v,> 
 
 mm
 
 ft 
 
 v^
 
 "" IMPRESSIONS 
 
 /^ 
 
 AND 
 
 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 BT 
 
 GEORGE SAND. 
 
 TRAN8LATKD BT H. K. ADAMS. 
 
 WITH MEMOIR. 
 
 BOSTON : 
 WILLIAM F. GILL & COMPANY. 
 
 1877.
 
 COPYBIGHT. 
 BY W. F. GILL & OO. 
 
 1876. 
 
 BOSTON : 
 
 8TKEBOTYPED BY O. J. PETEB8 AlfD BOH, 
 
 73 FEOEUAL BTBEET.
 
 gnv 
 
 ^^55377 
 
 1]^ MEMOEIAM. 
 
 Madame Amantixe Lucile Aurore - Ditdevant, 
 botter known by her pseudonyme " George Sand," 
 ■was the daughter of the Marquis Maurice Dupin da 
 Franceuil. She was born at Paris, July 5, 1804, and 
 died there June 8, 1876. She was brought up at the 
 Chateau de Nohant by her grandmother, the Comtesse 
 de Horn, a woman of strong intellect. Her theories 
 Influenced the training of the 3'oung Aurore, who, at 
 the age of fifteen, could ride and dance with ease and 
 gi'ace, handle a gun, or flourish a sword, with equal 
 dexterity. At fifteen she was placed at the Convent 
 of the Augustines Anglaises, at Paris, for the purpose 
 of receiving religious instruction. Her imagination 
 was captivated by the Roman Catholic faith ; and 
 she embraced it with her whole soul. After the 
 death of her grandmother, and under the dictation 
 of her family, she, in 1822, married the Baron 
 Dudevant, a man of mature years, and little calcu- 
 lated to interest the affections of a young wife. The 
 
 iii
 
 IV JN MEMORIAM. 
 
 fortune of his 3'outhful bride enabled him to carry out 
 his agricultural schemes ; but he did not appear 
 sensible to the fact, that with her natural vigor of 
 mind, and sensibility of character, she was leading a 
 monotonous and hopeless existence. 
 
 Resolving to divert her mind from her melancholy 
 lot, she sought the society of such friends as she 
 could assemble around her. Among these was M. 
 Jules Sandeau, a young law-student who spent a 
 vacation at Nohant, and was the first to inspire her 
 with a longing for literary distinction. It would 
 seem that feelings of doubt and suspicion aggravated 
 the harsh characteristics of her husband ; for their 
 life became insupportable to both, and his wife, by 
 the sacrifice of her fortune, procured his assent to 
 a separation. She hastened to Paris, and once more 
 entered the Convent of the Augustines Anglaises ; 
 but her mind had become too much habituated to 
 excitement to rest quietly in so calm a haven, and 
 she longed to share in the busy turmoil of life. Her 
 next transition was to a little garret in the Quai 
 St. Michel at Paris, where she had to struggle against 
 absolute povert}^ and formed plans with M. Jules 
 Sandeau, whose worldly circumstances* were no better 
 than her own, for the supply of each day's necessities. 
 Having a little skill in painting, Mme. Dudevant was 
 induced to accept employment occasionally offered
 
 IN MEMORIAM. V 
 
 by a toy-vender, in ornamenting candlesticks and 
 srufF-boxes. But this wearisome and ill-paid work 
 disgusted her; and the two aspirants for fortune 
 resolved to seek advice from M. Latouche, the editor 
 of " Figaro," who suggested literature as a profession, 
 and encouraged them to write for his own paper. This 
 led to the curious literary partnership which so greatly 
 mystified the Parisian press. 
 
 A series of articles in " Figaro " were followed 
 by a novel called ''Rose et Blanche," to which was 
 appended the signature of "Jules Sand." The authors 
 received eighty dollars for this manuscript, and for a 
 time led a life of ease and gayety. It was at this 
 period that Mme. Dudevant first gave ofience by 
 donninof male attire, assumed by her for greater 
 independence of action. Being soon again in strait- 
 ened circumstances, Mme. Dudevant was advised to 
 revisit Ben-i for the purpose of obtaining a legal 
 separation, or at least an alimentary allowance, from 
 her husband. Previous to her departure, saj-s one 
 of her biographers, slie arranged with M. Sandeau 
 the plan of a novel, certain portions of which were 
 to be completed by each before their next meeting. 
 The student did not fulfil his share of the undertak- 
 insr; but on her return Mme. Dudevant surprised 
 him with the complete manuscript of " Indiana," 
 which was sold fur u hundred and twenty dollars,
 
 Vi IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 and met with rapid success. It introduced to the 
 public the name of " George Sand ; " for M. Sandeau, 
 unwilling to accept a share of the distinction he had 
 neglected to earn, refused to permit their ordinary 
 pen-name to be used in this instance. Her next two 
 novels were "Valentine" and "Lelia," the latter 
 being published in the "Revue des Deux Monde s " 
 in 1833. In 1834 she travelled through Italy in 
 company with Alfred de Musset ; and she afterward 
 wrote " Les Lettres d'un Vo3'ageur," wherein she 
 gave an entertaining account of her journe}-, as well 
 as her opinions on various subjects. This book was 
 followed by "Jacques," "Andre," and " Le Secre- 
 taire," three" novels of considerable merit. Returning 
 to France in 1835, she met Michel de Bourges, the 
 eloquent lawyer, who drew her into politics ; Lamenais, 
 with whom she debated the higher questions of religion ; 
 and Pierre Leroux, who initiated her into the doc- 
 trines of socialism. Their influence was perceptible 
 in several of her subsequent works, such as "Simon," 
 "Spiridon," and " Consuelo." 
 
 In 1838 Mme. Dudevant obtained a decree by 
 which she was legally separated from her husband, 
 and restored to the management of her fortune and 
 the guardianship of her two children. Her life now 
 became comparatively settled. She made Nohant a 
 resort for her friends, and attended to her childi'en's
 
 IN MEMORIAM. Vll 
 
 education, without neglecting her literary labors. In 
 1838, for the benefit of her son's health, she spent 
 a winter in Majorca, where she was accompanied by 
 the pianist Chopin. In 1845 she turned her pen to 
 new and more congenial subjects, and produced pas- 
 toral novels unparalleled for charm, simplicity, and 
 artlessness. 
 
 The revolutionary movement of 1848 enlisted the 
 ardent sj-mpathies of "George Sand." She is said 
 to have written newspaper articles defending the 
 measures of Ledru-Rollin, then a member of the 
 Provisional Government ; but a few months afterward 
 she returned to her country home and literary pursuits. 
 In 1854 she f>ublished in the " Presse " newspaper 
 an interesting autobiogi-aph}'. A detailed list of her 
 works would occupy considerable space. Besides a 
 large number of popular novels, "George Sand" was 
 author of several plays, some of which achieved great 
 success. Her plays, before being represented in Paris, 
 were usuall}' acted and criticised in a little theatre 
 attached to her chateau. 
 
 The position of " George Sand " in European litera- 
 ture may be judged by the opinion of some of her 
 distinguished contemporaries. Thackeray said of her, 
 " Iler style is noble, and beautifully rich and pure. 
 She has an exuberant imagination, and with it a 
 very chaste style of expression. She never scarcely
 
 Viii IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 indulges in declamation, and yet her sentences are 
 exquisitely melodious and full. She leaves you at 
 the end of one of her brief, rich, melancholy sen- 
 tences, with plenty of food for future cogitation. I 
 can't express to you the charm of them : they seem 
 to me like the sound of country bells falling sweetly 
 and sadly upon the ear." The German poet Heine 
 wrote, " She has naturalness, taste, a strong love 
 of truth, enthusiasm ; and all these qualities are 
 linked together by the most severe, as also the 
 most perfect, harmony. The genius of Mme. George 
 Sand has an amplitude exquisitely beautiful. What- 
 ever she feels or thinks breathes grace, and makes 
 you dream of immense deeps. Her stj'le is a revela- 
 tion of pure and melodious form." George H. Lewes 
 said, "No man could have written her books; for 
 no man could have had her experience, even with a 
 genius equal to her own. Both philosopher and 
 critic must perceive that these writings of hers are 
 original, are genuine, are transcripts of experience, 
 and, as such, fulfil the primar}^ condition of all 
 literature." Michelet called her "the grand prosa- 
 teur of the nineteenth century." John Stuart Mill 
 declared that, "as a specimen of purely artistic 
 excellence, there is not in all modern literature any 
 thing superior to the prose of Mme. Sand, whose 
 style acts upon the nei-vous system like a symphony
 
 IN mi: MORI AM. IX 
 
 of Haydn or Mozart." Reviewing her career, Justin 
 McCarth}' said, " George Sand is probabh' the most 
 influential writer of our daj-. Her genius has been 
 felt as a power in every countr}' where people read 
 any manner of books. She is beyond comparison 
 the greatest living novelist of France, and has won 
 this position by the most legitimate application of 
 the gifts of an artist. With all her marvellous 
 fecundity, she has hardly ever given to the world 
 Sioy work which does not seem, at least, to have 
 been the subject of the most elaborate and patient 
 care. The prose of George Sand stands out con- 
 spicuous for its wonderful expressiveness and force, 
 its almost perfect beaut}'. She is, after Rousseau, 
 the one only great French author who has looked 
 directly and lovingly into the face of Nature, and 
 learned the secrets which skies and waters, fields 
 and lanes, can teach to the heart that loves them. 
 Gifts such as these have won her the almost unri- 
 valled place which she holds in living literature. 
 There is hardl}' a woman's heart anywhere in the 
 civilized world which has not felt tlie vibration of 
 George Sand's thrilling voice." 
 
 "The London Saturday Review " paid this tribute 
 to her genius: "In France, of all the novel-writers 
 of the last twent}' years, the most instructive, the 
 most genuine, the most original, is George Sand.
 
 X JN MEM OR J AM. 
 
 Her best works remain, and will long remain, among 
 the most characteristic and the most splendid monu- 
 ments of that outpouring of French literature, the 
 period of which happened to be exactl}* conterminous 
 with the duration of constitutional government in 
 France." Lastly, her own country-man, Edmond 
 About, termed hers "the noblest mind of our 
 epoch." — N^ew York Tribune. 
 
 At
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 ■ ♦ 
 
 CHAPTEE. PAOa 
 
 L Winter at Home 1 
 
 II, The State of my Mind 16 
 
 III. Again in the Woods 38 
 
 IV. Love 55 
 
 V. The Philosophy of Punctuation . . 75 
 
 VI. Universal Suffrage 87 
 
 VII. Spiritual Belief 107 
 
 VIII. Death in Life 128 
 
 IX. The Mind in Sleep 141 
 
 X. Some Ideas of a School-Teacher . . ICO 
 
 XI. The Poets of To-Day 185 
 
 XII. The Revolution for an Ideal . . .198 
 
 XIII. Father Hyacinthe 213 
 
 xl
 
 xii CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTEB. PAGE. 
 
 XIV. A CtJEious Book 221 
 
 XV. TnE FOEEST OF FONTAIKEBLEAU . . . 240 
 
 XVI. L'Angusta 257 
 
 XVU. BiiTWEEN Two Clouds 275
 
 AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION. 
 
 1871. 
 To Charles Edmond: — 
 
 I ACKNOWLEDGE that, every evening, I am simple 
 enough to record, in more or less words, the events 
 of the day ; and thfs I have done for twenty years. 
 It does not follow, however, that this journal merits 
 publication ; and I doubt if even a few of its pages 
 would be worth the trouble. 
 
 On reviewing it, I am convinced that it would be 
 principally interesting to myself, resembling, as it 
 does, a journal from shipboard ; for we live, for the 
 most part, in the country ; and this life is similar to 
 that on a ship that is lying-to. 
 
 Nevertheless, since you urge it, I will make the 
 attempt, on condition that you will stop me as soon as 
 it becomes tiresome or childish ; but I ask permission 
 to fish at will in those mysterious waters which have 
 swallowed so many objects without leaving any distinct 
 trace of their existence. I am fond of fiction, and 
 willingly resign to it my personality. It does not, 
 
 zUi
 
 XIV AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION. 
 
 however, occupy my whole time ; and I waste a lai^e 
 portion in revery, without a thought which could be 
 made practical or manifest. I should hardly know 
 how to describe this kind of internal action, to whic i 
 every one yields in his own waj'', and which is infin- 
 itely varied according to one's temperament, charac- 
 ter, 3'ears, and surroundings. Perhaps, in this sense, 
 certain pages of this journal may have the value of a 
 study which each one can pursue for himself. 
 
 It would be impossible to confine myself to a 
 systematic course ; for to connect logically, daj'' by 
 da}', twenty years of m,y life, would be the labor of 
 twenty years more ; and I have too many things to 
 see and understand, — I, who am not quick at com- 
 prehension, — to devote the now rather limited term 
 of my life to the knowledge and understanding of 
 myself. When these loose pages form the leaves of a 
 book, it will be the result of some slight desire that I 
 have felt to promulgate an idea.
 
 IMPRESSIONS Am REMfflSCENCES. 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 WINTER AT HOME. 
 
 Jan. 23, 1863, 5.30, p.m. 
 
 THE sunset sky behind the dark yet well- 
 defined network of the tall and leafless 
 linden-trees is of an orange red. The moon is 
 almost at the zenith, and presents the dim out- 
 line of three quarters. One edge is distinctly 
 visible : the other is lost, as it were, in the foggy 
 distance. In the little visual field presented by 
 this star are hundi-eds of leagues of perspective. 
 How small a proportion of space is occupied by a 
 world I 
 
 The constellation of Orion, brilliant as the 
 diamond, is rising behind the moon, in the cold 
 blue sky ; and, lower down, Siriiis sheds its white 
 quivering light over the summit of the trees in 
 
 the garden. The shadow thrown by the pinea 
 
 1
 
 2 IMPBESaiONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 upon the gravel is clear and steadfast. Are tlie 
 violets in blossom ? I have not seen any, but the 
 fresh air is impregnated with their odor. 
 
 How charming is this winter I From my open 
 window I behold on my right hand the dying 
 rays of the sunset, and on my left the solemn 
 approach of night. The air is not cold ; and, 
 were it not for the position of the stars, one 
 might fancy that it were April. But no ! This 
 lovely silence is not the imprudent announcement 
 of spring. It is so profound that I dare not 
 move, for fear of disturbing it. I would take a 
 walk before dinner, but I might cause some 
 derangement in nature : besides, I should hear my 
 own footsteps ; the charm would be broken. 
 
 I have spent half an hour in this silent contem- 
 plation, mechanically holding my breath in the 
 surrounding quiet. ]\Iy life seemed, as it were, 
 suspended without and within. I could think 
 only of those violets which lie concealed by day, 
 but betray themselves at night by their subtle 
 perfume. They need not fear : I will not attempt 
 to gather them. 
 
 The dinner-bell has just rung. There was 
 nothing sharp or clamorous in its sound, but it 
 set the dog to barking. The dog is a timid, sus-
 
 NATURE'S PICTURES. 3 
 
 picious being, full of visions and terrors, uttering 
 cries of distress without any apparent cause. The 
 moon on the horizon drives liim to despair. He 
 pays no attention to the white stars, but has an 
 evident aversion to the red planets. No doubt 
 he has perceptions of which we are unconscious. 
 White walls frighten him at twilight. He is the 
 dupe of shadows, and constant!}^ tormented by 
 fancies. This is the effect of a vivid imagination, 
 without the capacity for visual enjoyment. 
 
 Midnight. — A has just raised a scene, 
 
 because I risked taking cold at the open window. 
 This excellent man cannot understand that it is 
 better to have a cold in his head than to deprive 
 his soul of a sublime joy. I try in vain to describe 
 to him this quiet enjoyment arising from contem- 
 plation. He is enraged at logic, and begs for 
 words that define ; but I can find none to define 
 60 vague a feeling. 
 
 Nevertheless I try to answer his questions. 
 
 " Does it require half an hour to behold one of 
 Nature's pictures ? Does not the picture change 
 every second during that half-hour ? " 
 
 " It is tliis very change, rapid yet impercepti- 
 ble, that I like to watch." 
 
 " What good does it do you ? This change is
 
 4 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 the despair of painters, who may seek in vain to 
 fix the effect." 
 
 " I find enjoyment where the painter finds 
 despair. I behold a scene always fresh, and not 
 subject to the merciless and uncertain law of 
 solution." 
 
 " But that does not serve art. You cannot 
 portray a position which is constantly changing. 
 You are forced to seize it at a given moment, 
 or to reproduce merely its principal phases." 
 
 " That is very true ; but I have never thought 
 of attempting a description. Such things do not 
 take so strong a hold on our feelings at the 
 moment as afterwards, — that is, provided they 
 have made a deep impression ; but the most 
 thorough appreciation does not need to be com- 
 municated." 
 
 " That is to say, that what you feel most 
 ardently you do not commit to writing ? " 
 
 "I believe so." 
 
 " For my part, I see nothing when I am alone. 
 I do not look." 
 
 " You do not care to see ? " 
 
 " Precisely. It would make me sorrowful. I 
 should begin to cry perhaps, like the dog, whose 
 neives are irritated by the moon. I must feel
 
 THE BLOOM ON THE FRUIT. 5 
 
 human life around me, the life of my own species : 
 that of beings with whom I cannot hold com- 
 munion awakens within me an indifference, almost 
 an antipathy. With you, then, it is the reverse ? " 
 
 " How do I know ? " 
 
 " That is not an answer." 
 
 " If my answer must give rise to a discussion, 
 I prefer to remain silent, and leave you to infer 
 that I possess a grain of folly. The discussion of 
 certain internal and self-gratifying perceptions 
 resembles profanation. What would you think 
 of a painter, who, to make a more exact copy of 
 the color of a plum, should wipe away the bloom 
 which covers it? There is a bloom cast over 
 certain impressions. It is like a veil of freshness, 
 which I do not like to disturb." 
 
 He retired, saying that he respected my fancy, 
 but should never understand it. He would like, 
 artist that he is in another sense, to pursue the 
 normal and rational course. I believe that he is 
 attempting an impossibility. Every one must 
 take his own course. There are artists, though, 
 who have none ; and I am, perhaps, of that class. 
 Whether it be an advantage or infirmily, 1 know 
 not ; but, having found infinite joys in my mode 
 of perception, I confess that I should be unwill- 
 ing to lose them.
 
 6 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 A friend who talks with me sometimes, on this 
 subject, assures me that the analysis of my in- 
 most self would n(tt deprive me of those joys 
 which he calls mysterious, because, he says, I 
 make myself a mystery to myself. He believes 
 that a pleasure is appreciated according as we 
 know in what it consists. But this pleasure is 
 not at my disposal. I can seat mj'self at the 
 window, some splendid night, to notice the distri- 
 bution of light and shade, to discover what con- 
 stitutes the beauty of the hour and the place, to 
 listen to the song of the nocturnal bird ; in short, 
 to witness the little wonders of the outward 
 world, without identifying myself with them. 
 My individual self, then, lives its own life, which 
 is not one perpetual enchantment, since it is sub- 
 ject to a round of duties and obligations in which 
 I have no right to seek my own gratification at 
 the expense of that of others. Those moments 
 when, transported and borne beyond myself by 
 the power of external objects, I can withdraw 
 myself from the life of my fellow - creatures, 
 are entirely casual ; and it is not always in my 
 power to transfer my mind into other beings than 
 myself. When this phenomenon is produced 
 spontaneously, I cannot tell whether I am pre-
 
 TRANSPCRTED BEYOND SELF. 7 
 
 pared for it by any particular circumstance, psy- 
 chological or physiological. Most surely there 
 must be an absence of all absorbing thoughts. 
 The least cause for solicitude banishes this kind 
 of internal ecstasy, which is, as it were, an invol- 
 untary oblivion, unforeseen by my own vitality. 
 
 Surely every one has experienced something 
 of this kind ; but I should like to meet with a 
 person who could say to me, " I have experienced 
 it in the same manner. There are hours when I 
 withdi-aw from myself, when I live in a planet, 
 when I feel myself grass, a bird, the top of a 
 tree, a cloud, running water, the horizon, color, 
 form and sensations wavering, variable, indefi- 
 nite ; hours when I run, I fly, I swim, I sip the 
 dew, I expand in the sunlight, I sleep beneath 
 the leaves, I soar with the lark, I crawl with the 
 lizard, I shine with the stars, and glow with the 
 brilliant verse ; when, in short, I gain an insight 
 into the midst of a development which is like a 
 dilation of my own being." 
 
 I have never met this individual ; at least, not to 
 my knowledge. If I had, I should not have dared 
 to question him, not always liking to be questioned 
 myself. We may walk every day by the side of 
 our translator without suspecting it, or witliout 
 feeling disposed to deliver him our text.
 
 8 IMPRESSIONS AND RKMINISCENGES. 
 
 Nevertheless it would have given me pleasure 
 to meet such an one, on condition that he were 
 more learned than I, and could have told me 
 whether these phenomena are the result of a 
 certain condition of the body, or the mind ; if it 
 is the instinct of that universal life which physi- 
 cally asserts its rights over the individual, or if it 
 is a higher relationship, an intellectual relationship 
 with the soul of the universe, which is revealed 
 to that individual who is delivered, at certain 
 hours, from the bonds of personality. It is my 
 opinion that it partakes of both, that it cannot be 
 otherwise. I should be afraid of a medical ex- 
 planation, which would inform me that this sort of 
 hallucination was owing exclusively to the circu- 
 lation of the blood, and might be accounted for by 
 an attack of fever. I cannot say what things the 
 learned do know, but I can say very well what 
 things they do not know. 
 
 Whatever it be, there is within the human being 
 a double mechanism of action and re-action, the 
 operation of wliicli it would be curious to be able 
 to observe ; but it baffles investigation, even in 
 one's own self. I have never read .nor heard of 
 any thing satisfactory concerning the correlation 
 of the thought that conceives its object, with the
 
 INTELLECTUAL FOOD. 9 
 
 object conceived. He who would explain it 
 ignores that part of his mechanism which is not 
 that of another, and asserts the peculiar opera- 
 tions of his own mind, without questioning 
 whether these do not differ in the multitude of 
 infinitely diversified organizations, whether even 
 in the same indi\ddual they do not vary every 
 day. How does it happen that the food which we 
 relished yesterday becomes distasteful to-day? 
 So it is with all intellectual food. Both it and we 
 are subject to changeu 
 
 On reflection at three o'clock in the morning, 
 — this is the hour for lucid recapitulation, in 
 summer especially, just at the dawn of day and 
 the awakening of things in general, — the prob- 
 lem which tormented A last evening, and, 
 
 I must confess, puzzled me a little, seems quite 
 simple. We are not abstract beings ; and, more- 
 over, there is nothing abstract in our composition. 
 Our existence feeds on its surroundings, — air, 
 heat, moisture, light, electricity, the vitality of 
 others, and influences of all sorts. These influ- 
 ences are necessary for the expansion of our 
 lives ; they are ourselves while life endures. We 
 are earth and sky, cloud and dust ; neither angels 
 nor beasts, but a product of tlie two, with the
 
 10 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 tliought of one and the instinct of the other 
 rendered more intense. We are not creatures so 
 wrapped up in the ideal as to lose all wiU and ' 
 freedom ; neither are we creatiu^es entirely ab- 
 sorbed in concern for the preservation of our 
 species, or submissive to an unalterable course. 
 
