voila une Anglaise " et me tournait le dos avec
un air rebarbatif .
J'ai pris la peine de m'adresser a ce sujet au
Conseil municipal de Paris, afin de faire oter une
legende si peu historique et si prejudkiable a
V Entente Cordiale. On m'a repondu tres poliment
que I'affaire concernait le gouvernement.
Et 1'annee derniere une institutrice Fra^aise,
venue ici, m'a raconte qu'a la veille de son depart
pour Hastings son petit frere lui disait en pleurant
amerement :
"Ah! ma pauvre sceur ! Ces mediants Anglais
vous mettront a mort, comme ils ont fait avec Jeanne
d'Arc."
Maintenant, je vais raconter quelques experiences
personnelles, assez plaisantes !
II y a environ trente ans, je passais tres souvent
une partie des vacances chez des amis en Bour-
gogne. Tellement affectueuses furent nos relations
qu'on me regardait comme un membre de la famille :
Une matinee, ma chere vieille hotesse me pria de
faire pour elle une petite commission. C'etait
d'aller commander du beurre chez une fermiere a
deux kilometres de distance et une demi-heure de
Dijon par chemin de fer.
"Vous n'etes done pas Alsacienne ? mais
Anglaise," me dit la bonne menagere, apres quelques
paroles. " Eh bien, vous etes la premiere Anglaise
que j'aie vue de ma vie ! Les Anglais sont protes-
280 POSTSCRIPT
tants a ce que j'ai entendu dire. Dites-moi, vous
autres protestants, croyez-vous en Dieu ? "
Toutefois, quand on allait deguster du gibier ou
quelque friandise chez mes hotes, on invitait le cure,
brave campagnard, qui ne faisait pas scrupule,
comme a fait un de ses confreres en Bretagne, de
serrer la main de I'heretique.
" Dites-moi, Madame," disait-il naivement. " A la
mort de votre reine, qui succedera au trone d'Angle-
terre?"
Une autre fois un homme instruit me demandait :
" II y a une loi, n'est-ce pas, defendant aux pay-
sans anglais d'acquerir de terre ? " Et un vieux
monsieur que j'ai connu assez bien, croyait comme
a I'fivangile qu'au marche de Smithfield a Londres
tous les jours on pouvait voir des maris offrant leurs
femmes avec une corde au cou a vendre a Penchere.
Et mon confrere, 1'aimable et spirituel Max O'Rell
m'a raconte qu'un jour une vieille chatelaine Bre-
tonne lui demanda serieusement :
" Dites-moi, Monsieur, vous qui connaissez
1'Angleterre. Y a-t-il des chemins de fer dans ce
pays-la?"
Dans ce village Bourguignon, dont je viens de
parler, plusieurs families du meme nom avaient
leurs campagnes. C'etait un veritable clan, une
tribu, pas d'autres etrangers n'etant admis au cercle
que moi-meme.
Dans les premiers jours, j'ai ete regardee par ces
parents de mes hotes avec une curiosite un peu
deconcertante. On me guettait, on me regardait, on
m'ecoutait a peu pres comme si Pamie de la grand-
mere cut ete Japonaise ou Chinoise.
POSTSCRIPT 231
A quel astre nefaste tient cette ignorance mutu-
elle, ignorance si nuisible aux interets, non seule-
ment des deux nations, mais au progres du monde ?
Categoriquement, il f aut d'abord accuser la mer !
"La Manche," dit amerement Michelet, "est
Anglaise," c'est-a-dire a 1'idee du grand historien,
qu'elle sevit plus rudement contre les cotes fran-
^aises que contre les notres. Nous autres insulaires
ne pouvons pas comprendre ce qu'est un trajet de
mer pour les continentaux. Et en effet une bour-
rasque entre Calais et Douvres n'est pas amusante.
Mais c'est egal aux flegmatiques anglais. Jamais
on ne s'arrete a cause de ce que nos marins appel-
lent, "a jumpy sea," une mer qui saute.
Si les frontieres excitent des jalousies, des in-
quietudes, les vagues furibondes du Detroit n'oppo-
sent pas moins un obstacle aux cordialites anglo-
fran9aises. J'ai eu 1'honneur de connaitre un Fran-
gais fort distingue et dont le courage moral a
triomphe des plus cruelles epreuves. Ses collegues
ont voulu le feter en Angleterre. Tres gravement,
il m'a explique son motif pour refuser.
"Je suis tres sensible aux amities de vos com-
patriotes," me disait-il. " Je voudrais bien voir Lon-
dres, la plus grande metropole au monde, mais
ici il secouait la tete : "je n'aime pas 1'idee de
traverser la mer ! "
On ne peut pas Her les deux pays comme on a lie
le Mont Saint-Michel a la Cote normande. Moi-
meme, adoratrice de la France et de la Troisieme
Republique je ne caresse pas 1'idee d'un isthme,
d'un pont ou d'un tunnel. Je voudrais toujours
rester geographiquement insulaire. Historique-
232 POSTSCRIPT
ment, poetiquement, la Grande- Bretagne a tout a
perdre par une annexion physique quelconque,
materiellement rien a gagner.
Au moins, c'est mon idee.
Apres la mer, reste la question de langues.
Pourquoi au commencement du xx e siecle les deux
peuples sont-ils aussi ignorants de leur langue
mutuelle qu'au Moyen-Age, ou a peu pres ? Encore
a citer Michelet : " Combien de malheureux, dit-il,
dans les affreuses guerres de Cent Ans, se sont
massacres parce qu'ils ne pouvaient pas crier grace
dans la langue de leurs adversaires ! "
Depuis les Edouards et les Georges, venons aux
regimes de Victoria et de notre bon Edouard VII,
" King Teddie " ainsi qu'on 1'appelle par bonhomie
et par affection.
En 1876 le Congres scientifique de la France se
reunissait a Nantes ou j'avais passe 1'hiver chez
madame Guepin, veuve du docteur bien connu.
J'assistai a plusieurs seances, entre autres, a celle de
la Section geographique. Un Anglais, Tamiral
Ommaney, avait prepare une communication assez
importante, mais il ignorait completement le Fran-
^ais. Le president de la section qui de son cote
ignorait 1'anglais, invita a haute .voix un traducteur
volontaire de 1'audience. Silence absolu. Tres
timidement alors, je me jetai sur la breche, tant bien
que mal, traduisant phrase par phrase Petude du
brave marin.
Quarante ans plus tard, presqu'un demi-siecle
s'est ecoule. A peu pres reste la meme igno-
rance.
II y a quatre ans j'ai assiste a un banquet orlert
POSTSCRIPT 233
a certains fonctionnaires Frangais. Le dejeuner
termine, le President, gentleman instruit, ayant fait
ses etudes a Oxford ou a Cambridge, a voulu inviter
les messieurs a fumer. II m'a prie de traduire les
quatre mots necessaires ! Bien entendu, ce membre
d'une Universite aurait pu prononcer un discours
tres correct dans la langue de Pericles ou de
Ciceron. De frangais il n'en savait mot.
Je vous demande pourquoi bourrer les tetes de
jeunes Franc, ais et Anglais de grec et de latin et leur
laisser ignorer la langue des contemporains et de
leurs plus proches voisins. Les professeurs, les
cours n'ont jamais manque. Une mauvaise volonte
de la part des eleves, mauvaise volonte encouragee
par les prejuges politiques et religieux s'opposerent
toujours au progres.
Apres la mer et la langue, venons a la litterature.
Ici il y a beaucoup plus a dire.
Si on ne parle pas le frangais, la plupart des
Anglais sont en etat de le lire et malheureusement, le
roman frangais, surtout le mauvais roman trouve
toujours des traducteurs. Le tableau de la vie chez
nos voisins, donne par les romanciers les plus en
vogue, est-il fait pour inspirer du respect, de 1'amitie,
de la confiance? Prenez trois livres repandus par-
tout, ecrits par des auteurs renommes : La Terre, de
Zola, L'Heritier, de Maupassant, Le Journal d'une
femme de chambre, par Octave Mirbeau.
Quoi d'etonnant qu'il y a cinq ans, lorsque parut
un livre intitule : Les Franfais dans leur homes
(Home Life in France), plusieurs incredules objec-
terent a Tauteur :
284 POSTSCRIPT
" Les Frangais chez eux? Mais est-ce que
les Fran^ais tiennent a un home, a une vie de
famille?"
Des volumes et des ouvrages pareils, traduits ou
non traduits, sont lus partout, on les compte par
milliers. J'admire Zola, il a ecrit de belles choses,
il cherchait la verite, mais apres trente ans d'etudes
sur le vif, moi aussi je connais un peu le paysan
fran9ais. Avec joie j'ai lu la belle appreciation du
proprietaire rural dans le grand ouvrage de M.
Hanotaux. 1 Ainsi que lui je connais parmi les cul-
tivateurs des hommes d'elite, des hommes dont le
pays doit etre bien fier. Mais selon Zola, et avant
lui le grand Balzac, le paysan frangais n'a ni morale,
ni sentiment, ni intelligence, il a seulement les
qualites qui le rendent detestable, c'est-a-dire la
dissimulation, la ruse.
Quant aux tableaux cites de la vie bourgeoise par
Maupassant et Mirbeau, il n'y a qu'une reflexion a
faire. Si effectivement ces auteurs ont depeint les
mceurs franchises, la France est condamnee. Aucune
societe ainsi tombee dans la fange ne pourrait
se relever et prendre une suprematie - sur les
nations.
Les Franais, done, en se laissant ainsi decrier
par eux-memes, ne peuvent pas se plaindre si les
etrangers acceptent ces caricatures et la-dessus,
puisent leurs jugements. Et ce ne sont pas seule-
ment les romanciers, mais aussi les hommes poli-
1 Dans le vieux village perdu oh j'dcris ces lignes, sur ce rocher
calcaire ou 1'existence est si dure et la concurrence si pdnible a
soutenir centre 1'essor des rallies, j'ai parmi mes voisins, dix chefs
de families, fils de 1'enseignement primaire, dont j'atteste 1'esprit
ouvert, la prudence avisde et la dignite civique releve'e.