 But our direct and intimate relationship with 
 the spiritual and the animal becomes apparent 
 to us in proportion to the exertions which we 
 make to belong to ourselves. We study the 
 spiritual, that is, the serene and divine portion 
 of the universal soul. We observe the animal, 
 which comprises also the plant, a being without 
 apparent locomotion. And, by giving our ear- 
 nest attention to this examination, we are brought 
 to feel the power still exercised over us by our 
 manifold generators, beings or bodies. I am not 
 dreaming, then, when, standing before a great 
 edifice of rocks, I feel that these mighty bones 
 of the earth are mine, and that the calmness of 
 my mind partakes of their apparent death and 
 their dramatic immobihty. The moon consumes 
 the stones, so says the peasant. I maintain that 
 they diink the' cold light of the moon, but 
 undergo a silent disintegration during the night 
 from having been subjected to the wasting action
 
 LIFE AND DEATH. 11 
 
 of the sun. I think of the hidden work going 
 on in their molecules, and I feel inclined to attrib- 
 ute to them an existence similar to my own. I, 
 too, am a stone, which time disintegrates ; and 
 the tranquillity of these blocks, whose sole func- 
 tion is to submit to the action of day and night, 
 deeply impresses me, calms me, and benumbs my 
 vitality. Why include in the daily task so much 
 that is useless ? Eternal destruction, which, in 
 another form, presides over reconstruction, is 
 more active, since it is uninterrupted, than my 
 fettered will can ever be. To die is not to 
 become dead, but to serve in a new formation. 
 It is merely a change of action ; and if action 
 continues in the stone, that apparent embodiment 
 of insensibility and death, why distress myself 
 at the inevitable transfer of my patience into an 
 inert patience ? Suppose that I have no soul, — 
 that is to say, that no vitahty capable of recon- 
 structing the human condition survives me : I am 
 sure of leaving my stone upon the sand, a passive 
 bone whicli will be transformed, through natural 
 influences, into some element of vitality. If the 
 stone which has contributed in the formation of 
 my bones, by furnishing the calcareous proper- 
 ties which arc the foundation of my human
 
 12 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 frame, is an ancestor that I cannot disown, that 
 I regard with a certain respect, poetical and 
 rational, the plant, which is an organism decid- 
 edly my predecessor upon the earth, has a right 
 to my admiration ; not merely by its grace and 
 beauty, but by the part that it performs in my 
 existence. To a certain point, it lives a life 
 analogous to mine. It has no voluntary motion, 
 but, acting through its growth, reaches the same 
 end by a process which is at once motion and 
 production. If it needs a more propitious soil, 
 a greater or less degree of light, it forms, from 
 its own substance, branches, tendrils, or strong 
 roots ; securing, at the same time, the means and 
 the end. 
 
 It escapes death by a sort of suicide. The sap 
 abandons the suffering stem, flowing to another 
 part of the plant, where it throws out new shoots. 
 The roots will not lay aside their work to help 
 the germ, until they have attained a favorable 
 position. What more beautiful manifestation of 
 vitality? When tve lose a member, we lose also 
 the action of that member. The vegetable makes, 
 for itself a new member, which progresses as it 
 forms : still more, it creates a new body, and 
 transports its whole life to some other spot. We
 
 THE POWER OF BEINGS. 13 
 
 ought not, then, to despise it on account of its 
 inertia. To change its position, it exerts the 
 most vigorous effort conceivable. 
 
 The power of beings impresses you, then ; and 
 you cannot observe them without admiring them. 
 Admiration is one form of affection. Esrotism 
 seeks what gives it pleasure. It is plain, then, 
 that by entering, through observation, into the 
 life of the plant, we feel so much more the force 
 and sohdity of life universal. Does not the per- 
 fume of flowers penetrate our mind, as well as 
 our bodily organ ? Is it a purely physical gratifi- 
 cation ? Do we not closely associate it with ideas 
 of purity and poetry, with an elevated perception 
 of nature and of life ? 
 
 If we extend our observations to the more com- 
 plete life of those beings which people our midst, 
 to all animals, large or small, noisy or mysterious, 
 that, from the lowest depths of the earth to the 
 summit of the loftiest trees and the region of air, 
 live and move, we are amazed at the diversity of 
 their functions. All are admirably ingenious; 
 and, as all these things are beautiful or interest- 
 ing in their mode of existence, we are involun- 
 tarily transported into that existence, which 
 apparently withdraws us from the perception of
 
 14 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 our own, but in reality strengthens and completes 
 it. Who has not longed for the wings of a bird ? 
 I would be modest enough to be satisfied with the 
 feet of the hare, or the comparatively immense 
 bounds of the grasshopper. I take an interest, 
 too, in the little, hidden existence of the field- 
 cricket, whose apartment is so warm, so neat, and 
 its harlequin mask so serious, so comic. It holds 
 a tambourine under its wings, and seems as happy 
 as a savage, with its constant repetition of the 
 same note. What gayety, what madness, is dis- 
 played at evening, in a flowery meadow, when all 
 the insects of the field, in a feeling of security 
 derived from the absence of man, noisily mingle 
 their various dialects in a general conversation ! 
 Do we not feel like stopping to listen, for want 
 of being able to join in their demonstrations ? 
 But, as to describe that incessant and prohfic 
 action which constitutes the cliarm of nature 
 would require more time than to feel and appre- 
 ciate it, I shall venture to tell A to-morrow, 
 
 that literary descriptions are but poor expressions 
 of the half of what we feel, and that there is 
 more pleasure in sitting still than in writing. 
 
 A pleasure, however, which must have its Umi- 
 tations, not only from fear of taking cold, but
 
 TO-MORROW. 15 
 
 because the duties of life — I must retire now. 
 This is not the hour to be burdened with human 
 cares. To-morrow will bring its task, and I shall 
 need sleep. To-morrow, perhaps, I shall be so 
 occupied with the cares of life that I shall not 
 heed the insects as they fly, the flowers as they 
 grow, or the clouds as they pass. 
 
 July, 1871. 
 To speak frankly, was the foregoing worth the 
 trouble of writing it ? It is in reality metaphys- 
 ics for the use of poets ; but, as it is not reduced 
 to the language of metaphj^sicians, they are the 
 very ones who will understand it least. The 
 poets wiU find it either too realistic or too ideal- 
 istic. Many things, I think, may be Avritten, as 
 they occur, for our own perusal ; but, if we are 
 invited to puljlish them, all we can do is to sur- 
 render them to the critic without giving a thought 
 to their defence, and dedicate them to those who, 
 with ingenuity, are puzzling out the enigma of 
 life, without priding themselves on having found 
 the solution.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE STATE OF MY JVUND. 
 
 Paris, March, 1876. 
 
 r'f'lHESE good old friends ask me in luhat state 
 -L is my mind? If they conld read it at all 
 hours, they would perhaps find that it is in a 
 state of grace, as the Catholics say. / should say 
 that it is in no particular state. It has entered, 
 long ago, that road where accidents and dangers 
 prevent a return. I am thought too indulgent 
 towards the affairs and the people of these times. 
 I am not as indulgent as is believed, but have 
 acquired only such an amount of patience as I 
 found necessary : that is all. After having passed 
 judgment, I have no desire to punish what I con- 
 demn : I prefer to forget it. Is this lassitude, or 
 nonchalance ? Perhaps it savors of disgust. 
 They say that I am not suited to the present 
 times ; that I must suffer from the change that has 
 taken place, within the last ten years, in the prog- 
 
 1R
 
 THE FRENCH NATION. 17 
 
 ress of ideas. What does one not suffer in the 
 contemplation of reality ? But we should never 
 yield to a fruitless sorrow. Reflection, after 
 laying us low, ought to raise us again. They 
 avow that reflection saddens them ; but let them 
 reflect still more, and they will experience that , 
 slight internal joy, which prompts them to say, " I 
 taste what is good and true in life ; I have no 
 relish for what is false and poisonous. Now that 
 I am able to discern the true^ nothing can prevent 
 me from making it a means of sustenance." 
 
 I call it a slight joy, because every joy which is 
 exclusively our own is incomplete. There is no 
 true happiness of a small number. The happiness 
 of all is necessary as a corollary to domestic hap- 
 piness. It is essential, too, for the security of 
 existence. Ah, well ! the security of the future. 
 That future is dark. That coup d'etat^ which, 
 in the hands of a truly logical man, might have 
 aroused within us a feeling of submission, or of 
 revolt in the way of progress, has only brought 
 us to a subsidence tumultuous at the surface, 
 rotten below. The Frenchman likes to live fast: 
 he takes little thought for the future, and forgets 
 tlie past. What he wants is intensity of emotion 
 for each day. Furnish him with emotion of what-
 
 18 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 ever kind, he swallows it. Whether the wine be 
 pure or adulterated, he drinks, and becomes intoxi- 
 cated. If he is deprived of the conditions of a 
 normal life, he enters upon a factitious one ; and, 
 the more uncongenial it is, the more tenacious is 
 his hold. In times of revolution he is inordi- 
 nately excited, and, in his efforts to reach the 
 light, is precipitated into darkness. In times of 
 peace, he wastes no thought on what has so 
 recently stirred up his feelings, but gives himself 
 up to etiolation. Slow suicide constitutes, with 
 him, one manner of life. Many young people of 
 to-day acknowledge, without shame, that they 
 have accepted the role of representatives of deca- 
 dence; they even feel it the part of courage to 
 make this assertion. And this is the French 
 nation, the very first in the world though. They 
 are warned of their approaching end ; and all the 
 reply that they offer is, that they are ready to 
 march gayly to the tomb, preferring to perish 
 rather than reflect. 
 
 They are in a fatal current. '48 was for them 
 an infatuation and a deception. " Let them 
 restore to us," said the people, "the intoxication 
 of pleasure, the easy life, the means of enriching 
 ourselves, and the freedom of self-destruction ;
 
 THE SOCIAL CLASSES. 19 
 
 let them give us food for our desires, since a desire 
 for the public welfare has led merely to the abor- 
 tion of our aspirations. Let us amuse ourselves, 
 let us strive for that luxury which enriches the 
 laborer, and ruins the capitalist, thus levelling all 
 conditions. What, in the main, is most demo- 
 cratic, is the prodigality of the rich." 
 
 By this specious reasoning, in which the majori- 
 ty of the nation dehght, the social classes have 
 been, for the last ten years, approaching a decora- 
 position very curious to observe. They still con- 
 tinue to make use of the old words, without 
 perceiving that they no longer express the same 
 meaning. What is the present signification of 
 noblesse, bourgeoisie, proletariat ? They designate 
 three classes no longer existing in the same con- 
 dition as under the reign of Louis Philijipe, — 
 three classes so transformed, that, if a man who 
 had been 'dead for fifteen or twenty years were to 
 return to life, he would fail to recognize them. 
 
 Wliat has become of that good Parisian bour- 
 geois, whose tame solid existence Balzac under- 
 stood so well, and knew how to idealize? And 
 that other, the provincial bourgeois, who afforded 
 us such amusement when we were young artists, 
 and who had such a strong affinity for the Parisian
 
 20 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 shopkeeper, — we called him then a mollusk. 
 There was, at that time, a considerable number 
 of moUusks in France, whom we compared to 
 those calcareous chains of petrified infusoria, of 
 which our soil is largely composed, and which 
 make up many of our principal geographical 
 features. These elements of resistance to the 
 modifications of the surface were of serious 
 importance. As agriculturists or manufacturers, 
 they held a decided influence over the people, 
 feigning, at least, to join in the common cause. 
 King Louis Philipp^ understood this, and made 
 the bourgeoisie the base of his edifice. 
 
 One fine day it crumbled. He did not foresee, 
 that by becoming too predominant it would dis- 
 solve. So the Revolution of February did not 
 find that haughty and stubborn class which it 
 expected to oppose. The bourgeoisie had made its 
 fortune, and cared no longer for revolutions. Its 
 role of 1830 was finished. It had no longer any 
 fixed rules of government, possessed no j)hiloso- 
 phy, no spirit of caste, and no longer clung 
 together. By trying to grasp too much, it had 
 lost every thing. '89, although constantly men- 
 tioned, became incomprehensible. Enriched by 
 this first Revolution, it had grown to be aristo-
 
 UNDER THE EMPIRE. 21 
 
 cratic, eager for honors and titles, but devout and 
 ivell-disposed., as it was termed by those in high 
 position, under the Restoration. This entire 
 change having removed all necessity for its exist- 
 ence, it became extinct, — that famous party 
 which had wished to be all in all, but only suc- 
 ceeded in forming one element mingled with 
 others composing the wealthy and moderately 
 wealthy classes. 
 
 This morbid vanity has become a dangerous 
 malady under the Empire. The bourgeoisie^ who 
 ought to have felt flattered by having a parvenu 
 upon the throne, — for so the Emperor maliciously 
 styles himself, — now does not wish to be parvenu. 
 It seeks for ancestors, and assumes titles, or, to 
 say the least, a prefix, and thinks this gentility. 
 It is not only pious : it professes to be clerical. 
 Our foolish provincial women make an ostenta- 
 tion of their charity, which likens them to the 
 ladies of those times when they, the bourgeoises^ 
 were called mademoiselle^ although married. 
 They form themselves into a propaganda of noble 
 women for the purpose of establishing schools to 
 be kept by sisters of charity. Whether kneeling 
 in churclics, or marching in processions by the 
 side of titled ladies, they never think of invoking
 
 22 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 holy equality before God, but only of the effect 
 that they are producing on their vexed and insig- 
 nificant fellow-citizens, as they file along on an 
 equality with the countesses. 
 
 This stupid pride had its origin in the former 
 reign. The husbands laughed at it, but did not 
 interfere, taking a malicious pride in seeing their 
 daughters, and sometimes their wives, courted by 
 the gentlemen in the neighborhood. Under the 
 Empire they feel themselves gentlemen. They have 
 no longer to struggle against the conquered, but 
 to raise them with a fraternal embrace. Although 
 a parvenu.) the Emperor has caused to be published 
 a genealogy of the young Countess de Teba, tra- 
 cing back her nobility to the Cid of Andalusia. 
 It was not enough that Mile. Montijo was beauti- 
 ful and charming : she must also have ancestors, 
 to satisfy this monarch who boasts of having none 
 himself. 
 
 Let us now consider this young empress ; for 
 she holds an important position. She brings with 
 her the little Spanish arts, a taste for strong emo- 
 tions, regret at leaving the bull-fight, not to say 
 the autos-da-fe ; plays with her fan, exhibits a pas- 
 sion for dress, powders her hair with gold-dust, 
 has a tapering waist; in short, possesses every
 
 THE EMPRESS EUGENIE. 23 
 
 attraction, including that of goodness, which could 
 appeal to the imagination, the senses, or the heart. 
 All the men are in love with her ; and those who 
 cannot aspire to the slightest amount of favor try 
 to make of their wives empresses in common life. 
 These good women do their best to imitate the 
 beautiful Eugenie. They powder their hair, both 
 real and artificial, with gold or with brass ; they 
 paint their cheeks, and have slender waists and 
 small feet. The time has passed when the nation 
 could be jecognized by their feet. The nobility 
 has been mixed up with so many alliances, legiti- 
 mate or illegitimate, that they do not descend by 
 families and kinds, but by simple varieties of the 
 same species. Besides, a life of refinement estab- 
 lishes new sm-roun dings, which modify the organi- 
 zations. And, then, there is Darwin's law of 
 selection. Any individual more distinguished 
 than the others will do for the founder of a family. 
 So the grandraotlier who wore wooden shoes had 
 a daughter who wore leather ones ; and now the 
 granddaughter wears slippers with heels. If the 
 Cliinese fashion of cramping the foot were to be 
 introduced into France, every one would conform 
 to it; and they will liardly stop short of that folly. 
 And 80 this infatuation has seized all theso
 
 24 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 good and beautiful creatures, who might have 
 remained such true and charming women, and 
 brought up their children to respect their ances- 
 tors, mechanics or laborers. But they willingly 
 accept the condition of animals, if they may only 
 gaze upon their brilliant sovereign. She, in her 
 turn, laughs at their folly, and, becoming dis- 
 gusted with her finery because they have copied 
 it, invents some change, which makes the hus- 
 bands a fresh expense. 
 
 This is said to be a benefit to commerce. By 
 no means. Such a step is too abnormal not to 
 engender ruin. The fashions changing every 
 month by a decree of court, the goods not dis- 
 posed of encumber the factories, or else suddenly 
 fall in price. The effect of this is felt by the 
 retailers. There is not a store where you could 
 not buy the luxuries of the preceding year at 
 half price. Merchants used to rely on country 
 sales ; but now look at the c/risettes, even of the 
 small towns, and the peasants who are choosing 
 a trousseau for their young people! They can 
 go very quickly to Paris for information, now 
 that railways have done away with all local 
 obstacles. In the same manner, the thirst for 
 enjoyment has destroyed the elements of aristoc-
 
 HISTORICAL FATALITIES. 25 
 
 racj ; and whoever makes money becomes pol- 
 ished, free to do as he likes. 
 
 There is now no bourgeoisie. This death, with 
 that of its elder sister nobility, has been added 
 to the record of historical mortalities. There 
 remain but two classes : one consumes, the other 
 produces ; one is rich, or moderately so, the other 
 is poor or miserable. "What will be their end? 
 
 The rich class are joyously hurr3ing on toward 
 catastrophes, inevitable historical fatalities, the 
 nature of which I would not undertake to pre- 
 dict. Will they be overturned by some new order 
 of the party bearing another name? The best 
 prediction is, that time will open their eyes, and 
 show them upon what volcanoes they are enjoy- 
 ing their dance. If they will but consider how 
 fragile is the toy which serves them for a sceptre ; 
 if, warned by the rumbling from tlie abyss, they 
 will renounce their vanities and vices, — they may 
 yet find the means of coalescing with the people, 
 before a final struggle puts it beyond *heir power. 
 If not — ah I what will become of them, — Byzan- 
 tinism or middle age? 
 
 Let us now consider the common people. These 
 form a rt^thcr mysterious and more complicated 
 class. Popular fancies — seldom realized — do
 
 26 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 not reach the sunlight in times of compression. 
 (Oppression ?) 
 
 I believe in a great future for the French peo- 
 ple ; but I assign no fixed time for its develop- 
 ment. They are the best and most amiable people 
 on the earth ; but this healthy and robust body 
 has its terrible diseases, and could easily be 
 inoculated with the leprosy or the plague. Before 
 realizing the height of my expectations, it may 
 have to pass through crises of which I dare not 
 think. 
 
 It is to-day in that phase of develo]3ment, when, 
 having passed beyond the artlessness of childhood, 
 we are still far from manly wisdom. There is in 
 the individual life a period of sad experiences. 
 It would seem that the proletariat understood, 
 just before February, that social reforms are not 
 instituted by anger, and that, exhortations to 
 violence leading to acts of violence, it ought to 
 reflect, become better acquainted with its rights, 
 obtain more accurate information as to the state 
 of public opinion, and acquire a just idea of its 
 duties towards the majority; for the proletariat 
 of which I am speaking, the proletariat militant, 
 is nov/ but a feeble minority in France ; but this 
 minority is strengthened by secret societies ; and
 
 SOCIAL HE FORMS. 27 
 
 whether it already possesses, or is still in search 
 of, its rallying-Avord, the time will come, sooner 
 or later, when it will constitute a class, if not 
 more powerful than the hourgeoisie^ at least more 
 numerous and more daring. We fear no risk 
 when we have nothing to lose. 
 
 The memorable annals of this proletariat, under 
 Louis Philippe, were unknown in aristocratic 
 circles, and served the rich classes simply for a 
 subject of merriment. It had its poets, its econo- 
 mists, and its apostles, naive and ignorant, but 
 occasionally inspired, and striving hard for im- 
 provement. In those times the workman was 
 modest; not humble, but sincere and touching, 
 when he said, " I know nothing, I speak badly, 
 and write incorrectly ; but I breathe, I have a 
 heart, and I hope. Help us, and we shall im- 
 prove. We have the minds of children in the 
 bodies of men. Love us, and we are ready to 
 reciprocate that love. What we most ilesire is to 
 be happy, without infringing upon the happiness 
 of others." 
 
 Tlierc were more of such men than may be 
 supposed, scattered about in different quarters, 
 some of them possessing good and noble disposi- 
 tions. They ought to have been encouraged.
 
 28 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 aided, in tlieir legitimate influence over their 
 brotlier-laborers. I feel sure that the education 
 of the proUtaire might have been effected by the 
 proper means ; but for this there was no desire. 
 He was laughed at, humiliated, feared, before he 
 became dangerous. He is so now. Revolutions 
 are exceptional crises, when the will becomes 
 excited, and the ideas resemble fruit trying to 
 ripen before the tree has put forth its leaves. 
 When a class is reduced to despair, it is always 
 the fault of those classes which have not pre- 
 vented it, — a fault always punished, and yet 
 constantly recurring. 
 
 I warned you, my friends, but you did not 
 listen. You treated me as a dreamer, a poet ; yet 
 worthy men had haJd their times of influence over 
 the people. Patience and Pierre Huguenin, you 
 maintained, were flattered portraits. It seemed 
 to me that art wished it so ; and yet you knew 
 that these portraits were not mere fancies. Ah ! 
 if a little ideality mingled with much wisdom 
 could have enlightened the bourgeoisie power at 
 the right time, how many disasters and mistakes 
 might have been prevented! But the blind 
 destiny has been accomplished, and the frightful 
 crises have had their effect. The rich class
 
 SEEKING FOR SOLUTIONS. ' 29 
 
 permitted an innovation, the lourgeois empire, 
 which promised not to be military, and, by becom- 
 ing seriously democratic, might have thrown a 
 bridge across the abyss. At first this seemed its 
 programme ; but, unable to maintain it, it fell 
 into the same error as the Bourbons of Naples, 
 governing not for the people, but hy the people. 
 Hence the people that we now see, or, rather, 
 that we do not see, who are seeking, in an under- 
 hand way, for those solutions which must one 
 day be taken into consideration. If they would 
 seek these earnestly, if they were able to pur- 
 sue them with patience, they might reach a 
 happy result ; but, like the hourgeoisie^ they have 
 launched into a life of unrestraint, with much 
 work to be done, that is, much money to be 
 gained, and no fixed course, each one for his own 
 interest ; with many opportunities for pleasure 
 and means of development for the few who seek 
 art in luxury, science in trade, and instruction in 
 gratified curiosity ; but, for the larger portion, 
 means of corruption. The child has been set at 
 liberty before it could understand the limit of its 
 rights. The Empire, by relying upon a plebineitd', 
 has inaugurated a reign of ignorance, and resorts 
 to force wlieu this becomes troublesome. The
 
 30 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 people have believed themselves king ; but, if 
 this illusion slill exists, it will not last long ; and 
 beware then of the disenchantment ! 
 
 It will be terrible. At the present time, the 
 majority is in favor of empire, persecuting and 
 insulting those who oppose ; and, sad to say, 
 these latter act with rage and madness. The 
 peasant is contented, and gradually loses the 
 spirit of consolidation with the mechanic. The 
 latter, in his turn, avoids and scorns the husband- 
 man, nor seeks to impart to him any new ideas. 
 The son of the mechanic aspires to the position 
 of bourgeois. It is his right ; but, to attain it, he 
 must have intelhgence or instruction. Unlike 
 the son of the bourgeois, he has no chance of 
 becoming a public functionary ; he is denied a 
 liberal career, and must exert a superhuman effort 
 to acquire, in his leisure moments, merely an ele- 
 mentary knowledge, be it only orthography, with- 
 out which he must remain in a condition of 
 decided inferiority. The mechanic who, after his 
 day's work, goes home to study, is not the first 
 one who has done the same. In the first place, 
 he has a home, — which every one has not, — and 
 a few books ; and, if his daily work is not too 
 laborious, he can take a little time from his sleep.
 