POSTSCRIPT 235
tiques qui sont ici coupables. Je cite la parole d'un
Fran9ais (The Westminster Gazette, juin 1909), M.
Henri Turot, au sujet de ce defaut national : " Mal-
heureusement, dit-il, beaucoup de mes compatriotes
se font un veritable plaisir de discrediter leur
pays." M. Turot parlait des affaires purerrient
politiques, - de la marine, et d'autres questions de
la sorte.
En revanche, pour nos voisins, les Anglais, sont
souvent representes en hypocrites, brutaux, peu
aimables, les Anglaises, d'une humeur acerbe, et
les toutes jeunes filles excepte, d'une laideur epou-
vantable. Et 1'Angleterre, jusqu'aux dernieres
annees, est censee un pays laid, brumeux, sans aucun
interet pittoresque ou esthetique.
Je me rappelle un voyage, il y a vingt ans, de
Dijon a Paris, fait avec une Franchise, parait-il
assez bien elevee. Nous causions de nos deux pays.
Je remarquai que, tandis qu'en France on trouvait
mes compatriotes partout, les siens etaient rares chez
nous. Elle me repondit vivement. " Mais, pour-
quoi, madame, vous etonnez-vous ? C'est que la
France est le plus beau pays du monde et que
1'Angleterre est tres laide." Inutile de lui parler
des lacs de Westmerland, des paysages ravissants
de Devonshire, des montagnes de I'ficosse. Notre
petit jardin d'ile resterait toujours pour elle d'une
laideur affreuse.
Comment detruire ces prejuges enracines, ces
mecomptes si nuisibles a une vraie entente, ces idees
parfois risibles, parfois au plus haut degre malveil-
lantes ?
Mon regrette confrere et ami, ami aussi de la
236 POSTSCRIPT
France, M. Hamerton, n'espera jamais voir une
vraie amitie entre Anglais et Frangais. Esprit tres
judicieux, peu porte a 1'enthousiasme, dans son livre
fort interessant, mais un peu froid, il dit : " II faudra
etre satisfait si jamais nos deux nations (M. Hamer-
ton avait epouse une Franchise et passait sa vie en
France) arrivent au respect mutuel, sans plus de-
mander."
Je ne suis pas de son avis. Comment pourrai-je
partager un tel sentiment, comptant, ainsi que j'ai le
bonheur de faire, autant d'amis Frangais, eprouves et
intimes, que d'amis Anglais. Le Frangais a un genie
pour 1'amitie. Des amis Francais une fois gagnes,
c'est, dans le langage de notre jolie rubrique de
mariage, "pour les bons et les mauvais jours, pour
les temps de sante et de maladie, pour la prosperite
et 1'adversite, jusqu'a la separation finale."
Les Anglais sont fort remuants, changeant sou-
vent leur domicile. Les Francais sont tres, meme
trop casaniers. Ainsi, il arrive que mes compatriotes
se perdent de vue, la distance qui les separe les
rendant souvent oublieux. Nos amis Frangais ne
nous oublient jamais.
A mon idee, il n'y a que trois moyens de per-
petuer V Entente Cordiale, si heureusement inaugure
par notre bon, " King Teddie."
Deja, en 1878, un esprit clairvoyant avait predit
cette bien heureuse revolution, et en effet, c^etait une
revolution, pas autre chose.
"Le prince de Galles, c'est 1'Angleterre jeune,
courageuse, altiere, remplagant 1'Angleterre caduque,
hesitante, morbide . . . ; le brillant heritier du trone
a encore d'autres idees en tete . . . et qui sont
POSTSCRIPT 237
toutes marquees au coin d'une grande mefiance a
1'egard de la politique de M. Bismarck." 1 Et deja
la voie pour des demarches politiques est preparee.
Ainsi que 1'ecrivit 1'annee derniere le sous-secretaire
au ministere de la Guerre, lord FitzMaurice, a une
compatriote qui avail beaucoup etudie la France,
surtout la France rurale : " vous autres ecrivains,
avez plus fait pour 1' Entente Cordiale que les
hommes politiques, parce que vous avez prepare le
terrain."
Quand en 1876, M. Hamerton faisait lire, par
George Eliot et le philosophe Lewes, les epreuves
de son volume intitule : Franfais de nos jours
(Modern Frenchmen), ce dernier observait : " Fort
interessant, mon cher, mais ou diable allez-vous
trouver un public ? "
Aujourd'hui, a chaque instant parait quelque livre,
soit sur la France, soit sur la litterature franchise,
soit sur les Franfais. Romanciers, voyageurs,
critiques ne s'occupent d'autre chose et il f aut croire
qu'ils trouvent des lecteurs ! II serait curieux de
constater combien de ces livres ont paru depuis la
visite de M. Loubet a la cour de Saint-James, en
1905. Tant bien que mal, Anglais et Americains
cherchent a interpreter la France pour leurs com-
patriotes.