 EXAMPLE AND PRECEPT. 31 
 
 But suppose that instruction is within the reach 
 of all, that there are everywhere gratuitous 
 courses, and that these courses are well con- 
 ducted, which is not always the case : the work- 
 ing-man must possess more than the ordinary 
 amount of courage and good sense, to give up 
 his boisterous recreations and absolute freedom 
 after his day's work. T[\e puljlic-house allures 
 him ; and the country tavern, which formerly 
 was the rendezvous for conversation and the 
 meeting with one's equals, the outlet for sombre 
 ideas, sometimes even a place for the diffusion of 
 friendship, is now the scene of disorder and vice ; 
 and you, whose sons are addicted to all those 
 excesses which they condemn among the poorer 
 classes, have no right to insist on their being 
 closed. This contagion is spreading fast. When 
 I hear any one say, " The working-man ought to 
 be discreet, steady, industrious, and economical," 
 I ask myself, " Why not put the example before 
 the precept?" Is it not arrant folly to require 
 of a certain class of men virtues with which we 
 think we can disi)ense, especially when those vir- 
 tues are a thousand times more difficult for them, 
 almost impossiljlc without some alleviation in 
 tlieir moral and physical condition ?
 
 32 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 So the " people " are in tlie fatal current. It 
 would be wrong for the artisan to compare himself 
 to the "/c?Za7i." He is free, whatever he may 
 say to the contrary ; and his wages have increased 
 with his expenses. But he may say that he has 
 fallen into gypsyism, that he is now hardly a 
 citizen. We ought to excuse this ; but thin^ 
 will come to that point where they are beyond 
 palliation. He has contracted a taste for vice. 
 His home has become a hell. The necessity for 
 camping around the great centres of labor has 
 affected his habits, moral and physical. In those 
 places where he has come in contact with our 
 corrupt civilization, in cities, especially in Paris, 
 his intelligence is developed on the surface, but 
 has no depth ; he understands every thing, but 
 comprehends nothing. Associated, in whatever 
 he does, with the vices and absurdities of the bour- 
 geoisie^ he parodies them at the same time that he 
 accords them severe censure. Nothing is sadder 
 to sight or hearing than these bombastic dis- 
 coursers, without taste, inspiration, or philosophy. 
 Alas ! the working-man is full of affectation ; but 
 he is still nothing but a barbarian. He used to 
 be ingenuous, good-tempered, and quick at a 
 repartee, which was sometimes excellent; but
 
 PORTRAIT OF THE PEOPLE. 33 
 
 he has obtained his freedom, and noTv enjoys 
 listening to himself. He makes use of phrases 
 that he does not understand, and murders tech- 
 nical terms. The ridiculous charlatan is not 
 satisfied with being j^our equal : he desires you to 
 feel that he is your superior, and believes that a 
 ^tish could make him so. 
 
 This is a portrait of what may be called the 
 greater and better portion. What shall we say of 
 those who have no ambition to rise ; who, taking 
 the epoch as it is, brutalize themselves with alco- 
 hol and debauchery ? From this extreme intem- 
 perance result the bloodshot eye, the hoarse and 
 cracked voice, the impudent word, and the sinister 
 silence. Ah ! poor people ! Once you complained 
 of being driven with work, and hardly liaving 
 Sunday for rest : now — you have paid dearly for 
 it — you have a holiday ; that is, from Saturday 
 evening till Monday morning j-ou are intoxicated. 
 On Monday you work poorly ; in reality, perform 
 but two or three days' labor during the week. 
 You brutalize yourselves ; and that is the benefit 
 of a life of luxuiy. I cannot but feel the deepest 
 chagrin. I had (beamed of a future, not near, but 
 not very distant, a crisis of social peace, when the 
 two classes (since there are now but two), becom-
 
 34 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 ing enlightened as to their reciprocat rights and 
 duties, should join in a firm union, beyond all poli- 
 tics or party spirit. Surely this great object will 
 be achieved ; but the Empire, which ought to have 
 lent it a helping hand, and the Emperor, who 
 declared himself in favor of it, have taken the 
 wrong road. The Paris of Voltaire and Jeanr 
 Jacques Rousseau has become the city of Sardana- 
 palus. Instead of public schools in our villages, 
 we have satrapies in our prefectures. Our country 
 girls seek Paris for their dream of fortune, and 
 wake up upon the pavements between hunger 
 and prostitution. Our rich young women become 
 giddy, our poor young women — sell themselves ! 
 
 We have not yet reached the end ; for each day 
 marks, in its passage, some new effort towards 
 this decomposition ; this vertigo is seeking a still 
 loftier point for its precipitation. The ignorant 
 masses watch these somnambuhsts as they pursue 
 their dance upon the roofs. The peasant, who 
 now eats meat, and no longer goes to market on 
 foot, shrugs his shoulders, and says, " Fine times ! 
 The rich are being ruined ; the working-people 
 are having a dispute, and gaining nothing. We 
 are living well without much expense. The great 
 estates are being divided into small lots, and we 
 are buying at retail." 
 
 S
 
 THE TWO ANTINOMIES. 35 
 
 In fact, the peasant is amassing in proportion as 
 the bourgeoisie is distributing. In a century all 
 the land will be in the possession of the former. 
 But his will not form a new class that will take 
 its rank in society : it will be only a stratum rest- 
 ing upon a more ancient stratum. Herein does 
 not lie the solution of the social problem. The 
 class which is working for enjoyment, and not for 
 possessions, will threaten the rich of to-morrow 
 as they threaten the rich of to-day. 
 
 All this is mortally dark, dark and sorrowful; 
 and, after such a summary, one feels, as it were, a 
 disgust for the relations of life. Let us see what 
 efforts the mind can make, to reach a more logical 
 solution than that of the Empire. We do not 
 know exactly where it is leading us : let us try 
 and see how we could go alone, if we should 
 cease to be led like children. 
 
 Republic or monarchy, it matters little. The 
 best course would be to find a new name for the 
 two antinomies which exist here as everywhere. 
 We should have to await the time when the 
 producer and tlic vender would in good earnest, 
 and under the pressure of a social necessity well 
 demonstrated, sign an act of association. This 
 act should be rigorously stipulated, after having
 
 36 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 been thoroughly debated by representatives cho- 
 sen with a view to the respective interests of both 
 parties. These debates would touch upon the 
 more or less elevated character of labor, indus- 
 try, and intelligence, by which the working-man 
 helps to build up the fortune of his patron. The 
 associations of mutual interests, which are formed 
 nowadays, by private agreement in particular 
 cases, would be established legally and uniformly 
 throughout France, by the promulgation of a con- 
 stitutional law, but on certain conditions of moral 
 worth on both sides, which would serve as a 
 guaranty for the two parties contracting. 
 
 It is not within my province to develop this 
 idea, very simple, and already wide-spread, but 
 requiring such delicate application as to demand 
 special knowledge. A basis has been sketched 
 by many short essays. We must suppose that 
 the means for application were not sufficient : 
 it is impossible to believe that they do not exist. 
 Every good and generous idea that the human 
 mind conceives can and ought to be realized. It 
 is foolish to say, " Your idea is very fine, but it 
 is impracticable." If it is fine, it cannot be im- 
 practicable. Humanity is so constructed that, 
 notwithstanding all its errors and deviations, it
 
 THE WRONG COURSE. 37 
 
 tends towards the light, and towards the straight 
 line. We have been able to establish the dis- 
 tinction of interests, a triumph of civilization 
 over barbarit}^ a work much more difficult than 
 that of the association of interests in the midst 
 of civilization. 
 
 The day will come, therefore I do not despair ; 
 but, just at present, we are turning from the right 
 course, and I am distressed.
 
 H 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 AGAIN LIST THE WOODS. 
 
 FONTAINEBLEAU, AugUSt, 1837. 
 
 ERE I am again in the woods, with no 
 companion but my son, who is getting to 
 be a great boy ; and yet I am even now more his 
 cavalier than he is mine. We risk our lives on 
 all sorts of animals, — donkeys and horses more 
 or less wild, who generally take ns where they 
 choose, from seven o'clock in the morning till five 
 or six o'clock in the evening. We take neither a 
 guide, nor a plan in our pockets. We don't mind 
 where we wander, for it would be difficult to lose 
 one's way in a forest full of guide-posts. We 
 avoid meeting any one, by taking those roads 
 least frequented ; and they are not the less beau- 
 tiful. Every thing here is lovely. Forests are 
 always beautiful, in every country in the world. 
 Here the hilly nature of the ground increases its 
 charm, without rendering travel impracticable. 
 It is no slight pleasure to be able to climb every- 
 
 38
 
 LIFE IN THE WOODS. 39 
 
 where, even on horseback, and to gather flowers 
 and butterflies wherever we are tempted. These 
 long rides — whole days in the open air — just 
 suit my taste ; and this solitude, and this solemn 
 silence, at certain Paris hours, are inappreciable. 
 We live on bread, cold chicken, and fruit, which 
 we bring with us, together with books, albums, 
 and insect-boxes. What interestinG;' noctules ! 
 What fresh specimens of the bombyx asleep, and, 
 as it were, glued to the bark of the oak-trees ! 
 What collections for Maurice, and what pleasure 
 to display them in the evening upon the work- 
 table ! We are acquainted with no one in the 
 town. We occupy a small but very comfortable 
 suite of apartments in a hotel just on the confines 
 of the woods, where nobody troubles himself 
 about our affairs. We liave two little chambers, 
 separated by a small parlor, Avhere I work at 
 night while my child is snoring. This good, 
 sound sleep is delightful to my ears. As to my- 
 self, I do not know when I sleep : I never give it 
 a thought. ^Nline is a rational life. I live; in the 
 trees, upon the heath, on the sand, — I live in 
 Nature's activity and in her repose, in the instinct 
 and in feeling, l)ut, above all, in my son. He has 
 been ill, l)ut is nf)W decidedly better. He enjo^'S
 
 40 UJPEESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 this kind of life as mucli as myself, and that gives 
 me double pleasure. What a marvel is this 
 blessed forest ! M. de S^nancour has drawn an 
 admirable picture of it in certain pages of his 
 work ; in others, I know not why, he depreciates 
 it, as though he were afraid of bestowing too 
 much admiration. Some would say that he saw 
 it through spleen. He tries to impress upon his 
 readers that it is not so vast or mountainous as 
 Switzerland. Why draw a comparison ? In that 
 way we are doing ourselves a wrong, — we are 
 waging a petty war with our own enjoyment. 
 What is beautiful in a certain way is neither more 
 nor less so than something else that is beautiful in 
 a different way. For my own part, I could pass 
 my life here, without ever thinking of Switzer- 
 land, and vice versa. When one is well off, I do 
 not understand the necessity of trying to better 
 his position. I do not know whether the proverb, 
 " Le mieux est I'ennemi du bien," is absolutely 
 true ; but in point of locomotion, curiosity, con- 
 templation, or the study of things in general, I 
 am of opinion that regret, or the desire for some- 
 thing better, is the delusion of a morbid fancy. 
 That was the case with S^nancour. " Ober- 
 mann " shows a morbid genius. I used to like it
 
 HEALTHY TREES AND MORBID BOOKS. 41 
 
 very mucli : I like it still, that strange book, so 
 admirably deformed ! but I much prefer a fine, 
 healthy tree. 
 
 Thus we have healthy trees and morbid books, 
 luxuriance and despondency. That which is 
 devoid of thought must necessarily remain young 
 and beautiful, to prove that prosperity's laws are 
 absolute, beyond our relative and factitious laws 
 which make us old and ugly before our time. 
 That which is endowed with thought must suffer, 
 to prove that we live in false conditions, in discord 
 with our real needs and true instincts. So all 
 these magnificent things incapable of thinking 
 furnish many a subject for thought. 
 
 NOHANT, 1863. 
 
 "So," persisted A , who read me the fore- 
 going letter dated twenty -six years ago (I do not 
 know how it fell into his possession), "you are 
 thinking at the same time that you are indulging 
 in revery, although you may pretend to have the 
 power of banishing thought at certain times ? " 
 
 '" I make no pretensions, my dear A , but I 
 
 solemnly assure you that there are moments when 
 I cease to think. If you arc astonished at that, I 
 am none the less so to hear you often affirm that
 
 44 nfPBESsroNS and reminiscences. 
 
 been mucli censured for having too much pliilos- 
 ophy in my romances. That arises from my 
 frequent fits of passiveness. If I am under the 
 influence of deep feeling, or moved by a convic- 
 tion, my reflections, my reveries, even my fictions, 
 are necessarily affected. They are impregnated in 
 like manner as our clothes and our hair retain the 
 perfume of the garden or the woods. It is not my 
 fault if occasionally my mind soars above my 
 occupation : it is because it has discovered a more 
 beautiful region, and because it is beyond my 
 power to tear myself away suddenly, and devote 
 my energies to the achievement of success ; that 
 is, to the art of displeasing no one. 
 
 Free arbitration, entirely free ! Fifty years 
 ago I made an attempt to think of such subjects 
 only as could be made useful by the slave that 
 I am. In order to control my unruly brain, I 
 determined on a regular life, and imposed upon 
 myself a daily task; but twenty times out of 
 thirty I forgot myself, and fell to dreaming or 
 reading or writing on some subject which ought 
 not to have absorbed my attention. Had it not 
 been for these frequent intellectual strolls, I 
 should have acquired instruction ; for I compre- 
 hend pretty readily, and analyze even too rapidly.
 
 SLEEP AND DREAMS. 45 
 
 I should have forced my mind to classify its 
 ideas. To understand and to know has been my 
 perpetual aspiration ; but my desire has by no 
 means been realized. My will has not had abso- 
 lute control over my thoughts; yet I cannot 
 suffer from remorse, for I have indulged in no 
 idleness, nor opened the door to any kind of 
 distraction. The exterior world has always had 
 more power over me than I over it. I have 
 become a mirror, in which my own reflection is 
 crowded out by the accumulation of other figures 
 and objects. When I try to see myself in this 
 mirror, I behold plants, insects, landscapes, water, 
 the profiles of mountains, clouds, and, above all, . 
 unheard-of heights; but nothing in this world 
 takes note of me unless from want of my admi- 
 ration, and then laughs at my flattering descrip- 
 tion. 
 
 When we sleep, and dreams rock us gently or 
 shake us roughly, we are the delighted or terri- 
 fied captives of the spectres that visit us. What 
 are they ? Whence do they come ? What avails 
 our will to retain them or to drive them away ? 
 It is powerless. A fool is a x^oor wretch who 
 dreams without sleeping. Arc we not fools eveiy 
 time we dream?
 
 46 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 It is maintained that dreams are caused by 
 ourselves, that they are the result of impressions 
 received, painful or agreeable, according to the 
 condition of the body. Granted ; but this result 
 is i)roduced in spite of ourselves. And these 
 impressions received, — what would they be, were 
 it not for the action of the external world, which 
 exercises over us an invincible power, doubled in 
 intensity when our will is disarmed by sleep ? 
 This power becomes even ferocious towards our 
 poor 0716 in the visions of certain fevers. It is 
 certain, then, that poets or philosophers, kings or 
 shepherds, active or indolent, weak or strong, we 
 are, during a third or a quarter part of our lives, 
 — the time given to sleep, — under the control of 
 a vision, to whose mild or terrible omnipotence 
 we must submit. Who would venture to affirm 
 that, while in a state of sleep, we are all in a lucid 
 condition, and capable of repulsing these obses- 
 sions of the not-me ? If it were so, if we had 
 the control of our thoughts, we should also have 
 the control of our feelings. Grief at losing our 
 dear ones would be soon effaced by the power of 
 our will. Oblivion would enter our minds, and 
 we should become perfect egotists. I forgot that 
 I am writipg this evening for A , and that he
 
 TUE POWER OF WILL. 47 
 
 will cry out against this want of devotion. Well, 
 he over-estimates his own powers when he ima- 
 gines that he can make his ideas subject to his 
 inclination. Such a thing is not possible. We 
 differ more or less ; fundamentally, however, wc 
 are all the same to a certain degree, and I do not 
 believe that any one of us possesses the power of 
 voluntarily withdrawing from the external world. 
 Wisdom consists, perhaps, in making an orderly 
 classification of the nature of impressions received, 
 not allowing one to encroach upon another, and 
 separating, as occasion may require, the one that 
 is to be received. Thence the great works of the 
 mind, and even ingenuities of trade ; thence also 
 the great concentrations of study, specialities. 
 But to believe that all men are endowed with 
 this power, — no, I cannot ; and I even consider 
 it very fortunate that we are not masters of our- 
 selves to that degree maintained by some. Our 
 freedom is in proportion to our knowledge ; tliat 
 is, our intellectual development. Free arbitration 
 signifies free choice between good and evil ; but 
 to make that choice is required a clear knowledge 
 of what is good and what is evil. Individuals 
 deprived, by a bud education, of healthy moral 
 ideas, have little knowledge of conscience ; others
 
 48 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 possess a vague notion of it, and allow that to 
 become easily perverted by corrupt influences. 
 Our judgment, then, must be developed by edu- 
 cation, to escape that fatahty which threatens the 
 life of the ignorant ; but this education, too 
 stoical or too idealistic, ought not to awaken a 
 desire to absolutely destroy all communication 
 with outward influences. This would be a mad 
 attempt, which would lead to folly, fanaticism, or 
 atheism ; to the hatred of God or our equals ; to 
 inordinate pride, which is nothing more nor less 
 than a deprivation of our relations with universal 
 life, consequently a narrowness of conception. 
 All that is apparently apart from us belongs 
 to ourselves. The not-me has not an absolute 
 existence : consequently the absolute me is a false 
 notion. The whole earth and the whole heavens 
 are constantly exerting an action over us ; and we 
 are unconsciously imparting a similar re-action. 
 Every thing is either a receptacle or an outlet, 
 an element or a sustenance, of life. The respira- 
 tion of all beings is necessary to provide each one 
 of us with his dose of vital air. The clouds are 
 the sweat of the earth : they must perspire, or 
 we should become parched. The smallest star 
 in the Milky Way has an assigned function to
 
 REFLECTIONS ON DEATH. 49 
 
 perform for the subsistence of the universe. Like 
 the clrojD of water brilliant with the hues of the 
 prism, we have reflections, immense projections 
 into space. And I, poor atom that I am, when I 
 feel myself the rainbow or the j\Iilky Way, am 
 indulging in no vain dream. I am in all, and all 
 in me. 
 
 I am not at liberty to sever mj^self from what 
 constitutes my life. Death will not effect the 
 separation. I cannot become annihilated by my 
 will. It would be useless for me to say, " I wish 
 to end my being. I do not desire to feel, laugh, 
 or weep. I will neither suffer nor enjoy. I will 
 behold crime, shame, insanity, and say, ' Those 
 people are fools, but it matters not to me.' I will 
 lose those whom I love, and say to myself that 
 these things must happen, and that my grief can- 
 not restore them to life. I will be wise, holy, or 
 strong, in my own self, in my corner, in m}"- 
 shell, in my inward satisfaction. I ^^■ill have, as a 
 recompense, great wisdom or great power, fortune 
 or paradise. I have broken witli the affections, 
 with weaknesses, witli all curiosity, with all joint 
 responsil)ility, with all nature. I scorn all l)eings, 
 having made myself a man pre-eminently free, 
 the most isolated, the least influenced, the least 
 suV)servient, the strongest, oi all beings."
 
 50 IMPJiESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 Is not this what every man says to himself 
 when he proclaims himself king of the creation? 
 It is the greatest nonsense imaginable. We are 
 neither kings nor slaves, but members of one 
 great association called the world, — nothing 
 more, nothing less. 
 
 If we have been able to subdue a few animals 
 by mutilating them, if we do arrogate to our- 
 selves, above all others, the right to life and 
 death, we are not the less at war with the greater 
 part of them, and innumerable multitudes escape 
 our dominion. A microscopic insect is capable of 
 causing us annoyance, even as a fly is sufficient 
 to rouse the fury of a lion. Alas ! animals and 
 people are equal in the laws of Nature, if our 
 pride would only acknowledge it. Immutable 
 though she is, she allows us to infringe upon her 
 laws, but not to destroy them, either in the out- 
 ward world or within ourselves. 
 
 All Frenchmen are equal in the eyes of the 
 law. Such is the device of our society. A cruel 
 sentence when it visits the same penalty on him 
 who is ignorant as on him who is cognizant. 
 Lords of creation, we have not been able to 
 improve upon the brute laws of unconscious 
 nature. It was not worth Avhile to usurp so fine 
 a title.
 
 THE EMPIRE OF SELF. 51 
 
 This great king, Mr. Man, has tried for all 
 empires, and believed that he possessed the em- 
 pire of self when he invented stoicism. As all 
 his inventions are inadequate on one side, ex- 
 treme on the other, with reason in the centre, so 
 this philosophy has its foll}^, its sublimity, its 
 madness. It rests upon that perfect faith in 
 free arbitration, which is the subject of my 
 meditation. It lays down as a principle that 
 man can do what he hkes, and that question is 
 badly put. Men — humanity — can, in the long- 
 run, do what they like. The individual man, in 
 his short life, can do almost nothing: his power 
 of a day vanishes with him, often before him. 
 To wish for too much involves danger, as to 
 wish for too little imposes a limit. Stoicism is 
 beautiful whilst it develops the courage to bear 
 inevitable sufferinc^s : it becomes horrible when it 
 destroys sensibility, compassion, tenderness. Cer- 
 tain ascetic devotions fall unconsciously into 
 the excess of stoicism, and yet have not the 
 merit of sacrificing every thing to virtue, since 
 1 hoy are working for a personal interest, — para- 
 dise. I have known those who reckoned with 
 God Almighty as Jews with their client, keeping 
 an account of their sacrifices and dex)rivations,
 
 52 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 and saying, " That will be put to my credit in 
 heaven." s 
 
 Where is charity, true devotion, or real sacri- 
 fice, in this dehit and credit of the devout con- 
 science ? The stoic said, " I wish to overcome 
 suffering in order to teach other men to over- 
 come weakness and cowardice." The ascetic 
 troubles himself very little about his fellow- 
 creatures. They are only in the way of his 
 salvation, and he tries to avoid them. He looks 
 upon life merely as an opportunity of gaining a 
 happy eternity. 
 
 Is, then, this halting-place on our way to eter- 
 nity of no account? Are not the sorrows with 
 which it abounds duties which we must acce23t, 
 trials to which we must submit, homage we must 
 pay to our mission in this world ? To destroy 
 grief, to crush regret beneath our feet, to over- 
 turn the laws of Nature, to shake off human 
 reason, would certainly be very convenient ; but, 
 if such be possible to certain perverted minds, I 
 cannot see that it is edifying, useful, or produc- 
 tive. 
 
 In all the philosophies which have guided man, 
 this principle appears to be always dominant, — to 
 abstain. The Epicureans themselves did not
 
 THE PRINCIPLE OF ABSTINENCE. 53 
 
 preach, as might be supposed, sensualism and the 
 surrender of the mind to all its fancies. Thev, 
 too, had their restrictions, their principles of 
 moderation, even of abstinence. 
 
 The aim of all wisdom is to teach us how to 
 suffer least ; consequently, to avoid what causes 
 suffering. Christianity, which is not a matter of 
 wisdom, but an ideal, has taught us the contrary : 
 " Seek suffering for yoifl- purification." This is 
 grand and beautiful, since the hope of personal 
 recompense in another life is not of such a char- 
 acter as to cancel all merit in the martyr. Now 
 that we understand the abuse which fanaticism- 
 has made of the ideal, we need a philosophy 
 which shall teach us not to seek, but to accept 
 suffering as a universal law whence springs uni- 
 versal renovation. 
 
 Nature, which seeks to make us sensitive to 
 pain, appears wiser to me in her salutary ligor, 
 than our so-called wisdom in its chiims to sup- 
 press pain by force of will. Nature does not 
 allow us to Ijccome insensible ; and it is almost 
 impiety to refuse to feel her blows. By seeking 
 too much frecd(jin, we abandon nature and truth, 
 and enter upon an abnormal existence ; because 
 absolute freedom can be acquired only by aban- 
 doning humanity.
 
 54 IMPBESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 Therefore I do not reproach myself so much 
 for not absolutely controlling my mind. I feel 
 that its merry frolics and its listlessness arise from 
 the nature of the impressions which it receives, 
 and which it has not always the right to avoid. 
 This has nothing to do with the question of good 
 and evil. If, in perverse minds, the corrupt 
 imagination furnishes poisonous food, it is in 
 vain to preach free arbitration. The perverse 
 mind will choose the freedom of evil. In holy 
 minds, the imagination is a delicate friend, which 
 must not be treated inconsiderately, and which, 
 sadly or joyously, tells us of divine things, thus 
 making amends to us for the time that it spends 
 in actual study.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 LOVE. — REPLY TO A FRLEXD. 
 
 NoHANT, August, 1871. 
 
 WHAT ! you wish me to cease loving? You 
 wish me to say that I have been mistaken 
 all my life, that humanity is hateful, despicable, 
 that it has alwa3's been so, and alwaj-s will be? 
 And do you chide me for my grief as if it were a 
 weakness, childish regret for a lost illusion ? Do 
 you affirm that the " people " have always been 
 ferocious, the priest hypocritical, the bourgeois 
 cowardly, the soldier thievish, the peasant stupid? 
 You say that you have known this from 3'our 
 youth, and rejoice that you have never doubted it, 
 because now mature age has no deception to dis- 
 close. You have never been young, then. Ah, 
 it is very different with me ! If to love continu- 
 ally makes one young, then I am still young. 
 How do you wish me to isolate myself from ni}- 
 fellow-creatures, my compatriots, from that great 
 family in the midst of which my private family is 
 but an ear of corn in the great terrestrial field ? 
 
 05
 
 56 I3IPRESSI0NS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 If this ear could ripen in some safe place, if we 
 could, as you say, live for a few privileged beings, 
 and withdraw ourselves from all others — But 
 that would be impossible. Your sound sense is 
 indulging in the most unreal of Utopias. In 
 what Eden, in what fantastic Eldorado, would you 
 conceal your family, your little group of friends, 
 your own private hap]Diness, where they would be 
 unmolested by the commotions of social life or 
 political disasters ? You might be happy in the 
 society of a chosen few ; but those few, the 
 favorites of your heart, must be happy by them- 
 selves. Can they be so ? Can you insure them 
 the least security ? Could you find a refuge for 
 me in my old age, when on the verge of death ? 
 What difference does it make to me, on my own 
 account, whether I die now, or live a httle longer? 
 I will suppose that we die completely, or that 
 love does not follow us to another life : should we 
 not be tormented, till our dying breath, with the 
 desire, the imperious necessity, of insuring for 
 those whom we leave the greatest possible amount 
 of happiness ? Could we go to sleep in peace 
 when we felt the earth trembling, ready to 
 swallow up those for whom we have lived ? 
 
 Domestic happiness is, in spite of every thing, a
 
 LOVE AND LIFE. bl 
 
 great relative good, the only consolation that we 
 could or would enjoy. But even supposing that 
 external evil could not reach our homes, — which, 
 you know very well, would be impossible, — I 
 will not allow that we could be resigned to what 
 causes the public unhappiness. 
 
 This was all foreseen. I foresaw it as well as 
 any one else. I beheld the storm rising : I looked 
 on, like all others who gave their earnest atten- 
 tion, at the evident approach of the cataclysm. 
 Is it any consolation to us, when we see the 
 patient writhing in suffering, that we understand 
 the nature of his disease? When the thunder- 
 bolt strikes us, are we calm from having heard its 
 previous rumbling ? No, no : we cannot isolate 
 ourselves ; we cannot break the bonds of consan- 
 guinity ; we cannot curse nor despise our race. 
 Humanity is not a vain word. Our life is com- 
 posed of love ; and not to love, is not to live. 
 
 The people, you say, the people ! That is you 
 and I, beyond denial. There are not two races. 
 The distinction of class only proves the illusive- 
 ness of relative inequalities. I do not know 
 whether you have remote ancestors in the bour- 
 (jeoinie: as to myself, my maternal roots come 
 directly from the people, and I feel them still
 
 58 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 alive at the extremity of my being. We all have 
 them there, although in some instances they are 
 more distinct than in others. The first men were 
 hunters and shepherds, then laborers and soldiers. 
 Plunder crowned with success gave birth to the 
 first social distinctions. There is not, perhaps, a 
 title that was not obtained through the blood of 
 man. We must submit to ancestors, if we have 
 them ; but are these first trophies of hatred and 
 violence a glory of which any mind, however 
 little philosophic, would think of availing itself? 
 The people always ferocious^ you say : / say, the 
 nobility always savage. 
 
 It is certain that the peasants, as a class, are 
 the most unyielding to progress, consequently 
 the least civilized. Thinkers ought to rejoice that 
 they do not belong to this class ; but if we are 
 bourgeois., if we are descendants of the serf and 
 the feudal tenant, can we bow with love and 
 respect before the sons of our fathers' oppressors ? 
 No ! Whoever disowns the people degrades him- 
 self, and presents to the world the shameful spec- 
 tacle of apostasy. K we, as bourgeoisie^ wish to 
 rise again, and once more become a class, we have 
 nothing lo do but proclaim ourselves the "peo- 
 ple," and struggle, till death, with those who
 
 POPULAR IGNORANCE. 59 
 
 pretend to superiority by divine right. For hav- 
 ing failed in dignity in our revolutionary man- 
 date, for having aped the nobility, usurped its 
 insignia, and caught up its playthings, for hav- 
 ing been shamefully ridiculous and cowardly, 
 we are no longer reckoned of any value. The 
 common people, who ought to have made one 
 with us, now disown, forsake, and oppress us. 
 
 The people ferocious ? No : they are no longer 
 fools. Their real disease is ignorance and sim- 
 plicity. It was not the common people of Paris 
 that massacred the prisoners, destroyed the monu- 
 ments, and tried to set fire to the city. The com- 
 mon people were the only ones who remained in 
 Paris after the siege ; for all who could by any 
 means afford it hastened to breathe the provincial 
 air, and embrace their absent relatives, after the 
 physical and moral sufferings arising from the 
 investment of the city. All who remained in 
 Paris were the merchant and the workman, those 
 two agents of labor and exchange, without which 
 Paris could not exist. These are what, in reality, 
 constitute the common people of Paris ; it is one 
 and the same family, whose union and rclationsliip 
 cannot be destroyed hy political misunderstand- 
 ings. It is acknowledged now that the oppressors
 
 GO IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 of this time were among the minority. The com- 
 mon people of Paris were not disposed to be furi- 
 ous ; for the majority showed signs of weakness 
 and fear. The movement was organized by men 
 who had already entered the ranks of the bour- 
 geoisie^ and no longer had any thing in common 
 with the habits or necessities of the proletariat. 
 The former were moved by hatred, deceived ambi- 
 tion, misapprehended patriotism, fanaticism with- 
 out an ideal, and the folly of sentiment or natural 
 wickedness. To all these combined were added 
 certain points of honor in regard to doctrine, 
 which would not shrink from danger. They 
 certainly did not lean upon the middle class, who 
 trembled, fled, or sought concealment. They were 
 forced to incite to action the true proletaire, who 
 have nothing to lose. Well, this proletaire, even, 
 eluded them in a great measure, divided as was 
 this class into such diverse shades, some trying to 
 profit from the disorder, others dreading the 
 consequences of their enthusiasm, the greater part 
 using no reason at all, because the evil had become 
 extreme, and want of work had forced them to 
 march to the contest at thirty sous a day. 
 
 Why do you make this proletariat, shut up in 
 Paris, and numbering not more than eighty thou-
 
 THE INTERMEDIATE MULTITUDE. 61 
 
 sand soldiers, — victims of hunger and despair, — 
 represent the people of France ? They do not 
 even represent the people of Paris, unless you 
 maintain the distinction that I reject, between 
 the producer and the trader. 
 
 But I will follow you, and ask upon what 
 ground you base this distinction. Is it ujion a 
 greater or less amount of education? The limit 
 would be undiscernible. If jow. find among the 
 highest of the bourgeoisie wise and literary men, 
 if you see among the lowest of the proletariat 
 savages and brutes, you have still that intermedi- 
 ate multitude, presenting here wise and intelli- 
 gent proletaires, there bourgeois neither wise nor 
 intelligent. The greater part of enlightened 
 citizens date from the present time ; and many of 
 tliose wlio can read and write have fathers and 
 mothers who can hardly sign their names. 
 
 Should the classification of men into two dis- 
 tinct camps depend solely upon the accumulation 
 of wealth ? Even then, where could you place 
 the boundary-line, when, every day, some change 
 is takiijg place ? Ruin thrusts one down, fortune 
 raises another. They exchange positions. He 
 who was bourgeois this morning becomes proletaire 
 this evening ; and ]iu who was proletaire just now
 
 62 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 will change to bourgeois during the clay, if he 
 find a purse, or receive a legacy from an uncle. 
 ^ You see now that such an attempt would be 
 vain, and that the labor of classification, what- 
 ever method was pursued, would be insurmount- 
 able. 
 
 One man is neither above nor below another, 
 except in point of common-sense or morality. 
 Instruction which develops only egotistic sensu- 
 ality is worth less than the ignorance of the pro- 
 IStaire, honest from instinct and habit. This 
 compulsor}'- instruction, which we all desire out 
 of respect for human rights, is not a panacea, 
 from which we may look for miracles. It serves 
 bad natures as a more ingenious and clandestine 
 means of doing evil. Like every thing that man 
 uses and abuses, it may become both the poison 
 and the antidote. The idea of an infallible 
 remedy for our trials is an illusion. We should 
 avail ourselves of all possible means, and think 
 of nothing in practical life but the amelioration 
 of manners, and reconciliation of interests. 
 France is in her death-agony ; that is certain : 
 we are all sick, corrupt, ignorant, discouraged. 
 To sa}^ that this must be, that it always has been 
 and always will be, is to repeat the fable of the
 
 LOVE- UNREASONING. 63 
 
 schoolmaster and the drowning child ; as much 
 as to say, " It makes no difference to me." But 
 if you add, " It does not concern me," you are 
 mistaken. The deluge comes, and death seizes us : 
 it would be in vain to use prudence, and with- 
 draw. Your place of shelter will be destroyed in 
 its turn ; while perishing with the rest of human 
 civilization, you will not be more philosophical 
 for not having loved, than those who have leaped 
 into the water to save some wreck of humanity. 
 These wrecks are not worth the trouble. Per- 
 haps so. They wiU perish none the less, and we 
 shall perish with them : that is certain ; but we 
 shall die in the full vigor of life. I should prefer 
 this to a winter amidst the ice, or a death in 
 anticipation ; besides, I could not do otherwise. 
 Love does not use reason. If I should ask you 
 why you have a fondness for study, you could not 
 give me a better explanation than could an indo- 
 lent person why he was fond of idleness. 
 
 Do you think my mind disordered, that you 
 preach isolation ? You say that you have read 
 pieces about me in the newspapers, indicating a 
 sudden change in my ideas, and that these news- 
 papers, which seem friendly towards me, try to 
 believe that this has been brought about by some
 
 64 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 new gleam of light ; while others, which do not 
 mention my name, suppose, perhaps, that I have 
 deserted the cause of the future. Let politicians 
 think and say what they like. Leave them to 
 their critical appreciations. I have no objection 
 to make, no answer to offer. The public has other 
 than my personal interests to discuss. I hold a 
 pen, and I have an honorable position, free to dis- 
 cussion, in one of our leading papers. If I have 
 been misinterpreted, it rests with me to make an 
 explanation when the opportunity offers. I avoid, 
 as far as possible, all mention of myself as a 
 private individual ; but, if ^ou think me converted 
 to false notions, I must say to j'ou, as to all others 
 who take an interest in me : Read all that I have 
 to say, and do not judge from detached fragments. 
 The mind independent of party exigencies sees 
 necessarily the pro and the con; and the sincere 
 writer gives both without regard to the blame or 
 praise of his interested readers. Every sensible 
 being clings to synthesis, and I believe I have not 
 let go my hold. Reason and feeling combined 
 prompt me to reject every thing that would lead 
 us back to childhood, in politics, in religion, in 
 philosophy, or in art. My feelings and my reason 
 oppose, more than ever, the idea of fictitious dis-
 
 OPEN TO PITT. 65 
 
 tinctions, the inequality of conditions imposed as 
 a right acquired by some, as a forfeiture deserved 
 by others. More than ever, I feel the need of 
 raising what is low, and lifting what has fallen. 
 
 While my heart exists it will be open to pity, 
 and will take the part of the weak and calumni- 
 ated. If to-day it is the down-trodden people, I 
 will offer them" my hand. If it is the oppressor 
 and executioner, I will tell him that he is cowardly 
 and hateful. What do I care for this or that 
 group of men, those proper names which have 
 become ensigns, or those personal remarks which 
 stand for watchwords? I make a distinction 
 only between the wise and the foolish, the inno- 
 cent and the guilty. I do not inquire where are 
 my friends, and where my enemies. They remain 
 wherever the storm has thrown them. Those who 
 have deserved my ajffection, yet cannot see with 
 my eyes, I hold none the less dear. The incon- 
 siderate blame of those who forsake me does not 
 make me consider them my enemies. All friend- 
 ship unjustly withdrawn remains intact within the 
 heart that has not deserved such an outrage. 
 That heart is above self-love : it can wait for the 
 revival of justice and affection. 
 
 Sucli is the u})right and easy course of a
 
 66 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 conscience which does not allow personal inter- 
 ests to conflict with party interests. Those who 
 cannot say as much of themselves will certainly 
 meet with success, if they have the talent to 
 avoid giving displeasure ; and, the greater degree 
 to which they possess this talent, the greater 
 will be the opportunity for satisfying their pas- 
 sions. But do not call them into history as wit- 
 nesses for absolute truth. The moment that they 
 make their opinion a matter of business, that 
 moment their opinion is worthless. 
 
 I know mild, generous, and timorous natures, 
 that, in the terrible epoch of our history, have 
 reproached themselves for having loved and 
 served the cause of the weak. They see but a 
 single point in space. They believe that the 
 " people," whom they loved and served, exist no 
 longer, because, in their place, a horde of bandits, 
 followed by a little army of misguided men, 
 have taken momentary possession of the scene 
 of contest. It requires an effort for these good 
 souls to beheve that all that was righteous and 
 interesting in the poor and disinherited exists 
 there still ; only it is not apparent because politi- 
 cal commotion has driven it from the scene. 
 When such dramas are performed, those who
 
 THE DOWNFALL OF GERMANY. 67 
 
 gladly and voluntarily join in them are the vain 
 and covetous ones of the famih' ; those who 
 allow themselves to be dragged in are the idiots. 
 That there are millions of covetous, idiotic, and 
 vain people in France, no one doubts ; but there 
 are just as many, and perhaps more, iu other 
 countries. Let an opportunity occur similar to 
 those which too frequently arouse our evil pas- 
 sions, and you will see if other nations are better 
 than we. Interfere with the Germanic race, 
 whose disciplinary aptitude we so much admire, 
 but whose armies liave just exhibited brutal appe- 
 tites mingled with their barbarous simplicity, and 
 you will see their exasperation. The insurgents 
 of Paris would appear sober and virtuous in 
 comparison. 
 
 But this is not an atom of consolation. The 
 German nation will be as much an object of pity 
 for her victories as we for our defeats ; for they 
 are the first step towards her moral dissolution. 
 The drama of her overthrow has commenced ; 
 and, as she is working at it with her own hands, 
 it will make rapid progress. All great material 
 organizations, where right, justice, and respect for 
 humanity are disregarded, are colossals of clay. 
 We have obtained this knowledge at our cost.
 
 68 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 "Well, the moral degradatiou of Germany is not 
 the future salvation of France; and, should we 
 feel called upon to retaliate the evil which it has 
 done to us, its destruction would not restore us 
 to life. It is not by blood that nations renew 
 their strength and become rejuvenated. The 
 breath of life may yet arise from the corpse of 
 France : that of Germany will be a centre of 
 pestilence for all Europe. A nation that has lost 
 its ideal cannot survive its faculties. Its death 
 is unproductive ; and those who breathe its fetid 
 emanations contract the same mortal disease. 
 Poor Germany! The cup of the Almighty's 
 anger is poured upon thee as well as upon us ; 
 and, while thou art rejoicing and growing intox- 
 icated, the philosophic mind is^ weeping over 
 thy situation, and preparing thy epitaph. This 
 wounded being, pale and bleeding, which is 
 called France, still holds in its shrivelled hands 
 a skirt of the starry coat of the future, whilst 
 thou enfoldest thyself in a sullied flag which 
 will serve for thy winding-sheet. Past greatness 
 holds no place in the history of men. It is all 
 over with kings who impose upon the people ; 
 it is all over with the people imposed upon, if 
 they consent to their own degradation.
 
 THE BROTHERHOOD OF LOVE. 69 
 
 That is why we are so ill, and why my 
 heart is broken. 
 
 It is not with a feeling of contempt that I 
 behold our misery. I am unwilling to believe 
 that this holy country, this cherished nation, 
 whose ever}- chord, harmonious or discordant, I 
 feel vibrate within myself ; for whose good quali- 
 ties, and defects even, I have an affection ; whose 
 responsibilities, good or bad, I consent to accept, 
 rather than extricate myself through disdain, — 
 I am unwilling to believe that my country and 
 my nation are death-struck. I feel it in my 
 suffering, in my hours of deep dejection ; but I 
 love, so I live. Let us love and live. 
 
 Frenchmen, let us love one another ! Yes, let 
 us love one another, or we are lost. Let us 
 abjure, annihilate poUtics, since they have caused 
 division, and armed one against another. Let us 
 ask no one what he was, or what he wished 
 yesterday. Then every one was mistaken ; let us 
 find out what we wish to-day. If it is not to be 
 liberty and fraternity for all, let us not seek to 
 solve the problem of equality. We are not 
 worthy of explaining it, nor capable of under- 
 standing it. Ef[uality is not olitrusive. It is a 
 free plant, which grows only in fertile soil and
 
 70 /MPRESSiONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 salubrious air. It does not take root upon barri- 
 cades, — "we knoAV that now, — for it is immedi- 
 ately trampled down by the conqueror, whoever 
 he may be. Let us seek to ingraft it into our 
 manners, and consecrate it in our minds. Let us 
 give it, for a starting-point, patriotic charity, love. 
 It is folly to believe that men go forth from battle 
 with respect for human rights. Every civil war 
 has engendered and will engender crime. Un- 
 happy Internationality ! is it true that thou hast 
 faith in the illusion that force surpasses right? 
 If thou art as numerous and powerful as is sup- 
 posed, is it possible that thou professest hatred 
 and destruction to be a part of thy duty ? No : 
 thy power is a phantom of fear. An assemblage 
 of men from all nations could not deliberate and 
 act from principles of iinquity. If thou art the 
 ferocious part of the European nation, something 
 like the Anabaptists of Miinster, like them, thou 
 wilt be thy own destruction. If, on the contrary, 
 thou art a great and legitimate fraternal associa- 
 tion, thy duty is to enlighten adepts, and to re- 
 nounce those who degrade and compromise thy 
 cause. I would still believe that there are in thy 
 midst a large number of humane and hard-work- 
 ing men, who are distressed and blush to see
 
 THE VOICE OF TRUTH. 71 
 
 bandits using tliy name. In this case, thy si- 
 lence is cowardly and out of place. Hast thou 
 not a single member capable of protesting against 
 ignoble attempts, idiotic principles, and furious 
 madness? Thy elect, thy administrators, thy 
 leaders, — are they all brigands or madmen? No ! 
 that cannot be. There is no assemblage of men 
 whatever where the voice of truth cannot make 
 itself heard. Speak then, justify thyself, pro- 
 claim thy gospel. If discord is in thy midst, 
 dissolve and be reconstructed. Appeal to the 
 future, if thou art not an ancient invasion of 
 barbarians. Tell those who still love the people 
 what they ought to do ; and if thou hast nothing 
 to say, if the iniquity of thy mysteries is sealed 
 by fear, renounce noble sympathy, feed on the 
 scorn of Honest souls, and struggle between the 
 jailer and tlie gendarme. 
 
 All France has been waiting for the word which 
 should decide thy destiny, and perhaps her own. 
 She has waited in vain. I, too, have innocently 
 been waiting. While condemning the means, T 
 do not wish to forejudge the end. Every revolu- 
 tion has some aim ; and tliose which fail have not 
 always the weakest foiuidations. Political fanati- 
 cism seems to have been the first feeling in this*
 
 72 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 strueole. These lost cliildren of the democratic 
 army refused an inevitable peace, perhaps, be- 
 cause they felt it to be disgraceful.- Paris had 
 sworn to be buried beneath its ruins. The demo- 
 cratic people meant to force the bourgeois people 
 to keep their word. They seized the cannons, and 
 turned them asraiust the Prussians. It was a mad 
 proceeding. The first act of the Commune was 
 to preserve peace ; and, in the whole course of its 
 administration, it has not offered the enemy an 
 insult nor a threat ; but it committed the noto- 
 rious, dastardly act of overthrowing, under its 
 very eyes, the column perpetuating the enemy's 
 defeats and our victories. It objects to the power 
 arising from universal suffrage, and, yet availed 
 itself of that suffrage, at Paris, for its own consti- 
 tution. It is true that this was needed. It has 
 discarded the appearance of legality which it 
 tried to assume, and acts by brute force, without 
 seeking any other claim than that of hatred and 
 contempt, for every thing that is not a part of 
 itself. It proclaims practical social science, de- 
 claring itself sole depositary, but does not make 
 mention of it in its decisions and decrees. It 
 declares that it has come to deliver man from 
 his fetters and prejudices ; and then immediately
 
 THE COMMUNE. 73 
 
 exercises absolute power, and threatens with 
 death whomsoever is not convinced of its infalli- 
 bility. At the same time that it pretends to 
 return to the tradition of the Jacobins, it usurps 
 social papac}^ and arrogates the dictatorship. 
 What kind of a republic is that ? I see nothing 
 vital or rational, nothing constitutional, nor any- 
 thing that could be made constitutional. It is 
 an orgy of pretended renovators, who have not 
 an idea nor a principle, not the slightest serious 
 organization, not the slightest coalition with the 
 nation, not the least confidence in the future. 
 Ignorance, impudence, and brutality, — that is all 
 that has sprung from this pretended social revo- 
 lution. Unrestraint of the lowest impulses, the 
 impotence of shameless ambitions, the scandal of 
 audacious usurpations, — that is the scene which 
 we have just witnessed. So this Commune has 
 inspired mortal disgust in the most zealous politi- 
 cal men, those most devoted to democracy. After 
 useless attempts, they have learned that there can 
 be no reconcUialion where there arc no principles. 
 So they have withdrawn in grief and consterna- 
 tion ; and, the next day, the Commune has pro- 
 nounced them traitors, and given orders for their 
 arrest. It would have shot them, if they had 
 remained within its reach.
 
 74 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 And you wish me, my friend, to look upon 
 these things with stoical indifference ! Do you 
 wish me to say, " Man is so constituted ; crime 
 is the expression of his feehngs ; infamy, his 
 nature " ? 
 
 No, decidedly no. Humanity is indignant with- 
 in me and at me. This indignation is one of the 
 most passionate forms of love : we must not conceal 
 it, nor try to forget it. We must exert immense 
 efforts towards fraternity, in order to repair the 
 ravages of hatred. "We must exorcise the scourge, 
 crush infamy beneath contempt, and, through faith, 
 inaugurate the resurrection of our country.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF PtHSTCTUATION. — TO 
 CHAELES EDMOND. 
 
 NOHANT, August, 1871. 
 
 TOU ask me, my friend, why I insist on not 
 having my punctuation corrected at the 
 printing-office. I will try to give you my reasons. 
 
 Punctuation, as well as style, has its own phi- 
 losophy. I do not say, as well as language. Style 
 is language clearly understood: punctuation is 
 style clearly understood. 
 