En meme temps, ce qu'on peut appeler le
snobisme patriotique a etc en evidence. Le roi
est toujours imite ! II y a eu des visites inter-
nationales de medecins, de municipalites, de de-
putes, de savants, a n'en plus finir, une reciprocite
1 Memorial diplomatique, cit par M. Hanotaux. La France
contemporaine, vol. iv, p. 313.
238 POSTSCRIPT
d'efforts bienveillants. Et cependant, il reste tant
a faire ! Nous sommes loin, bien loin encore du
respect mutuel auquel se bornaient les esperances
de M. Hamerton. Restent encore mille prejuges a
deraciner. A quoi bon donner des institutrices et
des instituteurs frangais a nos enfants si en meme
temps on les laisse taquiner, meme mepriser leurs
maitres et maitresses, et seulement parce qu'ils ne
sont pas Anglais !
Que sert la connaissance de notre langue aux
petits Frangais raisonneurs des le berceau s'ils
ne cessent de nous regarder comme les bourreaux de
Jeanne d'Arc ! Et pour ne pas me trop aventurer
sur une route tellement epineuse, je veux seulement
observer qu'a 1'avenir, ce ne sont pas des complica-
tions politiques que nous avons surtout a redouter,
mais plutot des complications religieuses. Voila
Pecueil contre lequel V Entente cordiale pourrait un
jour se briser ! Les Frangais catholiques, amis de
la paix et de 1'Angleterre, rendraient un service in-
estimable aux interets internationaux en conseillant
a leurs co-religionnaires refugies en pays protestant,
de moderer leur zele de proselites. Ayant, sans
etre invites, accepte notre hospitalite, on aurait cru
que le bon sens, sinon la gratitude, leur enseignerait
une grande reserve et une grande discretion a cet
egard. Mais pas du tout. A 1'occasion du Congres
eucharistique, Tannee derniere, un conflit des plus
penibles a ete seulement prevenu par Faction directe
du Gouvernement et meme, dit-on, du roi. Jamais
dans notre histoire, la loi civile n'a cede au clerical-
isme ! Que les religieux et les religieuses frangais
n'en abusent pas plus que les notres ! Encore quel-
POSTSCRIPT 239
ques imprudences de la sorte, leur position en Angle-
terre serait intenable. 1
Plus agreable a contempler est le progres des
idees franchises chez nous. Toute ceuvre impor-
tante, d'histoire, de biographic, de critique est de
suite traduite en anglais. On commence meme,
mouvement assez tardif, a lire les poetes fran^ais
contemporains, et a comprendre que 1'epoque
poetique sur 1'autre cote de la Manche ne s'est pas
terminee avec la vie de Victor Hugo. Aujourd'hui
nous avons toute une litterature consacree aux poetes
frangais.
Meme, ainsi au moins pretend M. Emile Faguet, 2
les beaux vers de Auguste Augellier sont plus
goutes ici que par ses compatriotes. Citons aussi
" The Oxford Book of French Poetry" recueil
public sous les auspices de 1'Universite d'Oxford,
puis le volume que vient d'annoncer la maison Con-
stable, a Londres. "A Century of French poets."
(Un siecle de poesie fran^aise.)
Si la prose fran^aise est difficile a comprendre,
encore plus difficile est la poesie. Pour les esprits
fins et subtils, que de delices, que de nouveautes,
que d'emotions, ici a leurs portes ! Carcassonne, Les
deux Gendarmes, Les trois Hussards, de Nadaud.
Bon gite, de Deroulede. La Flute, de J. Richepin.
Le del, de Barbey d'Aurevilly, et tant d'autres
petits chefs-d'oeuvre, voila un regal !
1 II y a cinq ans, cette femme distingude et bonne catholique,
M me Th. Bentzon, visitait une amie Anglaise a Hastings. En se pro-
menant ensemble, elle voyaient dans le jardin d'un couvent (de re-
ligieuses frangaises expulse"es) une grande statue de la Vierge, placde
sur une hauteur soi-disant et visible de tout point, enfin placde
pour etre vue. " Que de mauvais gout et que d'erreur ! " dit-elle.
2 Revue des Deux Mondes, 15 juin courant.
240 POSTSCRIPT
Pour finir, quelques reflexions generates. Je suis
loin de partager les vues exprimees par M. Col-
quhoun dans le numero de mars 19081 de cette
Revue. L'ideal bourgeois, ecrit-il, est etroit a un
degre qui affaiblit tout le courant de la vie nationale.
Mais si la civilisation est quelque chose de plus
qu'une activite materielle egoiste, la France tient et
tiendra tonjours la suprematie des nations. Elle
reste 1'axe sur lequel tourne le mouvement universel
de 1'intelligence, le developpement le plus etendu de
la pensee.
Dans son admirable livre Anticipations, M. Wells
caracterise cette suprematie par une comparaison
des plus simples et des plus pratiques.