 There are absolute rules for language, as also for 
 punctuation. Style ought to yield to the exigen- 
 cies of language, and punctuation to the exigencies 
 of style. I deny that it is immediately dependent 
 on grammatical rules. I maintain that it ought to 
 be more elastic, and be subjected to no absolute 
 rule. 
 
 There is an abundance of good treatises on 
 punctuation, which ought to be read, and used as 
 occasion demands, but not submitted to with 
 servility. 
 
 76
 
 76 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 It lias been said, " The style is the man." Punc- 
 tuation is even more the man than style. It is the 
 intonation of speech translated by signs of the 
 highest importance. A fine page poorly punctu- 
 ated is incomprehensible to the sight : a good dis- 
 course is incomprehensible to the ear if delivered 
 without punctuation, and disagreeable if the punc- 
 tuation be bad. The instinct of the intelligent 
 orator is a sure guide. Without being obliged to 
 have recourse to any written rale, he understands 
 how to divide his sentence, suspending the sense, 
 yet, at the same time, making it evident that it is 
 not complete ; knows where to pause in a period 
 of unusual length, and how to prolong that pause 
 beyond the laws of moderation by accenting in 
 such a n>anner as to secure the attention that the 
 sentence demands. A discourse well delivered, 
 a theatrical part well rendered, ought to fiunish 
 the most reliable rules for written punctuation. 
 
 The actor often errs for want of this knowl- 
 edge. He needs a great amount of skill, espe- 
 cially in classic verse, to vary his intonation, that 
 neither the ear nor the mind may be fatigued by 
 its monotony ; and, at the same time, to preserve 
 the sense, literary or philosophical. A few are so 
 overpowered by this difficulty that they give
 
 CHARACTER IN ELOCUTION. 77 
 
 utterance to exclamations which destroy the 
 measure of the verse. Even at the " Thdatre 
 Frangais " one often hears false verse. 
 
 Rachel, at the commencement of her career, 
 neither spoke correctly nor punctuated well. 
 She overcame this fault, and reached the apogee 
 of her talent ; then, by dint of study, she passed 
 the goal, and, in trying for too great effect, over- 
 punctuated her intonations. 
 
 If you wish to account for excess of punctua- 
 tion, examine the character of a man in reference 
 to his manner of speech. If he weighs every 
 word, if he gives an equal value to all his 
 phrases, if he measures accurately each member, 
 you will immediately be impressed with the idea, 
 that this man thinks too much of himself, that he 
 attributes an exaggerated importance to his own 
 assertions, tliat he is positive, vain, and despotic. 
 A man so in love with his own sayings will suffer 
 no contradiction, nor permit any opposition. If 
 he writes, his punctuation will produce the same 
 impression as his delivery. He will make an 
 abuse of periods and commas, and will overload 
 his style with incidental phrases, consequently 
 abound in parentheses and dashes. 
 
 He who abuses exclamation-points is a power-
 
 78 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 less speaker : that is obvious. He who suppresses 
 them entirely, and always turns his periods in 
 such a manner as to avoid their use, is affected, 
 thouo'h in a different manner. He is afraid either 
 of yielding to his feelings, or being suspected of 
 emotion. In conversation, his criticism is harsh, 
 his reasoning cold, and his joke rough. 
 
 The error into which Rachel fell towards the 
 close of her glorious career is the general failing 
 of the actors at the " Theatre Fran9ais," and 
 perhaps the inevitable result of the studies at the 
 Conservatoire. These studies are excellent and 
 necessary ; but one should be able to pass beyond 
 them, when he has reached a certain height of 
 talent. Delivery, and what I shall call spoken 
 punctuation, are so intimately connected with 
 the mimicry of actors, and of the general orator, 
 that it is impossible to use tlie slightest exaggera- 
 tion without affecting the entire aspect of the 
 individual. The least comma produces a vibra- 
 tion of the body, or a change in the physiognomy. 
 The exclamation - point and the interrogation- 
 point have their corresponding expression in the 
 face or the gesture. The too frequent use of 
 these fatigues the hearer, and gives rise to a 
 strange monotony resulting from excess of vari-
 
 ELOQUENCE AND LYRICISM. 79 
 
 ety. This science of particularization, which, at 
 the " Th<:jatre Francais," has reached perfection, 
 must be extremely satisfactory to the illiterate and 
 to the foreigner, both needing this slight aid to 
 enable them to understand a language with every 
 particular of which they are not familiar ; but, to 
 the man of true appreciation and quick intellect, 
 this setting forth of the members of a period 
 is annoying, sometimes painful. One needs to 
 breathe from well-filled lungs, when entering the 
 precincts of the beautiful. Great eloquence is 
 easy and abundant ; great lyricism needs no 
 pause : it is not out of breath. The latter flows 
 like a river : the former rushes like a torrent. If 
 an incidental phrase slips into lyricism, it must 
 enhance its beauty. It is like the wave that 
 dashes against the rock, becoming broken for an 
 instant, but receiving renewed energy for its 
 departure. In such a case, the suspended burst 
 is an excellent thing; but if, even with much 
 aljility, you insist on allowing an equal value to 
 every thing that can form, as it were, an angle of 
 incidence, you destroy the primary effect for the 
 benefit of secondary effects which it would have 
 been much better to sacrifice. You obtain the 
 glitter which destroys the harmony of form and 
 the logic of thought.
 
 80 IJfPRESSTONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 To return to written punctuation : in certain 
 places the text should not be overloaded, and in 
 others there should be a bountiful supply. A 
 correct distribution of stops requu'es tact; and 
 that is why I prefer no absolute rules. In a 
 dialogue between persons of different character, 
 for example, I should vary the punctuation with 
 the expressions. In a rapid narration I should 
 make few pauses ; even in a simple statenjent I 
 should not cut up into phrases what is merely a 
 collection of phrases tending to the same idea. 
 If there is the least research or obscurity in an 
 explanation, it can be made more lucid by a very 
 grammatical punctuation. If, on the contrary, 
 you speak of things which every one can under- 
 stand by a hint, do not give them an impor- 
 tance which they do not deserve. Hasten to the 
 point in question, whether by written or spoken 
 word. 
 
 These shades of difference are not within the 
 province of the proof-reader. A good proof- 
 reader is a perfect grammarian, and he often 
 knows his business much better than we know 
 ours ; but when we do know it, and have our 
 own reasons, the proof-reader proves only an 
 obstacle. He cannot be governed by feeling ; he
 
 A FEW INNOVATIONS. 81 
 
 would have too much to do if he entered into the 
 feeHngs of each one of us ; but, when he has to 
 correct our proofs after us, he shoukl let every 
 one take the responsibility of his own punctua- 
 tion, as he does that of style. He would make a 
 mistake if, wishing to conform to our idea, he 
 should punctuate a certain page in accordance 
 with what seemed to him our views in another 
 page. Instinctively or from reason, the same 
 writer may take different courses with forms that 
 are analogous, but differ in their fundamental 
 points. Although you may have been very 
 grammatical in some matter-of-fact piece, you do 
 not feel oljliged to be so where the subject 
 demands pathos. If your style is clear, it can do 
 without this second explanation of rigid punc- 
 tuation. 
 
 Punctuation ought to be used more to facilitate 
 the first reading, than to give satisfaction as to 
 rules at a second reading. There are a few inno- 
 vations that might be introduced into our method. 
 For example : it is sometimes difficult to know, 
 at the commencement of a sentence, whether it be 
 interrogative or affirmative : either the eye must 
 run ahead, or the reader must rejieat. It would 
 be more convenient to follow the Spanish method,
 
 82 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 and place the interrogation-point at the head 
 instead of the tail of the sentence.^ 
 
 In verse, punctuation is meaningless while we 
 continue to begin every line with a capital. 
 Wherefore this routine that dazzles both the eye 
 and the mind ? 
 
 It is so difficult to fix upon any arbitrary laws 
 for punctuation, that every one has his own 
 method ; and even proof-readers do not agree 
 among themselves with regard to certain signs. 
 Punctuation is an improvement in language, of 
 rather recent origin. Our ancient masters punc- 
 tuated their manuscripts very little or not at all : 
 so the editors who have corrected the ancient 
 editions of the classics have acted according to 
 their own taste. Therefore, in order to establish 
 a more or less free and individual style of punc- 
 tuation, we can refer only to modern authors ; and 
 several among these, attaching no importance 
 perhaps to this detail, do not care to be regarded 
 as authority. This is to be regretted; for we 
 might derive from them some valuable informa- 
 tion, of which, for my own part, I should be glad 
 to avail myself. 
 
 1 The grammar of grammars agrees with me in regard to 
 this innovation.
 
 SOME AUTHORS CRITICISED. 83 
 
 I do not know wlietlier M. Miclielet carefully 
 corrects his own proofs, or whether the proof- 
 readers pass over his stops and marks ; but he is 
 strangely lavish of punctuation. His style is very 
 abrupt, the result of power and enthusiasm. So 
 much the more reason for not making it needless- 
 ly abrupt. Any one reading his works aloud 
 according to their punctuation would have the 
 appearance of being asthmatic. 
 
 The punctuation of Louis Blanc is very correct, 
 but too uniformly correct, and always abiding by 
 the same law of composition. 
 
 M. Thiers is freer in liis manner, and, probably 
 without being aware of it, is solving a great 
 problem, — that of abundant punctuation without 
 allowing its copiousness to l)ecome appai-ent. 
 Thdophile Gautier uses more commas than are 
 necessary for a st3le perfect in its construction. 
 He follows the example of Victor Hugo, whose 
 exceeding clearness ought not to suffer the impu- 
 tation of so many signs. 
 
 I do not kny w whether Alexandre Dumas, sen., 
 punctuated his own manuscripts and corrected his 
 own proof-sheets. At any rate, they needed to bo 
 punctuated again. His epistles contained neither 
 commas nor periods : his t's were not crossed, his
 
 84 JMPJiESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 i's not dotted, and he scorned the use of the apos- 
 trophe. His writing was like hieroglyphics, 
 although he was one of the finest penmen in the 
 world. On the contrary, the simplest letters of 
 M. de Lamennais might have passed, at the print- 
 ing-office, for corrected proofs. 
 
 Sometimes I receive letters miserable in orthog- 
 raphy, but well Avorded, and punctuated as if 
 punctuation were a peculiar instinct. Some I 
 receive, otherwise irreproachable, but punctuated 
 so fantastically as to be rendered very obscure. 
 To simplify punctuation as much as possible 
 would make it easier to remember : so I think it 
 should be simplified. In many cases this could be 
 easily done. The comma preceding and is, as a 
 general thing, useless. She dressed herself, and 
 then went out. Why not, She dressed herself and 
 then went out ? I do not need to be told that to 
 dress and to go out are two separate actions : I 
 need, rather, to feel that they are two actions 
 united in a common end. Many commas placed 
 before which are superfluous. He approached the 
 lamp, which was going out. I confided the message 
 to this man, who appeared to he honest. This 
 friend, ivho deceives and flatters me, is your friend 
 too. These commas, which abound in editions
 
 ENGLISH PREFERABLE TO FRENCH. 85 
 
 both well and badly corrected, are , useless and 
 tiresome. 
 
 Perhaps you think I attach too much impor- 
 tance to a detail about which few persons trouble 
 themselves. Am I wrong in feeling that we 
 ought early to acquire the habit of having a 
 reason for all that we do and all that we write ? 
 There are contingencies enough in life, which are 
 unavoidable, without our yielding to them volun- 
 tarily. There will be times when, from fatigue, or 
 press of business, we shall fail in our resolutions 
 or habits. There is no danger, if we are earnest 
 in our feelings, of our existence becoming cold 
 and methodical ; but, rather, of our being drawn 
 into tlie opposite extreme. Then our only course 
 would be to exert a little control over our feel- 
 ings, and, as soon as possible, seize from the sliip- 
 wreck of our joys the waif of reason. 
 
 Since we have devoted this conversation to 
 pedagogism, permit me to ask — you who are 
 better acquainted with French than most of us — 
 if you consider our language clearer than all 
 others. For my own part, I am not of that 
 opinion. It clings too closely to the Latin, a dead 
 huiguage, and one not suited to oiu- forms and 
 manners. The construction of onis is too simple.'.
 
 86 lAfPEESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 I prefer the English with its odious souuds, and 
 distortions of the mouth, its hissings and drawl- 
 ing gutturals. It is a language well fitted for 
 malformed mouths and defective throats, charac- 
 teristics of the race ; but it is a language clear, 
 energetic, regular, to the point, and as well 
 adapted as ours to express different shades of 
 meaning. 
 
 By a few innovations we might give to written 
 French a little more logic and clearness. I know 
 that this is forbidden ground ; but I have never 
 written a grammar, so have the privilege of criti- 
 cism. I have no right to simplify the language ; 
 but I believe that it will simplif}^ itself by the 
 inevitable admission of the classes called illiterate 
 into the direct advance of the hourgeoise class, 
 which is not very well versed in French on leav- 
 ing college. What constitutes the beauty and 
 solidity of the language will struggle successfully 
 against an invasion of barbarians ; but the super- 
 fluities, the work of pedantry, will, I hope, disap- 
 pear. Already our young peasants are beginning 
 to speak more simply.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 TJNIVEKSAl, SUFFBAGE. — EEPLY TO A LADY 
 
 FBIEND. 
 
 NoHANT, October, 1871. 
 
 I KNOW that cultivated persons, men of letters 
 and artists are, like you, dreading the social 
 consequences of universal suffrage, which forms the 
 engrossing topic of the day. In answer to your 
 reproach, I will make a summary of the objections 
 which appear to me on this subject, calling upon 
 the public for judgment, because such questions 
 interest every one, and ought not to be confined 
 to the domain of privacy. 
 
 All objections to universal suffrage such as is 
 practised to-day bear upon the present time ; and 
 no one takes the future into consideration. Still 
 more, no .one seems to realize the fact that the 
 modification of this suffrage would certainly 
 require a revolution, and that the establishment 
 of it at the time when its establishment would 
 become necessary would involve another revolu- 
 tion. It appears to me that this is not what you 
 
 87
 
 88 lAfPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 desire. Nevertheless two possibilities of such 
 grave import ought to demand some little atten- 
 tion. An attempt to revise the law of universal 
 suffrage has given us the plebiscite after the eoup 
 d'etat. Do you think that another attempt would 
 produce such a state of affairs that no claimants 
 would arise to turn the thing to their^own profit ? 
 
 The right of suffrage being a weapon for the 
 usurpation of power, I do not see how any one 
 could think seriously of allowing it, if the desire 
 is, as with you, to maintain the republic. 
 
 The thoughtlessness with which those in your 
 circle (I mean in the social class to which you 
 belong) talk of incitement to this great modifica- 
 tion of suffrage proves that they regard the multi- 
 tude as a vast flock of sheep, without voluntary 
 action or consciousness of their rights. This is a 
 great error, the error of those who live in a gar- 
 den of flowers, without ever having considered 
 what is below the thin layer of soil that nourishes 
 their plants. 
 
 My comparison is true. Persons of refined 
 leisure or intellectual labor live, as it were, in a 
 garden, where the light, rich soil, w^ell adajDted to 
 the riches of the mind, furnishes them with all 
 the luxuries of high life. Generous and patriotic.
 
 AN EARTHLY PARADISE. 89 
 
 they would, no doubt, like to have the whole 
 earth this Garden of Eden, where one could walk 
 in slippers, and where there would be no great 
 wooden shoes to mar the beautiful effect of fresh 
 colors and sweet perfumes. 
 
 Under this jDaradisian crust is the brute earth, 
 with its mighty quarries and precious mines, and, 
 still deeper, its formidable volcanoes. All these 
 must have an outlet. I have alreadj^ said, and I 
 repeat, that universal suffrage — that is, the ex- 
 pression of the popular will, good or bad — is a 
 safety-valve, without which we should have 
 nothing but explosions of civil war. 
 
 When this marvellous pledge of security is 
 offered you, when you have found this great 
 social counterpoise, do you wish to restrain and 
 parah'ze it ? You represent intelligence ; and yet 
 you reject the foundation of it, which is good 
 sense. You sincerely believe that a ladder of 
 votes, starting at ignorance, would succeed in 
 making learning predominate. You have had 
 some experience of this under the bourgeois reign 
 of Louis Philippe. The privileged elector has 
 given you a succession of assemblies, with which 
 I have seen you as much irritated as you are at 
 the present da}-.
 
 90 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 I know that certain means are proposed for 
 forcing ignorance to elect capacity. One of the 
 most practicable, at first view, is to confer on a 
 certain class of citizens the right to elect as many 
 deputies as some other class, evidently more nu- 
 merous. I have read of so-called radical projects, 
 in which it has been earnestly requested that the 
 cities might have a right to private representa- 
 tives, dispensing with the vote of the country 
 towns. The cause of intelligence has not been 
 wanting in arguments to create this city-aristoc- 
 racy, destined to trample under foot the rights of 
 the rural people. A strange inconsistence of 
 jDolitical passion, otherwise called tlie art of at- 
 taining power by scorning the principles which 
 they pretend to exalt ! 
 
 It is quite time to have done with these guilty 
 paradoxes, which tend to nothing less than re- 
 establishing the reign of castes, thrusting the 
 peasant into the lowest of all, and holding him 
 there indefinitely. What a falsehood, then, is 
 the republic, if it holds such ideas cheap ! 
 
 Away with these republicans ! Put them with 
 the legitimists. They are just fit to act in 
 concert ; for, although the latter commenced by 
 acknowledging the authority of the general vote,
 
 THE PRINCIPLE OF JUSTICE. 91 
 
 they have determined to suppress it the moment 
 it acts in opposition to their wishes. These two 
 party extremes are being fatally urged on, by 
 their principles, towards the destruction of lib- 
 erty. Our principles are, in their liands, merely 
 weapons of civil war. They call their comprom- 
 , ises and fluctuations political measures. I said 
 just now, and I still insist, that pure politics 
 nowadays are nothing more than the art of 
 aggrandizement. I feel for them the great- 
 est contempt that could ever dwell in a human 
 breast. 
 
 A friend of mine, a man of vast intellect, — 
 I said so before, and I still think it, — reproaches 
 me for not having a sufficiently keen perception 
 of the principle of justice. Justice is his ideal, 
 and it is a line one. I flatter myself that it is 
 mine also ; but we cannot agree as to its applica- 
 tion. He tells me that justice gives the power 
 into the luuids of the most capable. Who can 
 deny that ? But he believes in legal means to 
 insure the reign of intelligence; and I deny that 
 it is williin the province of the Liw to enforce 
 these means. If the State is to pronounce upon 
 the worth of iinlJviiliiuls, \vc are in the midst 
 of theocracy. If the State punislies crime, and
 
 92 IMPIiESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 rewards virtue, it is no longer the reign of laws : 
 it is a dictatorsliip ; it is terror ; it is a man or 
 an assemblage of men deciding what is right and 
 what is wrong from his or their point of view, 
 imposing their own beliefs, decreeing a mode of 
 worship according to their liking. It is the Com- 
 mune of '91 or that of 1871. It is also the roy- 
 alty of divine right putting heretics to death. In 
 fact, it is the absolute suppression of the State, 
 that is, of the basis of society, and what consti- 
 tutes the right of all and the right of each. 
 
 Let us urge governments to the encouragement 
 of merit: they are rather prone not to discern 
 it. Let us form governments capable of recogniz- 
 ing, appreciating, employing, and encouraging 
 capability. But do not let us believe in political 
 rights, making exceptions in favor of capacity; 
 for it will most surely take advantage of this, 
 since it is not always combined with morality. If 
 there is justice in recognizing it, there would be 
 injustice in giving it full sway. 
 
 A more austere school would impose the most 
 difficult tasks upon those of greatest capacity. 
 In his admirable writings, Louis Blanc has repre- 
 sented ideal merit as forced to serve society with- 
 out receiving any recompense for its services, — a
 
 NATURAL RIGHTS. 93 
 
 Utopia of youth, which I have experienced, and I 
 certainly do not repent of having done so ; but it 
 will not hold its ground against maturity of 
 reflection. The State cannot force any one to do 
 what is right. It is not a person, better and wiser 
 than the rest of us : it is a contract which ought 
 to provide against the encroachment of reciprocal 
 rights. Under the honorable title of duty^ the 
 rights of one man ought not to be made to yield 
 to any man whatsoever. 
 
 Let us allow natural rights. That will be suffi- 
 cient ; for inequality of action is an anomaly, and 
 rests chiefly upon inequality of education. The 
 State ought to provide gratuitous education, I will 
 not say entirely obligatory, but inevitable. While 
 it sanctions absolute liberty for material labor, it 
 cannot refuse man the means of acquiring employ- 
 ment for hi.s intellectual faculties : this would be 
 to deprive him of a natural right. It is the 
 obvious duty of the State to render it possible for 
 us to become equal in efficiency. It cannot make 
 us so ; but if it create social inequalities, aided by 
 those of nature, it is sanctioning the most fearful 
 despotism, and reviving the past. I do not wish 
 the Academy of Sciences to say, as did Louis 
 XIV., "The State is myself." The tyranny of
 
 94 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 intelligence does not authorize that of follj, to be 
 sure, but it renders it inevitable, it gives rise to it 
 irresistibly ; for every abuse engenders an abuse 
 exactly opposite. History demonstrates this in 
 every page. 
 
 Alas ! the French spirit is always the same, 
 — idle because it is spontaneous, easily wearied 
 because it is too energetic. There is always that 
 need of rest for the body, or enjoyment for the 
 mind, protesting against the cold and patient 
 impartiality of .the law. We do not like to be 
 always contending. We wish public officers to 
 protect our persons and our houses. We find 
 that to reason with the ignorant is to lose precious 
 time ; to labor for the enlightenment of the first 
 person we meet is to render ourselves ridiculous. 
 We converse with the learned, correspond with 
 the literary, and are aristocrats from head to foot. 
 We say to society, " Deliver us from those igno- 
 ramuses who cannot understand us ; give us a 
 representation like that previous to '89, when 
 public affairs were dehberated by class, and not 
 by poll. That is very equitable and quite repub- 
 lican, you see. The radicals themselves have 
 made this request." 
 
 This law is simply impossible. These peasant-
 
 THE PROGRESS OF MANNERS. 95 
 
 sheep have a will of their own, to break which, 
 France must again be completely overthrown. A 
 much simpler course would be to intrust to the 
 progress of "manners, and change of opinion, the 
 responsibility of deciding matters of which these 
 alone are master and judge. What you desire, 
 this risht of intelligence in the direction of social 
 affairs, no one has authority to grant, but all have 
 the power to apply. This concerns you, kings of 
 the mind, priests of science, artists, and literary 
 favorites of the pubhc, elite of France ! Impose 
 upon yourselves this duty ; be stronger tlian igno- 
 rance, and prove your strength. Artists, produce 
 chefs-d'oeuvre. Savants, make obvious and impor- 
 tant discoveries. Economists and legislators, bring 
 light into our political and financial chaos. Who, 
 then, will refuse the benefits which you hold in 
 your hands ? 
 
 These blessings, you say, are very difficult to 
 disseminate. Every thing offers opposition; but 
 the principal impediment is the indifference of a 
 nation steeped in the prejudices and routines of 
 if^norance. Then we must educate it as mucli as 
 possible. In liclping it we are lielping ourselves. 
 Let us free ourselves from our own errors and 
 personal prejudices, which are numerous and
 
 96 ' IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 obstinate ; for we are not as strong as we like to 
 believe when we claim political preponderance. 
 We must commence ourselves the education of 
 the people. We are chiefly wanting in principles 
 of true justice, methods of true science, and 
 moral conditions of healthy inspiration. We are 
 all more or less ill, sceptical through too much 
 experience, or worn out by too much labor. This 
 epoch is not for the flight of genius. There is no 
 separate race to keep alive the sacred fire in a 
 temple when it is extinguished on the hearth- 
 stones of the sorrowing city. We must make 
 up our minds to bear the present state of things, 
 and wait for the general awakening. Let us try 
 to be up the first, but let the dawn find us work- 
 ing for all, and not conspiring for a few. 
 