"Jetons, dit-il, un coup d'ceil sur Tetalage d'une
librairie de chemin de fer en France et comparons-le
avec la meme chose en Angleterre. Au premier,
nous trouvons des livres de science, d'erudition, de
philosophic, de critique, d'histoire, chaque departe-
ment de la litterature richement represente; au
second, on ne trouve qu'un amas de romans et de
journaux populaires illustres." C'est la meme chose
partout. Vous y demanderez vainement,- par ex-
emple, un volume de Spencer, de Darwin, de
Huxley.
" La pensee, chez nos jeunes gens, est etouffee en
Angleterre, me disait dernierement un savant de
Cambridge." Le football, le bridge, le golf, le jeu,
et les petites feuilles frivoles, Tit Bits, Answers,
etc., et les romans a sensation remplacent la lecture
serieuse."
Certes, la pensee n'est pas etouffee en France.
Le grand mouvement des esprits n'y est pas em-
POSTSCRIPT 241
peche par les mauvais romans et le " sport." Tandis
que nous nous preoccupions avec 1'idee d'une inva-
sion prussienne, la France s'occupait de 1'atlas stel-
laire, la mappemonde de quatre millions d'astres !
Je fais allusion au Congres astronomique qui, il y a
deux mois, tenait ses seances a Paris.
" Mon cher British Snob, ecrivait Thackeray en
1866 (The book of Snobs), croyez-vous pour un seul
instant que le Frangais soit votre egal ? Vous savez
fort bien que vous ne le croyez pas. C'est nous
autres qui sommes la bonne bouche du monde (The
first chop of Society). C'est constant, il n'y a pas
a discuter. C'est un axiome."
Mais aujourd'hui John Bull, le snob aussi bien
que "the man in the street," sans aller jusqu'a Paris
est en etat de modifier c^s vues.
Prenez, par exemple, la superbe "Wallace Col-
lection," si magnifiquement installee au centre de
Londres et ouverte gratuitement tous les jours, le
dimanche compris. Voila une le^on pour les snobs
si delicieusement, mais si cyniquement immortalises
par 1'auteur de La Foire aux Vanites. Tout un
musee d'objets d'art fran^ais, tableaux, tapisseries,
reliures, ceramique, mobilier, bijouterie, emaux,
emanant des ateliers d'Outre-Manche, rien de banal,
de gout exagere^ d'inacheve, chaque objet un veri-
table chef-d'oeuvre, le tout ensemble afnrmant ce que
c'est que le genie fran^ais.
Dans un second article, j'exposerai les griefs
anglais contre les Fran^ais et la France meme, selon
notre roi Edouard VII : "notre plus proche voisine
et chere amie."
242 POSTSCRIPT
II
Afin de caracteriser les principaux griefs britan-
niques centre le France et les Fra^ais, nous aliens
commencer par les moins serieux, qui sont en meme
temps les plus vexatoires.
L'axiome reglant la vie anglaise : ' Time is
money " (Le temps c'est 1'argent) n'est pas generale-
ment accepte en France. Dans le pays par excel-
lence des jolies pendules, personne n'y semble faire
la moindre attention. On pourrait croire qu'en
France la moyenne de la vie humaine est celle
qu'ambitionnait Mme de Sevigne, c'est-a-dire, une
centaine d'annees. Ce qu'on perd de temps dans
vingt-quatre heures est incroyable !
Le spirituel et bien regrette M. Edmond Demolins
a pu ainsi ecrire au sujet de la compagnie des
omnibus a Paris : " Elle n'a organise qu'une chose
de bien : 1'attente." (A-t-on interet a s'emparer du
pouvoir ?)
Dans 1'administration des chemins de f er, c'est la
meme chose.
Pendant quinze ans, j'avais 1'habitude, apres avoir
sejourne chez des amis Bourguignons, de retourner
a Paris par le rapide de Tapres-midi. Maintes fois
il m'est arrive de rester une grande heure dans la
gare de Lyon. Pas de facteur, pas moyen d' avoir ses
affaires, pas d'inspecteur de douane, pas de voiture !
Une fois, comme je m'etais resignee a passer la
nuit dans une salle d'attente, un pauvre chiffonnier
m'approcha avec sa hotte sur le dos :
POSTSCRIPT 243
Mais Madame, me dit-il, je pourrai parfaite-
ment porter vos affaires en ville.
- Je ne serai que trop heureuse d'accepter votre
off re obligeante, mon brave Monsieur, lui repondis-
je, mais comment traverserai-je Paris d'un bout a
1'autre a pied.
Depuis quelques annees, il y a eu certaines
ameliorations, mais le fait reste. Entre Paris et
Marseille, il n'y a qu'une seule ligne de chemin de
fer, tandis qu'entre Manchester et Londres, les
hommes d'affaires et les touristes ont le choix de six
routes appartenant a plusieurs compagnies, Tune
mieux organisee que 1'autre. En France, le P.-L.-M.
tyrannise le public comme un regime autocratique !
De meme pour d'autres lignes.