 The liberty of all, that is to say, the apprecia- 
 tion of each, alone has the right and power to 
 demand capacity in the intellectual government 
 of the masses. No constitution can or ought to 
 restrain the claims of an idiot to become a great 
 man. It is for public opinion to do him justice ; 
 it is for public good sense to put him in his proper 
 place. If public opinion is also idiotic, it is our 
 own fault, after all ; and the only remedy is to 
 devote ourselves to its correction.
 
 LOOKING FOR AFFECTION. 97 
 
 Ah ! how much good a little modesty and 
 self-examination would do us, were it only to 
 reconcile us to those weak minds which we regard 
 with such disdain, whose infirmities are owing to 
 our inadequacy ! Do we not in the enlightened 
 world form eminently unjust estimations, make 
 cruel determinations, exhibit a coldly implacable 
 pride ? We feel these evil instincts in ourselves. 
 Are you astonished that those who have not been 
 taught to reflect are barbarians, when it requires 
 such an effort in those who do reflect to become 
 really civilized ? 
 
 My friend, I remember that, in my youth, I 
 used to see a poor young fool, with a pale face 
 and a long black beard, wandering about the 
 country, busily searching the bushes, turning over 
 stones, and sometimes entering private grounds, 
 and stooping over the wells. When any oue 
 asked him what he was looking for, he invariably 
 answered, " I am looking for affection." 
 
 What if we should make a little search for it ? 
 if, instead of always measuring tlie distance be- 
 tween a man of learning aixl a fool, a literary 
 patrician and a slave of misery, we sliould search 
 for truth in the peifume of the fields, or the 
 transparency of the l^rook '/ i'crhaps we might 
 ]ic;;r llic latter iiiiiiniiir tlic word love.
 
 98 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 Yes, love^ I think, is the key to the enigma of 
 the universe. Always to shoot forth again, to 
 grow, and cling to life, to seek one's opposite for 
 the purpose of assimilation, to he continually dis- 
 playing the prodigy of mixture and combination, 
 whence springs the prodigy of new productions, 
 — these are the laws of nature. How does it 
 happen, then, that invincible antipathies exist in 
 the world of thought? Whence comes it that 
 the mind rejects, with disgust, mediocrity, and 
 nullity, as if it feared to diminish, or become 
 poisoned l)y their contact ? Is the danger real ? 
 I think not. Has not the mind always power 
 over matter ? How much more should a strong 
 mind have power over a weak mind ! Why does 
 not every man who has knowledge try to impart 
 it to him who is ignorant? This would be very 
 easy, provided he love that ignorant one because 
 he is a man, and not despise him because he is 
 ignorant. 
 
 To instruct many, or to give much instruction, 
 is difficult, yet it is the most beautiful of all tlie 
 professions ; but, even if one can devote himself 
 entirely to it, the effect is slow, the task painful. 
 Yet what useful thinf^ is not lonec and difficult 
 in its realization ? We have before us the prob-
 
 THE EDUCATION OF THE MASSES. 99 
 
 lem of the education of the masses ; and we recoil 
 in fear, because it will require much time, and 
 will involve many disappointments and deviations, 
 before a favorable result is perceptible. We pre- 
 fer to say, " Deliver us from these barbarians so 
 hard to enlighten. Suppress their initiative move- 
 ments, Mdiich are ojBPensive to us, and their meet- 
 ings, which are a hinderance, and deprive them 
 of political rights." Well, then, there will be no 
 longer any need of instructing them. Reduced 
 to a state of helots, they will have nothing to do 
 with their rights or their duties. Society will be 
 delivered from their political blunders. It will 
 act without them ; and they will be allowed to 
 form a part of it, only on condition of working 
 for it in strict obedience. Is this a solution ? 
 Because your child does not know how to read, 
 does it follow that you have a right to drive him 
 from your house, and deprive him of his family 
 name ? 
 
 You ought not, and you cannot do this. You 
 owe liim a home, an occupation, a name. You 
 did not bring him into the world to abandon liim 
 to fate. You owe it to society, too, not to pro- 
 duce a vagrant. These duties, to the fulfibnent 
 of which }our child bus a claim, 3'ou contracted
 
 100 I.IIPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 towards the people the day that you delivered 
 them from bondage. They were vegetating in 
 nihility : you gave them wings and life ; and now 
 it is not for you to plunge them again into night. 
 You believed that you ought to emancipate them 
 completely before furnishing them with educa- 
 tion ; and, if yoa consider it well, this imprudence 
 was necessary, but fatal. It is too late to re^Dent. 
 We cannot take back what we have given away. 
 The highest justice, divine justice, is opposed to 
 such a course. 
 
 I said that absolute freedom of the ballot has 
 been inevitable ; and this fact confirms the impos- 
 sibility of State action in regard to distinction of 
 ability. The State can never base the establish- 
 ment of inequalities upon any thing but ciphers : 
 it cannot be a judge of the political merit of 
 the individual. If the general will force it to 
 an aristocratic constitution, the influence of the 
 individual can be increased only in an aristocratic 
 sense. The figure of the tax will decide the 
 value of the man. What coarser, more unjust, 
 and monstrous, what more at variance with the 
 feeling which leads us to protest against the influ- 
 ence of number ? The Revolution of February 
 was instigated to get rid of money influence.
 
 THE RIGHT OF ALL. 101 
 
 which was, in a different way, iniquitous, inju- 
 rious, and senseless. When this revolution was 
 over, the question arose as to wherein would 
 henceforth lie the preponderance of power. The 
 adjunction of capacity was eagerly demanded. 
 The question was to give it a practical definition. 
 They found, then, that a political definition was 
 impossible, — that the State had neither the right 
 nor the power to make a choice, nor to favor 
 classes, bodies, or professions. There is but one 
 course possible, broad, and equitable, — the right 
 of all ; and this was adopted, with all its incon- 
 veniences, dangers, and threatenings. 
 
 The situation is not changed, nor can it change, 
 because there are no legitimate means of avoiding 
 the consequences of absolute truth. Every thing 
 relating to politics changes or passes away. This 
 proclamation of universal suffrage was a political 
 error ; and that is precisely what gives this law 
 indelibility. The republican government either 
 saw or did not see that it was about to commit 
 suicide. It acted under the irreducible pressure 
 of a truth superior to itself, and signed — its own 
 death-warrant; wliich Avas a great acliievement. 
 Let us all indorse this noble error! If we are 
 true republicans, sincerely believing in progress,
 
 102 IMPJiESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 in the necessary equality of rights, in the future 
 of humanity, let us not allow this foundation to 
 be removed witliout overthrowing the whole edi- 
 fice. Let us shun that political notion which 
 incites men of no principle to curse universal 
 suffrage when it threatens their own interests, 
 only to admire it when it proves satisfactory. Let 
 us believe in eternal right, immutable truth. Let 
 us feel that a republic is the only form of govern- 
 ment suited to a nation possessing self-respect, 
 and let us try to become such a nation. We have 
 pledged ourselves by centuries of contest, by the 
 intellectual efforts of our learned men and philoso- 
 phers, by the persecution of our martyrs, by our 
 wars sometimes triumphant, sometimes disastrous, 
 against monarchical coalitions. Our glories and 
 our misfortunes are our nobility ; and nobility 
 imposes the obligation of nobleness of feeling and 
 conduct. Would we have so fought and suffered, 
 merely to fall back into an empire or monarchy ? 
 Shall we once more intrust our destiny, and what 
 is yet more important, our honor, to the keeping 
 of a single man ? Shall we allow Europe, which 
 looks on without understanding us, to say that we 
 are not capable of governing ourselves wiselj^ that 
 all our aspirations and protestations were mere
 
 WISDOM, COURAGi:, PATIENCE. 103 
 
 boasts, that all our great ideas were but tlie flight 
 of a disordered imagination, that our ideal did 
 not take the real into consideration, and that our 
 character gre"w shamefully weak when difficulties 
 arose ? When the hour has come for reaping the 
 fruit of so many sacrifices, shall we resign our posi- 
 tion as men and Frenchmen ? 
 
 You cry, " No, no ! That is not what we desire. 
 We have cause to fear the loss of those sacred 
 rights, honor and liberty, through the blindness 
 of the multitude, who use the ballot to restore the 
 men and the things of the past." 
 
 Very well : undeceive yourself. Republicanism 
 is making rapid progress in France. Let us have 
 the wisdom to wait, the courage to trust, and the 
 patience to submit to any necessary deviations, 
 and not stumble at each step upon a line that we 
 have traced out for ourselves. We are, perhaps, 
 in the most uncomfortable and perilous situation 
 that was ever known ; and yet, if we would only 
 avail ourselves of it, it is a very favorable one for 
 social regeneration. We arc governed by a sove- 
 reign assembly, which is the normal condition of 
 a republic. Within tliis assembly, freely chosen, — 
 this is its sole merit, — exists every variety of opin- 
 ion ; and yet no one party is able to display its own
 
 104 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 colors. The large number of claimants, or those 
 who assume this attitude, are fortunately a cause 
 of antagonism among themselves. None of them 
 r^resents a ruling majority ; and, if all have parti- 
 sans in the different provinces, none of them can 
 have the twenty-two departments of M. Thiers. 
 There is a certain fascination in this chief of the 
 executive power, not on account of his intelligence 
 or his talent. The masses do not appreciate such 
 things ; they know nothing about them : what 
 has made such an impression on their minds is 
 that force of character which led him to accept 
 the republican form of government as necessary 
 and respectable, although at variance with his 
 personal feelings. This is the first time that a 
 man in power has been known to renounce his 
 own opinions and sympathies, not to please a 
 party, but for the deliverance of a nation. 
 
 Here is something quite new for France ; and 
 this abnormal result of extreme peril presents a 
 noble precept for patriotism, and a good example 
 to follow. He has already brought many minds 
 to a knowledge of our present situation, which is 
 equivalent to rousing them to a sense of their 
 duty. 
 
 Immediately after the distresses of war and the
 
 THE FRUIT OF EXPERIENCE. 105 
 
 severities of peace, we were made to witness a 
 senseless and odious attempt of unqualified tyr- 
 anny ; but it did not extend beyond the walls of 
 Paris. The working-class did not resj^ond to this 
 mad appeal. They understood very well that the 
 triumph of this party meant a Prussian master 
 for France ; and here, again, peril protected us 
 against peril. 
 
 We are still suffering from the effect of this 
 threat, and from the insult of foreign occupation. 
 This 6vil tends to make us wise, and teaches us 
 not to seek revolutions, never to permit them 
 again, but to consider those bad citizens who 
 instigate them as bad Frenchmen. From our dis- 
 aster, humiliation, and sorrow, may arise one of 
 those great lessons in which history abounds, but 
 which the people never understand until long after 
 they have been taught them by experience. Let 
 us comprehend this one immediately, and become 
 more sensil;le. Let us treat experience like a fruit 
 whicli is spoiled by being gathered too late. Let 
 us eat immediately ; and may it do us good, not in 
 a hundred years, but lo-duy ! i\L'iy we silence our 
 passions, our aiiihilioiis, our repugnant feelings! 
 Let us abandon no jjiiueiple, but yield to passing 
 events witliout auger and without discouragement.
 
 106 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 May the ignorant be pardoned their errors ! No 
 one has the right to punish ignorance ; but it ought 
 to be enlightened. If we do not make haste, its 
 destruction will involve our own, and on owr heads, 
 more than on its, will rest the blame.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 SPIRITUAL BELIEF. 
 
 NOHANT, Oct. 28, 1871. 
 
 I HAVE just lighted a fire in the little cop- 
 per-lined fireplace that shines like a mirror. 
 The flame reflected from above and from the 
 sides fills the chamber with its brightness. The 
 curtain is drawn aside. It is one o'clock in the 
 morning. The full moon is shining in the pure 
 heavens, where the stars are almost eclipsed by 
 its brilliancy. It sheds a blue tint over the 
 room from the reflection of the blue furniture 
 and drapery, while the white flames of the blaz- 
 ing pine irradiate the hearth. Every thing in 
 the little room seems to be dancing, — the por- 
 traits of the children, the little figures on the 
 drapery, the arabesques on the carpet. How 
 gay, sparkling, and lively is the first fire of 
 autumn ! but how solemn and austere is the first 
 frosty night ! There is a lovely ])Ouquet gath- 
 ered this morning from an abundant supply in 
 
 107
 
 108 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 the flower-border; healthy-looking roses of un- 
 usual size ; the last roses, the most beautiful of 
 the year. They will indeed be the last. The 
 beds of mignonette have given me their farewell 
 perfume. The periwinkles, the marigolds, the 
 snapdragons, have their last representatives in 
 this vase. An ominous vapor is spreading over 
 the glass ; and here, in a little corner, a diamond 
 network is forming. Alas ! this is no harmless 
 hoar-frost: it is the real, unrelenting kind, that 
 in one night passes over the earth like a fire, 
 blackening the leaves, softening the stems, de- 
 stroying color, and strewing the ground with 
 withered branches and mournful debris. This 
 is the first touch of winter, the fatal kiss which 
 kills the sanguine beauty of belated vegetation. 
 While, though prepared for a struggle with the 
 first cold, I am availing myself of the physical 
 comfort which fire procures for the human race, 
 all the smiling family of flowers are expiring, 
 and the earth is putting on its mourning garb. 
 
 Who would believe it ? To see the moon so 
 beautiful, the sky so blue, the tall, motionless 
 pines marking their shadows so distinctly upon 
 the shining gravel, one might fancy himself in- 
 vited to a feast of silence, to the deep and
 
 THE SCYTHE OF DEATH. 109 
 
 si)eechless joy of contemplation from the ark of 
 security. No ! this is bitter treason. Death is 
 pursuing his noiseless and invisible way through 
 the groves sown with diamonds ; and, as he 
 passes back and forth, he mows down every thing 
 within his reach. Here he has overlooked a few 
 pink anemones; there some fresh daisies are 
 hastening to display their beauty, be it only for 
 a day. Alas ! they will not be permitted this 
 day of triumph. The cruel scythe that overlooks 
 nothing has discovered them. Every thing is 
 dead. 
 
 Last year at this time I was not thinking of 
 flowers. My sympathy was not bestowed upon 
 roses, but upon the millions of men lying strewed 
 upon the ground. The war is finished ; but we 
 hardly sleep with ]joth eyes closed, although the 
 evil is withdrawn, and the worst of the misery is 
 over. We allow ourselves time to get Avarmed, 
 to gaze on the moon, to think of the children wlio 
 are sleeping, and will not be forced by invasion to 
 spend the rest of the night in the fields. The 
 present moment is our own. Our house is still 
 standing. Have we a right to complain of any 
 thing, when so many roofs lie shattered on the 
 ground, so many lives have been destroyed, which 
 can never bloom again ?
 
 110 niPRESSTONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 Since the first cold weather and the first fire 
 justify me in spending a night of idleness, I shall 
 avail myself of it to renew the acquaintance of a 
 person forgotten of late, who is no other than 
 myself. This person, who lives far from noise and 
 activity, is often absorbed in her own affairs ; and 
 her recreations belong to a dear family, in whose 
 midst her existence is complete without the need 
 of a consciousness of life. Perchance she collects 
 her thoughts, and asks herself this question, which 
 she has often before evaded : Of what use are you 
 in the world ? 
 
 Of what use, indeed ! "Who knows ? Perhaps 
 we ought, from time to time, to undergo self- 
 examination, lest we forget something that needs 
 attention. We should not rely too much on the 
 apparent health of the mind. 
 
 Let me see if this room and this fire will help 
 me to locate in the past the person whom I am 
 seeking at present. This room that person occu- 
 pied in her youth, when she was eager for reading, 
 and possessed full confidence in herself. She often 
 rose at ten o'clock, and read till three. When she 
 had finished reading on winter nights, she would 
 warm herself a little, which was not always easy, 
 for the fireplace used to smoke at the slightest
 
 CONTRADICTORY BELIEFS. HI 
 
 change in the weather. 'V\niile warming herself 
 she would reflect on what she had been reading, 
 and, with the blindness of inexperience, grope her 
 way to criticism. The contradictory beliefs enter- 
 tained by great minds puzzled her ; and she sought 
 to harmonize these lights of different colors, which 
 shone around her as shone then and shines still 
 the flame upon this hearth, and the reflection of 
 the moon into this room. 
 
 Brought up in a convent, and elated with 
 poetical devotion, she calmly read the philoso- 
 phers, believing, at first, that she could easily 
 refute their arguments by her conscience ; but she 
 learned to love these philosophers, and to feel 
 God greater than he had ever yet appeared. The 
 little CathoHc garlands of the Restoration froze 
 during these winter nights; and a mysterious 
 plant grew upon an ideal altar in a world beyond 
 this, which it fdled with a multitude of flowers 
 and innumerable shoots. It was a virgin forest, 
 with an endless number of convolvuli uniting to 
 form an infinity of intertwinings in an infinity of 
 vitality. This was heaven ; and the mind of the 
 person who was thus musing wandered into this 
 infinity, borne thither by that vegetation which 
 was composed, flowers and fruit, of all the souls
 
 112 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 in the universe, regenerated, made fruitful, im- 
 mortalized, by the Spirit of God, wliich was tlie 
 sap. 
 
 This was very vague, but very grand; and, 
 every time that the vision returned, it seemed to 
 have grown, as if the sap had increased through- 
 out the whole and throughout its parts. 
 
 But for a long time this mental dazzling lacked 
 something : it was a personal feeling. Catholi- 
 cism teaches us to love God as a person : philoso- 
 phy extends love by making reason intervene. 
 The dreamy soul longed for love ; and Omnipo- 
 tence, the object of its admiration, did not suffice 
 for its affections. Infinite love was wanting in 
 this exuberant creation, where the force of regen- 
 eration was inexhaustible ; and the world, which 
 serves us as a medium, manifests only the strug- 
 gle of existences encroaching upon one another. 
 In this virgin forest, the living grew fatally fat on 
 death ; and the Author of death and life seemed 
 indifferent to these alternatives of slumber and 
 activity. Whence it appears, that no existence is 
 precious, and that the wise man will pass un- 
 moved through this universal scramble for salva- 
 tion. Accordingly universal life loses all joy, all 
 consciousness of strength. Where love does not 
 dwell, is a void.
 
 THE NEED THROUGH ALL AGES. 113 
 
 Then the thoughtful mind of which I am 
 endeavoring to give a slight description, and 
 which at that time was seeking to regain its 
 religion of the past, tried to rise through prayer. 
 Rejecting the impeding form of Catholicism, it 
 unconsciously became Protestant. It went still 
 farther, and improvised its mode of communion 
 with the Divinity. It formed for itself a religion 
 suited to its growth, commensurate with its 
 understanding. It was probably not a grand 
 conception : its whole merit lay in sincerity and 
 independence. 
 
 What floated over this billow, what has floated 
 through all ages of life, and swum without weari- 
 ness, was the need of a belief in divine love, 
 which blossoms to perfection in the great uni- 
 verse, in spite of appearances proclaiming the 
 absence of all superior goodness, of all pity, and 
 consequently all justice ; for, having endowed us 
 with human nature, to scornfully abandon this 
 weakness would be unfathcrl}'^, iniquitous. I 
 should prefer to feel tliat God did not exist, than 
 to beUevc him indifferent. 
 
 When this perplexed individual allowed her- 
 self to hG persuaded that such might be the case, 
 she sometimes Ijecame atheistic for four and 
 twenty hours.
 
 114 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 I£ she had discovered the answer to her problem, 
 she would have been before her time and her age. 
 She met with nothing but fugitive accords that, 
 crossing her ideal, left, as it were, a trace of sweet 
 harmony. At those rare moments when, in the 
 calmness of her conscience and the allayment of 
 her misgivings, she semed to feel the wings of the 
 maternal Divinity fluttering above her head, she 
 experienced the only happiness which can be felt 
 in sohtude, — sensibility; I might almost say a 
 sensation of the Divine presence. 
 
 External life banished these thoughts for a long 
 time, or relieved their oppressive weight ; and the 
 sights and mental reflections which this life 
 unrolled were merged into a common whole where 
 philosophic individuality seems to have become 
 entirely effaced during long periods. Our present 
 object is to discover and to renew the chain which 
 connects the old age of this individual with her 
 youth. Nothing could be easier. This chain has 
 been loose for a long time, it has become entangled 
 with many passing ideas ; but it has never broken. 
 It is there. I feel it. The dialogue with the 
 unknown is about to be continued ; but I cannot 
 say where it left off, nor what was the last word 
 exchanged. It is like a book without beginning
 
 FAITH. 115 
 
 or end, and without the division of chapters; 
 where each page reminds me that it has been 
 read before. 
 
 It is freezing. This temperature is fatal to 
 veo-et-ation. It is unfavorable to the circulation 
 of either sap or blood. The earth is sad: man is 
 suffering. The certainty that in other climes this 
 night is day, and this frost a mild solar warmth, 
 does not prevent the plant from dying, nor the 
 man without shelter from taking cold. General 
 compensations from which we do not derive imme- 
 diate advantage do not take the place of sensi- 
 bility ; and satisfied reason does not console those 
 who are not content with reason alone. It is the 
 same with faith. The evil which educes good 
 does not justify the universe in allowing itself to 
 be governed by brute force ; and, if God has beeu 
 able to prevent evil and suffering, it has not been 
 his will so to do. The God of Job was only an 
 eloquent rhetorician, and Job was a coward to be 
 so submissive. 
 
 We must either not believe in God at all, or we 
 must relincjuish all the notions that we have thus 
 far iml)il)cd. We must give up estimating liis 
 attributes l)y our own, and acknowledge that our 
 goodness is not his goodness, our justice not his
 
 116 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 justice, and that lie has intrusted to us the care 
 of watching over ourselves, without ever alleviat- 
 ing, in defiance of Nature's laws, the difficulties 
 and perils of our existence. This is left to work 
 out its own destiny, without any visible com- 
 passion or assistance. It is for us to draw from 
 Nature her secrets ; it is for human science and 
 industry to discover what is needed from the 
 inexhaustible reservoir whence flow the conditions 
 of universal life. 
 
 The first man who conceived the idea of con- 
 quering fire, and making it subservient to the 
 wants of his fellow-creatures, by constructing a 
 fireplace where the smoke might escape, was 
 more humane towards man than noisy Jupiter, 
 crashing the cedars with his thunderbolt, and 
 living in the region of the sun in a state of nudity, 
 without ever considering whether the inhabitants 
 of the earth knew how to provide themselves 
 with clothing. Yet man thanks Jupiter for creat- 
 ing fire, but never thinks of being grateful for 
 the knowledge of its use. He blesses Flora for 
 bestowing flax and hemp, and the earth for sup- 
 I)orting those animals which furnish wool and fur. 
 For every thing that he utilizes, he thanks the 
 benevolent beings who have done nothing more
 
 MATERIAL RELIGION. 117 
 
 than allow him to appear on earth at the proper 
 time, — that is, at the time decreed by the great 
 law, — in order that he may find there the condi- 
 tions of his existence. These gods of antiquity, 
 this Jehovah himself, who includes them all, and 
 gives us a loftier idea of the power of nature cen- 
 tred in him, — these are the forces and properties 
 of matter. We need a material rehgion, to secure 
 their favor, to prevent them from becoming angry, 
 and applying the scourges which they keep in 
 reserve for the chastisement of the impious. 
 
 This childish and barbarous notion has entered 
 the human brain, and become incrusted there by 
 its descent from father to son : it is ever the same, 
 with heaven and hell as a cover for the illogical 
 manifestations of the apparent intentions of the 
 Divinity towards us mortals. 
 
 Thus ever a God formed in our own image, 
 foolish or sinful, vain or childish, irritable or ten- 
 der, after our manner ; fanciful if his caprice acts 
 in this world ; sophistical and casuistic, if he 
 waits till after death to indemnify us for the 
 wrong that he has done us during life. 
 
 Communion with such a God is impossible to 
 me, T confess. lie is effaced from my memory, 
 and I could not find him in any part of my room ;
 
 118 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. ' 
 
 neither is he in the garden, nor in the fields, nor 
 upon the waters, nor in the azure dome of stars, 
 nor in the churches where men kneel. It is a 
 word extinct, a dead letter, a finished thought. 
 Such a belief, such a God, cannot exist in my 
 mind. 
 
 And yet every thuig is divine. This beautiful 
 sky, this fire which burns so brightly, that human 
 industry which grants me human life (that is, the 
 power to indulge in peaceful revery without being 
 frozen Hke a plant), that thought which is working 
 itself out in my brain, this heart which loves, that 
 repose of will leading me to more extended love, 
 all this, spiritual and material, is animated by some- 
 thing higher than either, — the unknown origin 
 of every thing tangible, the hidden force which is 
 the cause of all that has been and ever will be. 
 
 If all is divine, even matter ; if every thing is 
 superhuman, even man, — then God is in all things. 
 I see and I touch him ; I feel him, because I love 
 him, because I have always loved and felt him, 
 because he dwells within me to a degree propor- 
 tionate to my insignificance. For all that, I am 
 not God ; but I came from him, and to him I must 
 return. Still that is only a form of speech ; for 
 he has neither left me, nor taken me back, and, in
 
 RELIGIOUS IDOLATRY. 119 
 
 my present life, I am separated from him only by 
 the limit to which I am held by the infancy of the 
 human race. Centuries and centuries will pass 
 away, and new lights will come to us, as they 
 have several times already. This detachment 
 from the notion of rehgious idolatry is a Hght 
 obtained. It is not a loss of religious feehng, as 
 persistent idolaters affirm, but quite the reverse ; 
 it is a restitution of faith to the true Divinity ; it 
 is a step towards him, an abjuration of the dogmas 
 which were an outrage. 
 
 Formerly he was represented as having a 
 special home in a celestial region. Sculptors 
 seated him upon a throne : painters suiTounded 
 him with clouds or rays. His face was the nearest 
 ij\}Q of ideal beauty that the masters of art could 
 conceive, — a blissful simplicity, forcing human 
 conception to rise above itself. Modern thought 
 does not need these temples and statues. It 
 refuses to confine to form what is incommensur- 
 able and imponderable. Images are now only 
 symbols. We see God wherever he manifests 
 himself to our feeble eyesight; and imagination, 
 which has a right to the counsels of sentiment 
 and reason, chooses to see him especially in beau- 
 tifid objects, and in gi-eat productions of nature
 
 120 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 and of mind. But what we thus see and touch is 
 only the radiation of our own mind. None of 
 our senses is adapted to the vision of God ; and 
 we can never render him an external worship 
 corresponding to our ideal. Enthusiasm is a 
 disease, in which the apparitions are in accord- 
 ance with the brain by which they are produced. 
 
 Why should He who fills all space be assigned 
 a special place of abode ? Why should the Spirit 
 which animates every thing have a fixed point of 
 emanation ? To be near us, he does not need to 
 descend from empyreal spheres. He is with me 
 continually ; but I should err in wishing him to 
 be with me alone, and occupied exclusively with 
 my concerns. I ought to be contented with the 
 intellectual sense which has been given me, that I 
 may feel and possess as much of Mm as is appre- 
 ciable to this corrupt sense. I ought also to be 
 contented with the words which my insufficient 
 vocabulary furnishes me for designating this 
 Being ; for he has no more a true name, in the 
 language of men, than he has a decided form for 
 the human eye. As a child, I tried to picture 
 him to myself : as an adult, I dare not make the 
 attempt. I have grown to understand that the 
 Infinite is a conception not beneath, but beyond, 
 reason.
 
 THE INDISCOVERABLE. 121 
 
 Formerly we wished that he would reveal 
 himself by miracles, or sink into the region of 
 shadows. What was iudiscoverable caused us 
 fear. To-day the indiscoverable looms above us 
 without overwhelming us ; and the ardent im- 
 pulse which in our lucid moments urges us 
 towards him is divine, only because it meets with 
 no earthly object which can give it satisfaction. 
 It is the most subtile and exquisite part of our 
 being which is moved at the idea of God. The 
 too frequent use of this faculty would cause 
 insanity. Daily practice in established formulas 
 stultifies us, and renders us incapable of discern- 
 ing the least particle of the divine ideal. 
 
 At this moment, while I am reasoning with 
 myself on the subject, and recalling the straitened 
 and popular forms under which this ideal was 
 revealed to my childhood, I cannot feel its truth. 
 I might say, without sin, that I do not believe in 
 it ; for no one is bound to believe m what does 
 not forcibly strike his consciousness. I have had, 
 and still do have, vibrations with the Infinite ; 
 but this is not, and ought not to be, the normal 
 condition of tlie liuman individual. He ought to 
 respond to the vibration of tangible nature, and 
 not isolate himself from humanity, lest the con-
 
 122 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 necting links break asunder, and he be left soli- 
 tary and useless. 
 
 The time will come when we shall not speak of 
 God needlessly, but as seldom as possible. We 
 shall not teach dogmatically of his attributes, or 
 dispute concerning his nature. We shall not 
 impose on any one the obligation of prayer, but 
 allow each to worship in the sanctuary of his own 
 conscience. And this will happen when we are 
 truly religious. Then we shall all be so ; and the 
 attempt to establish a prescribed religion will be 
 regarded as blasphemy. The love which we bear 
 him will be of a bashful nature : prayer will 
 become mysterious, and the fear of being un- 
 worthy will silence the pen of the theologian and 
 the preacher. This great idea, which cannot be 
 approached with a troubled conscience, will not 
 sanction ridiculous processions upon the high- 
 ways, or ceremonies borrowed from paganism. 
 The remembrance of these profanations will have 
 but an archaeological interest, like the symbolic 
 obscenities which decorate the cathedrals of the 
 middle age. The place of worship of the puri- 
 fied soul will no longer be a tabernacle liable to 
 be entered by thieves, the key of which is kej)t 
 in the priest's pocket. There will be then no
 
 THE INDEPENDENT THINKER. 123 
 
 need of tolerance for tardy faiths. They will fall 
 with the threats and thunderbolts of the Church 
 demolished or deserted. When the ancient gods 
 are mentioned, they will suggest only allegories. 
 Their history will be that of the people who have 
 invented them. The era of faith will commence 
 when all our fancies are enshrouded. 
 
 To-day the independent thinker who is tolerant 
 towards all faiths, out of respect to human liberty, 
 yet demands the same freedom of thought in the 
 sphere of his own meditations, experiences a sen- 
 sation of unrestraint and peaceful submission to 
 his own faith. This is his inward treasure, his 
 modest reliance, his humble and inviolable peace 
 of mind : it is his secret joy, the recompense 
 which he makes himself for not having gone 
 astray, or suffered himself to be influenced by 
 foolish or evil passions : it is his refuge in the 
 hour of great distress, when he can say to him- 
 self, " I have not deserved this ; but that atom of 
 divine sense which has been bestowed upon me 
 cannot be taken from me. I am yet wortliy to 
 hold it in the depths of my soul, and to offer up 
 to it, as a burnt sacrifice, all the light and love 
 that is within me ; for the worst chastisement of 
 our errors is a loss of tlie notion of the Divinity ;
 
 124 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 and this man inflicts upon himself, as he does all 
 evils from which he suffers, because his will is not 
 sufficient to drive them away, partly for want of 
 science, partly for want of devotion, and partly 
 for want of sincerity." 
 
 The fire is still burning ; the moon is sink- 
 ing behind the tall trees, and the owl is utter- 
 ing his doleful note like a farewell sigh. There 
 are, as yet, no signs of daylight ; and I wan- 
 der back, in thought, to that time when those 
 sleepless nights often brought, to the half-devel- 
 oped individual that I was then, heart-rending 
 or joyous solutions, according to the degree of 
 knowledge which I had acquired, or according 
 to the course, more or less direct, which I had 
 pursued. 
 
 What I sought then was the connection be- 
 tween faith and reason ; and I am seeking for 
 it still. At that time I was in quest of the 
 impossible, because my faith rested upon a reli- 
 gion whose formula was chimerical : now I have 
 a perception of the possible, I may say the evi- 
 dence of my synthesis, because I am free from 
 all prescribed formula. I know that no human 
 being has the right to call himself God, pope, 
 prophet, or king of souls under any title what-
 
 THE IDEA OF GOD. 125 
 
 soever. The idea of God can come to us only 
 from God himself ; and we cannot feel his pres- 
 ence merely by desiring to feel it. Our mind 
 must undergo a preparation or be absolutely pure. 
 We must rise above ourselves, above the influ- 
 ence of passing objects, above ideas accepted 
 by the multitude without inquiry, above those 
 immediate political interests which affect the 
 rehgion of a country. In short, we must feel 
 deeply and earnestly the necessity of believing 
 in an ideal sun, unlike the stars of heaven, shed- 
 ding its rays upon all things, abstract and real. 
 We must feel that excess of enthusiasm and 
 adoration which tangible beings do not demand, 
 and which would be superfluous in a mind un- 
 conscious of God. Our very aspirations for the 
 infinite prove tlie existence of the spirit which 
 has implanted within us this ray of infinity. No 
 being has a faculty without an end, or aspirations 
 without a means. 
 
 Now til at my vigil is over, and I have recov- 
 ered my lost wic, I feel God : I love and I be- 
 lieve. This me, l;etween which and myself tlie 
 round of daily duties has threatened a separation, 
 has regained its true value. Wandering in soli- 
 tude, it would have engendered nothing but fan-
 
 126 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 cies. Face to face with its Supreme Origin, it 
 is not alone, and its monologue is an inward 
 hymn, whose distant and mysterious echo proves 
 that it is not lost in space. 
 
 Thou whom the egotistic prayer of the idolater 
 profanes and misinterprets, who hearest the heart's 
 cry, to which men are deaf, and dost not answer, 
 like them, with the impious no of cold reason ; 
 Thou who art the inexhaustible source which 
 alone can slake that unquenchable thirst for the 
 good and beautiful ; to whom belong all the 
 better thoughts and acts of life, trials endured, 
 duties accomplished, all that purifies existence 
 and keeps love ever fresh, — I will not pray to 
 thee. I have nothing to ask which the law of 
 life has not furnished me ; and, if I have not 
 availed myself of it, it is my own fault or that of 
 humanity, of which I am a responsible and 
 dependent member. My communication with 
 thee shall not be the mumbling of the mendi- 
 cant who asks to be supported without work. It 
 is for me to discover the course marked out for 
 me, and to accomplish the task assigned. A 
 miiracle will not intervene to reheve my exertions : 
 so let there be no supplications, no paternosters 
 to the Spirit who has granted, for our use, a spark
 
 COMMUNION INEXPRESSIBLE. 127 
 
 of his own flame. Communion with thee is not 
 expressed in words that could be pronounced 
 or written. Language was discovered for the 
 exchanoe of thous^ht between man and man. 
 With thee there is no language : all communion 
 is within the soul, where there is no reasoning, no 
 deductions, and no formal thoughts ; where all is 
 fire and enthusiasm, wisdom and strength. Upon 
 these sacred heights a union, impossible upon 
 earth, is consummated between delicious tran- 
 quillity and unutterable rapture.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 1861. — LETTER TO KOLLINAT. — DEATH IN LIFE. 
 
 I AM to start next week. Your friend of old 
 times, who has travelled before, is going to 
 travel again. He was old when he wrote you 
 such sad letters: now he is more than a hundred ; 
 but years amount to nothing in a man's age. Some 
 people live much in a short time, and their years 
 count double. Take him for such as he is, you 
 who have so much patience. He does not walk so 
 fast as formerly, but he has been walking a longer 
 time. His bones can stand the sun better, because 
 they are chilled through ; and now after having 
 shown signs, last autumn, of his departure on 
 that longest of journeys, from which no traveller 
 returns, he is starting to tread once more the soil 
 of this planet, poor little world full of tears and 
 smiles, obstinate delusions, and hopes more obsti- 
 nate still. And so, my friend, your traveller, weary 
 of his long rest which has not rested him, has de- 
 cided that the best kind of rest is motion, since he 
 
 128
 
 THE LOVE OF LIFE. 129 
 
 is a son of the earth ; for the earth never stops, 
 and yet is never weary. 
 
 To love this earth is to love life, you will say. 
 But stop ! When we believe in eternal and 
 universal life, as both of us have always believed, 
 even in our darkest days, we do not feel that we 
 quit life by quitting this little world, and we 
 flatter om-selves that we have discovered a better 
 by discovering a shorter way. We may, then, 
 become weary of the life of this world, and yet 
 not believe in non-existence. It seems to me, 
 though, that minds uneasy at remaining here have 
 not the consciousness of a soul, that imperishable 
 and indefatigable traveller which has many things 
 to see elsewhere, and, on the whole, has more 
 duties to perform than rewards to receive in this 
 poor province of the great Urania. 
 
 But /, dear friend, love all that belongs to this 
 universal domain. I love it now, not only be- 
 cause certain rays of light have emerged from 
 the fog of my troubled mind, but also, perhaps 
 especially, because I have had an opportunity to 
 be dearly beloved. God gives us these opportu- 
 nities as a remedy for all our troubles ; and 
 should we not be ungrateful for this if we 
 wished to leave before our appointed time ?
 
 130 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 Surely it would not be right. Those only who 
 have none left to receive or reciprocate their 
 love feel a delight in death. 
 
 A few years ago, when I lost my grand- 
 daughter Jeanne, I made no great display of 
 my grief; but I felt a longing to die which 
 alarmed me as something wrong. It was a dis- 
 ease of sorrow. I felt as though this child were 
 calling to me fi'om another world, where, in her 
 weakness and soHtude, she needed me, while the 
 other objects of my affection no longer required 
 the attachment of a broken heart and a dejected 
 spirit. One night I dreamed that she said to 
 me, "Rest easy: it is well with me." I awoke 
 resigned. I had nothing more to overcome but 
 the sorrow of my own loss, and that I could do. 
 Did the child speak to me, or was it my con- 
 science? It matters not: I was ill. I tried to 
 recover, and returned to Italy. 
 
 A year later, in the forest of Fontainebleau, I 
 had a sort of dream while awake. It was on a 
 mild, damp day in the early part of March. 
 There was not a single leaf on the trees ; and I 
 never saw the old oaks of the Bas-Br^au look 
 so magnificent, with their long branches washed 
 by the rains, and covered with a velvet coating of
 
 ^ A WAKING DREAM. 131 
 
 moss. The rocks, too, looked clean in their win- 
 try coldness ; and the gravel, with its soft, golden 
 hue, showed distinctly the footprints of the roe 
 and the fox. I sat down alone for a few mo- 
 ments, between two rocks, in one of the wildest 
 nooks. Just where the sand had hollowed out 
 an artificial path, free from imprint of any kind, 
 I saw the earth turn around, move away, and dis- 
 appear. In a slight depression in this narrow fis- 
 sure, my imagination pictured the footprint of a 
 child ; a single footprint, as if the sweet phantom 
 had tried to be near mc, and yet could not make 
 up its mind to rest both feet upon this earth of 
 sorrows. I could not restrain my tears, a stream 
 not as yet dried up, but replenished by rest. 
 The child burst out into one of its merriest peals 
 of laughter, like the music of a bird, which had 
 so many times fiUed me with joy. Perhaps it 
 was the laugh of a robin redbreast ; but what 
 matters it ? Life was singing while my useless 
 tears were flowing. My child was alive and 
 happy. I must accustom myself to do witliout 
 her, and not Ijc jealous of God, who had taken 
 her from me to provide her with a better home. 
 
 Abniglity God, thou makest us optimists ; and 
 yet what deeper anguish than to feel that we
 
 132 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 have survived those who, in the common course 
 of events, ought to have strewed our grave with 
 flowers ! 
 
 But all the pitiless notions of this world change 
 their aspect, even entirely lose their meaning, 
 before the lisjht of an ideal notion. When I live 
 on the vulgar appreciation of events, the most 
 unsatisfactory possible, I become discouraged, and 
 my heart sinks; but let the light shine, and I 
 could subdue monsters. There is no more death, 
 but life regenerated and purified ; it is the feast 
 prepared for those whom my jealous tears per- 
 haps offend and distress. 
 
 Yet it is not a consoled traveller who is writing 
 this letter. He has not acquired with age a 
 taste for those things which satisfy ambition, and 
 render the imagination sober and benumbed. 
 Some people who look on the dark side say that 
 he has changed his madness, and that, weary of 
 walking at random upon the earth, he has started 
 for the moon. Never mind ! Wherever his mind 
 is, his heart is with you. This unsatisfied travel- 
 ler is not consoled for his loss ; but, better still, he 
 has forgotten it. He used to think too much of 
 himself; he did nothing but jilume his feathers, 
 scold and complain. Now his thoughts run as
 
 THE THOU GUT OF DYING. 133 
 
 little as possible in that direction: lie travels 
 either among the stars when his limbs are con- 
 signed to repose by sedentary occupations, or 
 upon the mountain paths which he has always 
 loved, where he would be glad, when his time 
 comes, to die in the open air, with the sun above 
 his head, and a tuft of grass for his pillow. 
 
 The thought of dj-ing in bed is very disagree- 
 able. You know that three months ago I Avent 
 to sleep in perfect health and in good spirits, and 
 for six or eight days was unconscious. When 
 I returned to myself, I seemed to be just leaving 
 the ruins of a castle where I had been feeling 
 very cold. Those about me might have been 
 singing Pergolesi's ballad, for the words still rang 
 
 in my ears, — 
 
 " II sonno I'assassina." 
 
 But this murderous sleep I did not feel. I had 
 not suffered, and my sensation on returning to 
 consciousness was agreealjle. At first I did not 
 know that I was in my OAvn room ; but as I hud 
 been longing, in my dreams, to see the dear ones 
 who were watching with me, their presence did 
 not astonish mo, and I entreated them to take me 
 ]iom(;. A moment after, I recognized an old 
 portrait tliat was gazing upon me witli a martial
 
 134 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 jet benevolent mien, and I thanked the good souls 
 who had brought me from that evil abode where I 
 imaoined I had been attacked with fever. 
 
 That was all. Is death like this, — so simple 
 an affair, a dream that passes away, a state in 
 which we do not witness the tears of those who 
 hold us dear, nor realize that we are about to 
 leave them, but enter thoughtlessly the unknown 
 world, without being able to say to God, " Here I 
 am," or to the beloved ones left behind, "Fare- 
 well " ? This Avould be very comfortable, but too 
 much so ; for, whether there be suffering or joy at 
 the last moment, we shoidd wish at least to be 
 conscious of its approach. Man feels the need of 
 bidding his family adieu, and putting his house in 
 order. It seems as though his farewell duty were 
 to say to them, " Rest in peace : I shall not for- 
 get you. I am obliged to go ; but I feel sure that, 
 absent as well as present, I shall love you al- 
 ways." 
 
 So, having relinquished life without regret and 
 without an effort, — for to be unconscious of hving 
 is equivalent to being dead, — I returned to this 
 existence without any feeling of amazement, or 
 ecstasy of delight, almost like the child who 
 enters the world without knowing whence he
 
 THE VALUE OF LIFE. 135 
 
 comes or whither he is going. "When I beheld 
 the dear ones around my bed, those who had 
 watched and wept over me, I felt ashamed of 
 having been so indifferent to their trouble, and so 
 heedless of their ofrief. Yet it was not my fault. 
 I had been neither courageous, philosophical, curi- 
 ous, nor ambitious. I had slept too soundly, and 
 my heart had slept with the rest of my body ; 
 but it seemed none the less cruel and ungrateful 
 that I had not been able to rouse myself. Tears, 
 so many tears for me ! and had I deserved them ? 
 Truly, I had not supposed myself so much be- 
 loved ; or, rather, I had become accustomed to it as 
 something quite natural. What joy was in those 
 affectionate hearts, when I was restored to life ! 
 What attention, what anxiety, what indulgence, 
 were lavished on me during the time of my con- 
 valescence ! I felt then, and have felt ever since, 
 that when we leave tender and loving friends we 
 do not belong to ourselves, that it is a crime to be 
 careless of our welfare, and that we ought to 
 value both eternal life and tliis short life, in which 
 one day of reciprocal affection is worth all the 
 joys of eternity. 
 
 So you will imagine that I was not sorrowful at 
 that time. I felt some little dread of infirm old
 
 136 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 age, althoiigli I was not troubled then with any 
 infirmity ; but I armed myself with courage for 
 the time, which was perhaps fast approaching, 
 when my legs, those valuable and docile servants 
 of the will, would turn rebellious, and I should 
 be able to behold the summits of the mountains 
 only from below. Now that their strength has 
 been renewed by rest, I am once more enabled to 
 climb ; and, with the thoughtlessness of youth, I 
 take no heed for the morrow. 
 
 He is right, perhaps, who feels that every thing 
 is for the best : nor is this belief a recantation if 
 he has formerly believed to the contrary ; for even 
 then he might have been right. Every thing of 
 which man is convinced by sincere reasoning is 
 true, from a certain point of view ; because this 
 world presents perpetual contrast, and what at 
 one moment is in the deepest shadow at another is 
 resplendent with light. Argument is no doubt a 
 fine thing ; it exercises a faculty which enlarges 
 the discernment of the mind ; but it has no effect 
 upon grief, for this alone is positive and beyond 
 discussion. One argument may be answered by 
 another ; but what answer is there for tears and 
 lamentations ? 
 
 Wisdom, then, is no cure for suffering, but it
 
 THE CURE FOR GRIEF. 137 
 
 gives US the fortitude to endure it; and, as all 
 the forces of the mind are dependent on one 
 another, the more fortitude we possess the more 
 we suffer. The cure for grief is kindness and 
 affection. An expressive emotion demands a 
 responsive emotion. Wounds of the sensibility 
 require the halm of sensibility. Ah, how different 
 is the treatment used by the heart, from that of 
 the mind I Our age of lassitude and abuse either 
 does not realize this, or does not care to realize it. 
 We shall eventually adopt this treatment ; and 
 deceitful reality, which, in fact, is nothing more 
 than the verification of events of the moment, 
 will have to flee with these events, and yield its 
 place to the true instincts, the everlasting wants, 
 of nature. 
 
 Sincerity, thou art the essence of God himself; 
 and, even if men could banish thee forever from 
 their presence, thou wouldst still exist in the 
 merest work of creation, in the pure melody of a 
 bird, in the unquestionable beauty of a plant, in 
 the genthi breath of a zephyr. That is why I 
 delight in tlio open air, and in wild scenery. I 
 am not actuated Ijy hatred of my fellow-beings. 
 They have done me no harm : some would liave 
 liked to injure me ; but others have done mo a
 
 138 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 great deal of good. As to the multitude who are 
 not acquainted with me, and of whom I can 
 judge only by the aggregate of their deeds made 
 manifest by their lives, I feel bound to assert, 
 notwithstanding the great amount of indulgence 
 due them, that they are going astray, and have 
 decidedly taken the wrong paths. They have 
 reached a crisis of fearful materialism, which has 
 not even the merit of liberty and passion, because 
 it is concealed under a covenant of revolting 
 hypocrisy. 
 