II y a cinq ans, j'ai pris le rapide du courrier de
Boulogne a Amiens. Je demandais un billet de
rapide pour Rouen. Je suis arrivee a quatre heures
de 1'apres-midi et entre ces deux grandes villes
industrielles, jusqu'a minuit, il n'y avait qu'un seul
train et aussi un omnibus ! II m'a fallu partir a cinq
heures pour n'arriver qu'a dix.
Quelle perte de temps aussi par manque de
surveillance. Avec toute une armee de fonction-
naires, que les touristes sont decourages en France !
Us sont portes a croire qu'on ne voudrait pas les voir.
Voila assez recente experience :
Je voyageais, en 1906, d'Amiens a Meudon.
Arrivee a la gare Saint-Lazare, j'ai, tout naturelle-
ment, pris mon billet pour cette destination, mais,
en voulant faire enregistrer mon bagage, il y cut
bataille d'une demi-heure entre le porteur et 1'em-
ploye, le premier insistant que j'etais en regie, le
R2
244 POSTSCRIPT
dernier que je ne pouvais pas avoir de billet d'en-
registrement pour Meudon. Pas de surveillance,
pas de controle. Enfin les deux hommes paraissant
prets a se battre, un deuxieme porteur intervient,
m'informant qu'il aurait fallu prendre un billet pour
Meudon-Bellevue. Mais je me demande un peu
pourquoi au guichet ne m'avait-on pas demande :
" Pour Meudon, Meudon-Fleurie ou Meudon-Belle-
vue?"
Le Frangais, toujours facile, toujours resigne aux
petits inconvenients en voyage, ne comprend pas ce
qu'est cette " organisation de 1'attente " aux Anglais
toujours presses. Ayant suce avec le lait maternel
cet axiome : " Time is money," le temps c'est
1'argent, 1'exactitude, la ponctualite, pour nous, ce
sont des devoirs, des obligations strictes.
Voila encore un grief.
Ici mes lecteurs fran^ais peut-etre vont sourire,
car, pour eux, c'est une bagatelle, mais, pour nous
autres, c'est serieux.
Depuis trente ans, j'entretiens une correspond-
ance assez considerable avec des amis habitant la
France. Les maisons de commerce et' les gens
d'affaires exceptes, jamais on ne vous donne son
adresse. Ainsi comme on ne peut pas porter cinq-
uante rues et cinquante numeros de maisons dans la
tete, toutes les fois qu'on ecrit a Paris ou a Marseille,
il faut consulter son livre d'adresses; encore une
perte de temps et de bonne humeur. Ici, afm de
faciliter la correspondance, les adresses se trouvent
non seulement sur les feuilles et cartes-postales,
mais encore sur les enveloppes.
Chaque medaille cependant a deux cotes. Rien
POSTSCRIPT 245
en France ne nous rappelle cette energie devorante
des Etats-Unis si bien decrite par Mr. Henry James
(The American Scene) et par M. Foster Fraser
(America at Work).
C'etait aii genie francais d'inventer le joli mot :
ftdner. Oii ailleurs est-ce qu'on peut si delici-
eusement flaner, vivre sans regarder la pendule,
comme si la vie moyenne etait d'une centaine
d'annees.
Passons maintenant aux critiques plus serieuses
des institutions et des mceurs franchises.
Dans ses jolis livres, Pierre de Coulevain oppose
1'hospitalite anglaise a la reserve du caractere fran-
" Si," dit le spiritual auteur de Vile inconnue,
" Madame la France allait ouvrir ses portes aux
etrangers, elle se croirait sous I'obligation d'ouvrir
son cceur aussi, dont elle tient la cle plus jalousement
qu'on ne suppose."
Sur ce terrain je marche, ainsi que Agag, tres
delicatement. Grace aux circonstances tout a fait
exceptionnelles j'ai joui d'une hospitalite en France,
large, inoubliable, sans bornes. Et maintenant que
ma sante ne me permet plus de voyager comme
autrefois, que de regrets j'eprouve a ne plus pouvoir
accepter les invitations nombreuses revues par la
poste ! Partout, chez les riches ainsi que chez les
peu fortunes, chez les catholiques ainsi que chez les
protestants, chez les chers annexe's de Lorraine ainsi
que chez nos parents, les braves Normands, ou est-
ce que je n'ai pas trouve 1'accueil affectueux, le "au
revoir" reitere?
246 POSTSCRIPT
Mais mes experiences a part, Pierre de Coulevain
est dans le vrai. En general, 1'hospitalite accordee
aux Frangais ici est loin d'etre reciproque chez eux.
Chez nous, les etrangers munis de lettres regoivent un
accueil peu ceremonieux, sans doute, meme bien un
peu gauche, mais venant tout droit du cceur; pour
le lunch ou le diner des enfants, pour le the, le
diner du soir, il y a toujours un couvert mis a 1'inten-
tion de 1'hote. En France, rien de cela ! Une visite
de ceremonie, une invitation encore plus ceremonie-
use, le plus souvent un repas offert au restaurant,
voila tout ce que rapporte une introduction a Paris
ou ailleurs.
II y a quatre ans, une delegation du Conseil
municipal de Paris est venue a Londres, invitee
par le County Council. Chaque invite etait re$u
par une famille anglaise, perponne n'est descendu
dans un hotel.
L'annee suivante, une delegation londonienne a
retourne cette visite. Mais, au lieu d'etre regus chez
des families, en amis, un luxueux hotel etait mis a
le disposition des membres, la reception officielle
etait magnifique ; de la vie domestique, des interieurs
parisiens, ils ne voyaient rien.
Ce n'est pas seulement envers les etrangers, mais
entre eux, qu'on trouve une absence d'hospitalite
tout a fait incomprehensible aux Anglais. Je me
rappelle un apres-midi chez M. Hamerton, pres
d'Autun, il y a vingt ans. Mon compatriote habitait
la France, sa femme etait franchise et ses enfants
ont ete eleves en France.
C'etait un dimanche et une visite est an-
noncee. Un voisin, gentilhomme Bourguignon, sa
POSTSCRIPT 247
femme et sa fille, sont venus passer une demi-
heure.
Sitot partis, mon note observait :
" Pour nous autres, Anglais, le manque de
sociabilite entre voisins, en France, est stupefiant.
Par exemple, les families, dans ces alentours, se
voient fort rarement, echangeant seulement de loin
en loin quelque visite ceremonieuse."
La vie sociale, gaie, variee, de notre vie de
province est inconnue.
A mon avis et j'ai 1'appui d'un homme d'une
grande autorite, le regrette fondateur de l'cole des
Roches, ce n'est pas, ainsi qu'affirme Mme Pierre de
Coulevain, la reserve innee du caractere national qui
suffit pour explication. Ce manque universel, tradi-
tionnel, de 1'hospitalite en France est plutot du a
1'obsession de 1'epargne, a la nostalgic de Teconomie,
a 1'horreur des depenses. Ecoutez M. Edmond
Demolins ("A-t-on interet a s'emparer du pou-
voir?"). "L'Anglo-Saxon est la machine la plus
perfectionnee qui ait jamais existe pour gagner de
Targent et pour le depenser." Et selon son raisonne-
ment le Fran^ais est la machine la plus perfectionnee
pour le garder. " II faudrait developper en France,"
ajoute-t-il, "le type egalement apte a gagner de
1'argent largement et aussi largement a le depenser."
Nos amis Franqais ont quelquefois attribue le vie
genereuse des Anglais, la sociabilite large et ininter-
rompue, meme des menages les plus modestes a
1'ennui, au spleen legendaire du caractere britan-
nique. Les Anglais laisses a eux-memes, dit-on,
n'ont aucune ressource. II faut bien chercher des
commensaux, des notes, afin de se distraire !
248 POSTSCRIPT
Mais est-ce que c'est un poete Francois qui a ecrit
"La joie entrainante de la vie?" (The wild joys of
living) (Browning, Saul). Est-ce que c'est un roman-
cier Francois qui a fait sourire les habitants du globe
entier? Et notre grand poete Browning, avec son
optimisme, Dickens, le Shakespeare de 1'Angleterre
moderne, avec sa belle humeur, saine et pure, est-ce
qu'ils ne sont pas de vrais John Bulls, ces types-la?
pas les fantomes de nos critiques malicieusement
spirituelles ?
Non, rhospitalite anglaise vient de la main
toujours ouverte et du cceur toujours ouvert aussi.
Et le contraire que nous voyons en France je ne
parle pas des hospitalites magnifiques officielles
c'est M. Hanotaux qui 1'explique. L'origine est
admirable, desinteressee, c'est que chaque Francais
vit non pas pour lui-meme, mais pour ses enfants,
plutot, pour son enfant et ses descendants. Enfin
pour 1'avenir materiel des generations a venir. Voila
une abnegation que 1'Anglais ne comprend pas, ne
comprendra jamais.
Un de nos grands homines de loi, qui est main-
tenant "at the top of the tree," au sommet de sa
profession, disait 1'autre jour a un interviewer :
" Ma fortune etait une bonne instruction, un trous-
seau de dimanche (a good suit of clothes), pas d'autre
chose."
Cette inquietude pour 1'avenir des enfants qui
naitront peut-etre vers la fin du xx e siecle, explique
une autre chose aussi tout a fait incomprehensible
aux Anglais, c'est -a-dire 1'horreur, 1'epouvante d'une
nombreuse famille. Pour nous autres, c'est Tenfant
unique qu'on trouve a plaindre, un petit etre sans
POSTSCRIPT 249
freres sans soeurs, condamne a une existence triste,
isolee, anormale. "J'avais une enfance solitaire et
sans gaiete," ecrivit la reine Victoria. " Que j'enviais
les petites filles jouant avec leurs freres et leurs
sceurs dans les jardins de Kensington ! "
Rien n'egaye autant John Bull qu'une nursery
bien peuplee. Est-ce qu'il se tourmente en songeant
a Tavenir des petits a naitre vers Tan 2000? Point
du tout. S'il ne peut pas doter ses quatre ou cinq
filles et donner une aisance a sa demi-douzaine de
beaux garcons, les premieres se marieront sans dot,
ou elles prendront un etat, leurs freres commence-
ront leur carriere avec une bonne instruction et des
habits de dimanche, probablement iront-ils aux
colonies y fondant des families, y cultivant le jardin
immense de V Empire Britannique.
En 1897, j'assistai a un manage en Champagne,
la mariee etait fille d'un garde de chasse, le mari,
un instituteur, tous les deux, bien entendu, ayant un
petit bien, et sans doute etant des enfants uniques.
Le lendemain, je suis allee voir la mere, la trou-
vant en pleurs et gemissante.
- Ah, ma fille, ma chere Adele, sanglotait-elle :
Comment vivrais-je sans toi?
- Chere madame, disais-je tout naivement, ne
pleurez pas. Songez done, vous serez grand'mere,
quelle joie pour vous d'etre entouree de jolis petits
bambins.
- Que le bon Dieu m'en garde, interrompait-elle
avec humeur. Un enfant, peut-etre, je ne dirai pas
non, mais un tas d'enfants, mon Dieu, quelle
horreur !
Enfin, a chaque nation appartiennent ses vertus ex-
250 POSTSCRIPT
agerees et ses faiblesses, a 1'Anglais les habitudes de
depense, I'indifference aux interets tout pecuniaires
de ses descendants a naitre en 2000 ou 3000 ans
d'ici aux Frangais 1'hypnotisme de 1'epargne, le
desinteressement, la prevoyance immesurable pour
sa race, prevoyance qui selon les statisticiens,
menacent de la faire graduellement disparaitre.
Que voulez-vous ? Rien ne changera les deux types.
Et c'est justement la divergence, 1'oppose qui sont,
au moins pour nous "adorables."
Pourquoi est-ce que tout ce qui est frangais nous
interesse, tandis que tout ce qui est allemand
excepte Wagner nous laisse f roids ? Parce que ces
derniers nous ressemblent un peu et que les premiers
restent et resteront toujours nos antipodes.
Dans les amities internationales ainsi que dans
1'amour, ce n'est que le contraste, ce je ne sais quoi
d'imprevu, qui charme.
Je veux seulement mentionner sans chapitrer
la-dessus, deux institutions aussi incomprehensibles
pour nous que 1'hypnotisme de 1'epargne et 1'horreur
d'une famille nombreuse.
La premiere, c'est la police des mceurs, autrement
dite, les lois accordant une immunite aux vices et
aux jeunesses dereglees. Ce code, on ne le com-
prend pas, on ne le comprendra jamais ici.
Une autre institution non moins inacceptable aux
penseurs insulaires, c'est la nourrice, the wet nurse.
La Franchise se vante d'etre avant toute chose,
mere, et cent ans apres les fulminations de Rous-
seau, en depit des lois protegeant les bebes des
nourrices, en depit de romans et de pieces de theatre
populaires comme Donatienne et Les R'emplaf antes,
POSTSCRIPT 251
aujourd'hui,il faut meme a la petite bourgeoise deve-
nue mere sa grosse paysanne avec rubans flottants :
riches ou peu fortunees, toutes les meres frar^aises
releguent le premier de leurs devoirs aux mercen-
aires.
Enfin, autres pays, autres moeurs, autres prejuges.
Jusqu'a la fin du monde pour certains anglais, le
fran^ais restera vaniteux, leger, sans fonds; pour
certains de leurs voisins, 1'anglais restera hypocrite,
victime de spleen, un excentrique; ainsi que disait
Thackeray, ce sont des axiomes, il n'y a pas a dis-
cuter. Neanmoins, ne desesperons pas tot ou tard
de voir se realiser le noble vceu de Mirabeau :
" S'il y a un beau plan dans 1'univers," ecrivait-il
a Julie Dauvers du donjon de Vincennes en 1780,
"c'est celui d'associer la grandeur franchise a la
grandeur anglaise."
Tout dernierement est advenu un bel augure.
D'un bout de la Grande-Bretagne a 1'autre on a
acclame Bleriot, digne et heureux emule des freres
Montgolfier. Jamais John Bull n'a plus cordiale-
ment serre la main de Jacques Bonhomme, pas la
moindre petitesse, pas une arriere-pensee jalouse
dans cette etreinte. C'etait une felicitation univer-
selle, un tribut national au genie incomparable de la
" Gaule insultante," de " la France presomptueuse,"
du poete qui sugait les peches et les abricots sur
tige!
RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED,
BREAD STREET HILL, E.C., AND
BUNGAV, SUFFOLK.
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES
THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY
This book is DUE on the last date stamped below
2 5 IS4
JVL
9 19SS
JUL 2 R
MAY 1 8 1960
OCT 1 1969
f9S5
Form L-B
20m -1,' 41(1122)
-. .^
LOS ANGELSS
UTBR4RT
f
I
PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE
THIS BOOK CARD j
8?
5 =
H
a
University Research Library
f>
W
GO
w
0^
; " n
THE
tTATIOK
Oi