 In the course of events, man is influenced by 
 constant re-action. He eventually becomes tired 
 of his own vices, thus rendering reproach hardly 
 necessary. Let us look for better times. Hu- 
 manity, poor, dear patient, thou wilt suffer much 
 from thy faults, but thou wilt recover. I will 
 tarry in some wilderness until the pestilence pass 
 away ; for it provokes thee to hear the truth, and 
 thou clingest to thy sin with as much rage as if 
 it were a blessing of which others were trying to 
 deprive thee. Flow on, then, thou river rough- 
 ened by the tempest, since this torrent and these 
 falls are needed for thy purification ; and let us 
 dreamers look up and see if the snows have 
 melted, and if the Easter daisies will soon be in
 
 MATERIAL INTERESTS. 139 
 
 blossom. The world is seized with a mania for 
 money. Every one is eager to acquire it, and 
 would give his heart's blood for its possession. 
 The kings of finances hug one another in despair, 
 break out into accusations, and are ready to 
 strangle each other over their strong-boxes. 
 Israel is rent like a mantle. The Christian pro- 
 fession do no better. The so-called defenders of 
 the faith of Christ are willing that the people 
 should cause their own destruction for the sake 
 of a question of material interest in Ijehalf of a 
 tyranny which is, in fact, a negation of the gospel. 
 Poets and artists even are becoming as much 
 interested in the positive as financiers and the 
 clergy. They seek it not only from personal 
 motives, but introduce it into art, and attempt to 
 portray it, incapable as the}' are of understanding 
 the ideal or making it comprehensible to others.^ 
 
 No hatred, no disdain, but farewell for the 
 present, dear ruined society. There will be flat- 
 terers enough to tell thee that thou art perfect, 
 that there is nothing in thee to censure or correct, 
 and that those individuals whose minds are 
 tainted with pure and poetical ideas are pedants 
 
 1 Ten yoiir.-i a^'n, events sii;;;^este<l these reflexions. I do not 
 Bee that materialism has bettered tlie condition of things.
 
 140 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 who aspire to the title of reformers, or fools of the 
 most dangerous kind, however little they may be 
 disgraced with ingenuousness. Let us see if 
 Nature, too, has acquired a taste for the artificial, 
 and a passion for what is becoming ; if holly-trees 
 have adorned themselves with ears of corn, and if 
 ivies are trying to bear roses. I think not.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE Arrsm m sleep. 
 
 to koiilinat. — journai.. 
 
 Tamaris, 1861. 
 "TVTOW that I am feeling better, and my 
 -i- 1 strength is returning, the country looks 
 charming, and I am recovering that happy faculty 
 of finding it more beautiful the longer I look at 
 it. My son has left for Africa, and ISIancean is 
 entirely taken up with his engraving ;. so, for the 
 last few days, I have lived almost alone, doing 
 my writing at home, and pursuing my botanical 
 studies during my walks of six or eight hours. 
 One might almost live by his organs of sight in 
 this region of delightful scenery, where the eye 
 feeds on splendor, — dazzling lights, tempered by 
 soft shades. All this beauty diffuses itself through 
 the mind, curing it of that sort of Ijlind sadness 
 which results from physical weakness. As soon 
 as it yields to rc-action, the weakness of the body 
 rapidly diminishes. 
 
 Why do I feci that desire, every evening, to 
 
 141
 
 142 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 exaggerate in memory the beauty which I have 
 been admiring during the day? Perhaps it is 
 the necessity for re-action against that precise- 
 ness to which I am confined by my duties as 
 author. I take mental notes, scrupulously exact ; 
 and I know that, in this regard, my memory will 
 not prove treacherous. This is quickly done, 
 thanks to my habit of observation ; and then I 
 begin to take my enjoyment. I feast like a 
 glutton, and when I am satiated I feel happy. 
 After coming to myself, I dine like a bird, and 
 drink like a grasshopper ; for my stomach is not 
 right yet, and I am intoxicated. Every thing 
 large that I have seen appears to me immense; 
 what was austere becomes formidable, and what 
 lovely, paradisiacal : yet Nature's beauties exceed 
 our most extravagant fancies. I reverence her, 
 and despise myself continually. It is a kind of 
 intoxication, a state of hallucination. My will is 
 not accountable, and my reason is powerless. 
 
 Do we, then, possess an instinct for remodel- 
 Hng reality? If so, it is the grain of folly to 
 which we all have to submit when we become the 
 prey of any passion ; and I am, just at present, 
 the excited prey of the passion of contemplation. 
 
 In sleep this instinct is carried to a still greater
 
 DREAMLAND. 143 
 
 extent. I behold the real aberrations of nature, 
 and I follow them by an analogous mental aberra- 
 tion. For example : last night, I dreamed of the 
 strangest adventures, "which seemed to me per- 
 fectly natural. At first I was in India with you, 
 and Maurice was running before us, chasing 
 butterflies with Jean our servant. We entered 
 a magnificent forest of cypress-trees, whose 
 branches touched our heads. Were they cypress- 
 trees ? You thought not. Suddenly I noticed, 
 at the extremity of certain branches, singular 
 ramifications, terminating in a fruit the size of a 
 nut. This fruit confusedly suggested to my mind 
 a human form ; and, as I gazed upon it, I observed 
 that the likeness was more apparent as the fruit 
 approached maturity. 
 
 " You have seen all that you care to see ! " you 
 exclaimed. " Pretty soon you will believe in 
 vegetable homunculL" 
 
 " Indeed," I replied, gathering one from the 
 branches, " I not only believe, but feel sure. 
 Here is a perfect homunculus ! " 
 
 I can hear now your exclamation of surprise as 
 you picked from anotlier branch a living homun- 
 culus. Mine was not rii)o : therefore it clung 
 tightly to the stem. It had a perfect human form.
 
 144 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 but was green, still in a vegetable state, and, in 
 plucking it, I had severed the tliread of its future 
 life ; but I had no time for regret. Innumerable 
 quantities were swaying in the branches about us, 
 or climbing to the tops of the ,trees. You held 
 yours as if afraid either of stifling it, or letting it 
 escape, while I was busy searching for another 
 subject in a similar state, that is, just entering 
 upon life, and so recently loosened in its hold upon 
 the vegetable tissue that it could be gathered while 
 in a state of torpor. I succeeded in procuring a 
 little female specimen ; and we both ran to call 
 Maurice, in high glee at having made so fine a 
 discovery. 
 
 " Pooh ! " cried he : "I have my pockets full. 
 They are nothing rare for this country ; but they 
 are good for nothing : you cannot raise them. As 
 yours are still ahve, put them back upon their 
 trees." 
 
 I do not remember whether we took his advice. 
 A cloud passed over the forest, and I seemed to 
 be crossing a vast steppe with Eugene Delacroix. 
 We were on our way to a city, of which the slated 
 spires in the distance loomed up against the white 
 sky. There was no road. The season was unde- 
 cided; winter on one side, spring on the other.
 
 THE MOVING PRAIRIE. 145 
 
 The ground was slippery, cracked, and abounding 
 in holes filled with half-melted snow. Delacroix 
 stopped, and said to me, " I do not see any path. 
 Nobody can ever have passed this way. Let us 
 proceed no farther. The crust of the earth has 
 not as yet been formed here ; therefore let us 
 seek a soil upon which we can walk." Such a 
 geological reason having appeared to me unques- 
 tionable, I followed him ; and, shortly after, he 
 remarked, " Here is the moving prairie. We are 
 aU right." 
 
 I asked for no explanation, but I paused in 
 amazement at this prairie. It was an immense, 
 undulating carpet of verdure, Hke the Campagna 
 of Rome on the side of the Via Aurelia, but not 
 composed of grass that is withered in summer and 
 rotten in winter. The earth was as fine as though 
 it had been sifted, and the microscopic clover- 
 grass grew as thick as moss. At first it appeared 
 to me of a uniform dull green ; but very soon I 
 oljserved the variety of shades and reflections of 
 the aquamarine. The land was so elevated as to 
 give us an extensive horizon; and light vapory 
 clouds, tinted by the rays of the sun, floated about 
 ill the sky. 
 
 "Come," said Delacroix: " <1«) not stop any
 
 146 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 longer to look. Let us hurry on, or the clouds 
 will get ahead of us." 
 
 Not doubting, of course, any more than he, that 
 we could keep up with the clouds, I started ; but 
 I was unable to make any progress : something 
 held me back. 
 
 " Pray, how are you walking ? " he asked. 
 " You are not doing it the right way. You ought 
 not to resist the motion of the prairie. Put on 
 your sea-legs, keep your equilibrium, and let the 
 prairie carry you along." 
 
 I do not know whether I managed myself as I 
 ought ; but I felt the prairie rising in solid waves, 
 and bearing me rapidly along, like an object that 
 floats over a swell, without taking any active part 
 in its own progress. 
 
 " This is a very agreeable manner of travel- 
 ling," I observed to my companion. "I am taking 
 an endless journey, without suffering the least 
 fatigue. But you ought to inform me of the 
 cause of this phenomenon. Suppose we stop a 
 while, that we may not quit this delightful prairie 
 too soon." 
 
 " To stop here would be impossible ; for the 
 prairie keeps on rolling, and we must follow its 
 undulations. Nothing is simpler than this phe-
 
 THE CLOUD IN THE HEAVENS. 147 
 
 nomenon. It results from the nature of the grass, 
 and the power exerted by the ground in forcing 
 its growth. When it is fully developed, the plain 
 will remain quiet and immovable till the next 
 spring." 
 
 Here my dream became confused ; and I seemed 
 to be in my garden at Nohant, with Maurice and 
 Mancean, looking at a great white cloud in the 
 heavens, which were with this exceptioii very 
 blue. Masons were at work on a staircase out 
 of doors, adjoining the house ; of which staircase 
 there did not appear to be the shghtest need. 
 Mancean had ordered it, and was attempting to 
 explain to us its use, which related to the white 
 cloud that was rising in the heavens. 
 
 "You know," said he, "that important events 
 are about to take place in the upper regions. It 
 was indispensable to have an observatory here, 
 and I liad to commence by building a staircase. 
 But stop ; the exhiljition is about to begin. 
 Walk up." 
 
 I ascended the staircase alone, and reached 
 an elevation which overlooked the tops of the 
 tall linden-trees. The thick cloud, still cream- 
 colored, spread over the whole firmament. Then 
 I heard the following dialogue from below : —
 
 148 niPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 Mancean. — Ah ! wliat a pity ! It is all a fail- 
 ure. It is taken aivay ! 
 
 3Iaurice. — That is true: it is taken away. 
 What will you do? Let us go up and take a 
 look. 
 
 And Maurice came up. 
 
 " What is taken away ? " I asked. 
 
 " Zounds, the thunder ! We relied upon that 
 to burst the cloud of silver which is descending 
 upon our heads ; but the silver of the cloud is 
 notliing more or less than a hyperborean world, 
 which is just ready to fall, and the thunder has 
 been taken away by the ice. There will be no 
 bursting of any thing. The thing is a failure." 
 
 " Not exactly a failure ; for this is a magnifi- 
 cent sight, the equal of which I have never 
 before witnessed." 
 
 The white cloud, now become sohd and com- 
 pact, descended in slow majesty. Soon after, I 
 perceived that an enormous glacier was approach- 
 ing, head first, and forming a vault above our 
 heads. Through an oblique opening in this the 
 raj^s of the sun were admitted, and cast the most 
 splendid reflections upon this strange world which 
 was about to settle quietly but irrevocably upon 
 our own. Deep valleys, resembling tunnels about
 
 THE END OF THE WORLD. 149 
 
 to cover us, shone like the sapphire ; and icicles 
 as brilliant as diamonds seemed ready to nail 
 us down with their gigantic points. All this was 
 frightful, yet sublime. At the same time the 
 surface of our world began to congeal at the 
 approach of this formidable object, and, in its 
 turn, to bristle with icicles projecting from the 
 bluish-colored snow with which the soil was 
 covered. There were now but a few steps of 
 the staircase by which Mancean had joined us 
 that were not fiUed, either by the marvellous ice 
 which was descending, or the not less beautiful 
 ice that was rising. 
 
 " There ! " exclaimed Mancean in distraction. 
 " You see that the thunder is destroyed, and that 
 our world is coming to an end." 
 
 " Your explanation is horrible," replied Mau- 
 rice. " The thunder has nothing to do with this. 
 Our world has volcanoes enough for its defence." 
 
 " You and your mother are very incredulous. 
 We are all lost ! " 
 
 " Well," returned Maurice, *' let us endeavor to 
 see as much as we can before all is over." 
 
 Indeed, it was all over. The icy vault, con- 
 tracting more and more, seemed at last to rest 
 its circumference ux^on the horizon. We were in
 
 150 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 a glaucous light, similar to that of an aquarium. 
 The vault sank down upon us without a sound, 
 without a shock, without any perceptible warning 
 to humanity, if the latter had not already disap- 
 peared. Maurice and I seemed not to be victims 
 in this dream. Nevertheless I awoke suddenly, 
 as if, at the final moment, I had made a great 
 effort of my will, to avoid seeing the catastrophe : 
 not that the sight of this peaceful cataclysm 
 would have caused me actual terror ; for it was 
 like the solemn accomplishment of some great 
 undertaking, and I reproached myself for refus- 
 ing to behold the conclusion. I tried to fall 
 asleep again, so as to return to the staircase ; but 
 I found there only the masons, who were engaged 
 in rebuilding the demolished house, and in repair- 
 ing, as they jovially remarked, the consequences 
 of the termination of the world. 
 
 What is the cause of these fancies in sleep ? I 
 shall be answered, One's physical condition. I 
 grant it ; but that does not account for the differ- 
 ent forms which they assume. This relates to an 
 organic mechanism, with the machinery of which 
 we are unacquainted, and which is an enigma to 
 us all. As our eyes retain, for some time, the 
 impression of the solar spectrum, so the mind is
 
 OUR BRAIN. 151 
 
 filled with objects furnished by the eyes ; and 
 fancy sketches them in a changed form, upon 
 some camera-obscura, the sanctuary of dreams. 
 
 Our brain, then, is not an apparatus for photo- 
 graphic operations, by which exact likenesses are 
 produced. Tliat is more like a theatre where the 
 performances of hfe are presented under the form 
 of fictions ; but it is far richer and more original 
 than any theatrical fiction. It is the unforeseen 
 in all its power, the impossible accepted in ad- 
 vance, the unrestrained feast of the imagination. 
 There the serious and the burlesque dance 
 together, and fear and joy succeed each other. 
 There grief is often poignant ; our tears flow, and 
 moisten the pillow ; but it is laid aside most 
 frequently, to give place to compensations impos- 
 sible to be realized. The friend who has just left 
 us returns suddenly after a long journey which 
 has lasted Ijut an instant. On certain occasions, 
 even, he comes forth from the tomb where we 
 have just laid him, to converse with us. Wc die 
 very easily in our dreams ; and we feel ourselves 
 dead and alive at the same time without suipvise 
 or distress. Thus, owing to the fictions which 
 soothe our slumbers, we pass a considerable i)or- 
 tiou of our existence outside of the domain of 
 reality.
 
 152 TMPEESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 We may dream without sleeping. Contempla- 
 tion nearly always leads us to a higher state of 
 existence, where reason lies dormant, and where 
 our wanderings, though confined within stricter 
 limits than those of the dream, are none the less 
 exempt from the control of reason. There exists 
 within us something called mind, which is per- 
 haps entirely different from what at present bears 
 this exceedingly vague and ill-defined name. I 
 have thought for a long time that we possess 
 three minds, — one for controlling the use of our 
 organs, another for adjusting our relations with 
 mankind, and a third for communion with the 
 divine Spirit that animates the universe. Sainte- 
 Beuve smiled when I told him so. " Three 
 minds ? " he exclaimed. " Would that we could 
 be sure of having one ! " I dared not answer 
 him that we had, perhaps, more. We are not 
 such simple phenomena as some have tried to 
 believe, in order that they might class us as good 
 and bad, elect and damned. On the contrary, we 
 are very complicated structures ; and the lobes of 
 our brain have multifarious functions, which 
 absolutely baffle scientific analysis. The scalpel 
 of the metaphysician is no safer than that of the 
 anatomist. Neither can touch the seat of life 
 without destroying it.
 
 A MOUNTAIN WALK. 153 
 
 Tamaris still, J% 20, 1861. — To-day I did 
 what is better for my delicate health than taking 
 notes. I walked considerable, and I took a nap 
 upon the grass. Notwithstanding the east wind, 
 which is pretty strong, I started out with my 
 coachman, the faithful Matron, who has become 
 my careful attendant in my out-of-door exercise. 
 He scolds me when I walk too much, or when I 
 forget to eat my luncheon ; but we have a com- 
 panion whom he decidedly prefers to me, — one 
 of his horses, his favorite one, which is called 
 Monsieur Botte, God knows why. He is a little 
 animal, full of spirit, and skilfully carries me 
 through difficult ways. To-day Matron har- 
 nessed him, and undertook to have me taken to 
 the top of Mount Evenos in a carriage ; but, when 
 we had reached the end of the road, he began to 
 sigh, and I perceived that he was in great distress. 
 " What is the matter ? " I asked. " Is M. Botte 
 sick?" 
 
 " He is thirsty, poor creature !^^ 
 
 " Suppose we stop, and let him drink." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! I will run for some water. There 
 
 are some woodmen over there, who must have 
 
 brought their jug willi lliem, and they will fill my 
 
 [)ail ; for sooner than mak(! my liorse drink the
 
 154 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 water from that stream, which is nothing but 
 black, dirty juice coming from the olive-presses, I 
 would drink it myself." 
 
 The road did not seem to m^ very steep: so I 
 told Matron that he might lead his horse wher- 
 ever he hked, to water him, and that I would 
 ascend on foot. 
 
 "No, no," replied he: "it would be too tire- 
 some. I said that I would get you up in the 
 carriage, and so I will. Look after M. Botte for 
 a moment, until I return." 
 
 " Why look after him ? He is steady enough. 
 I prefer to stroll about in this little grove." 
 
 " But what if somebody should come to steal 
 him ? We are in the gorges of Ollionles, and out 
 of the beaten track. I never feel exactly safe in 
 a place like this." 
 
 " If any one should come to steal him, Matron, 
 do you think me capable of defending him ? " 
 
 " Oh ! as far as that is concerned you need 
 have no fear. There have been no brigands in 
 the gorges since the time of Gaspard de Besse, 
 who was captured, and buried in you know what 
 grotto ; at least, so they say in the countr}^ about 
 here. But there are stragglers who, seeing a 
 horse alone, would mount and make off with him ;
 
 A NAP ON THE GRASS. 155 
 
 yet they wouldn't dare to try it before a person's 
 very eyes. So don't be afraid, but take courage 
 for just a moment." 
 
 I did take courage ; that is, I waited a full quar- 
 ter of an hour. It was quite a pretty spot at the 
 foot of the only wooded mountain of this barren 
 chain. There was a fine turf, clean gravel, and 
 interesting little flowers scattered here and there. 
 I was not fatigued, but an unconquerable desire for 
 sleep came over me ; and, having assured myself 
 that M. Botte was quietly browsing, I fell fast 
 asleep. I beUevo that the horse was still brows- 
 ing when Matron returned with the empty pail. 
 He had not been able to find a drop of water, and 
 he pretended that Botte cast reproachful glances 
 at him. 
 
 " I have a mind to do the same," said I ; " for I 
 am very thirsty." 
 
 " Oh ! you can get something to drink half way 
 up the mountain ; but, I warn you, it is quite a 
 distance, and the i^oor creature can't walk fast. 
 He is sufiering in good earnest." 
 
 Our course was very simple, — to leave the 
 caniage concealed amid the bushes, and all three 
 mount on foot. I insisted upon adopting this 
 course. The ascent did not appear very rugged,
 
 156 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 and we made a short stay at the spring. This is 
 an abundant stream of icy-cold Avater issuing 
 from the sides of a heated mountain. Just here 
 there is a deej^ depression in the mountain. The 
 spring, overflowing the great stone basin which 
 receives it, winds around the declivity, waters 
 a charming park, and flows across the sloping 
 prairies which carry off the water in an oppo- 
 site direction to the gorges of OUionles. I have 
 seldom seen a villa so strangely situated as that to 
 which this park belonged ; for Evenos is in the 
 form of a sugar-loaf, and one would hardly expect 
 to find water here, consequently shade and cool- 
 ness. This habitation, far from being affected by 
 the storms that rage about it, or burned by the 
 scorching rays of a hot sun, is, as it were, an 
 oasis protected by fine trees and refreshed by 
 running water. A profound silence reigned here ; 
 and through the openings in the foliage I caught 
 glimpses of the dramatic and desolate scenery of 
 the gorges, with their great perpendicular fissures, 
 their jagged summits perforated, and supported 
 by mighty piers, which, if not closely examined, 
 would appear from a distance like giant fortresses 
 built by the hand of man, or hewn out of the 
 rock.
 
 THE RUINED CASTLE. 157 
 
 My surprise was increased when I left this park, 
 to continue the ascent. This volcanic cone is 
 planted in the midst of a calcareous chain. I had 
 observed from below that the summit had the 
 appearance of a crater : as I walked upon the 
 lava, I could no longer feel a doubt. The ascent 
 is everywhere practicable, by taking a zigzag 
 course ; and loaded wagons are constantly passing 
 between the gorge and the summit. The village, 
 or rather the town, — for it is an ancient fortified 
 town, — is surmounted by an old ruined castle, 
 from which the view is magnificent. The rampart 
 is full of white immortelles. The carriages that 
 pass along the Ollionles road are barely distin- 
 guishable from here with the naked eye, and yet 
 it is directly under foot. 
 
 The descent is easy and rapid. As Matron 
 was harnessing his horse in the little grove, he 
 lamented that I had not gone up in the carriage ; 
 but M. Botte had had a good drink at the spring, 
 and ])een well fed at the tavern : so I had to per- 
 suade his master, for his consolation, that we had 
 pursued the necessary course. 
 
 On returning home, and thinking the matter 
 over this evening, I am convinced that the coast
 
 158 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 of Toulon is the most beautiful of all Provence. 
 It presents an inexhaustiljle variety ; and but for 
 the mistral, which is exceedingly harsh, the envi- 
 rons of Toulon might be chosen for a winter 
 residence. 
 
 But I must confine myself to the most promi- 
 nent beauties, and not waste time with intermedi- 
 ate details. From the fortress of Evenos I could 
 see not only the romantic gorges of Ollionles, but 
 the whole extent of country separating them from 
 the Mediterranean; and this brilliant panorama 
 reminds one of the Promised Land. The splen- 
 dor vanishes when we come in actual contact with 
 the unfruitful soil, sickly orange-trees, stunted 
 cork-trees, barren tracts either dusty or swampy, 
 the infectious faubourgs, and the naked, slimy 
 shore. It is all disagreeable when close at hand, 
 and, were it not for botanical specimens, would 
 give one the blues ; but in the great panorama 
 these details are set off by the purple of evening, 
 or the adjustment of proportions. A harmonious 
 effect is produced, which seems to me not unlike 
 that produced in our general estimations by wis- 
 dom. Life may be likened to the earth upon 
 which we tread. What is constantly within our
 
 HARMONY OF EFFECT. 159 
 
 reach is full of deceit ; what Reason erects at a 
 distance receives its true value ; and in the union 
 of the two lies power. There is no use in denying 
 it : every thing must be so arranged as to produce 
 a fine effect when viewed as a whole.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 SOME IDEAS OF A SCHOOL-TEACHEE. 
 
 NoHANT, January, 1872. 
 rr^HE scliool-teacher is myself. I have, perhaps, 
 -L a chiim to this title, as I have almost always 
 had one scholar or another to instruct. Sometimes 
 it has been a child of my own, or one belonging to 
 the family ; sometimes a servant, male or female ; 
 sometimes a peasant, old or young, who, actuated 
 by an unusual desire for learning, has asked me to 
 teach him to read. So I have had my little expe- 
 rience, as well as other people ; and perhaps a 
 short account of it might be of use to some one in 
 a similar position. 
 
 As soon as the child can speak, teach him to 
 read ; and, however delicate he may be, do not be 
 afraid of wearying him, if you go the right way to 
 work. 
 
 He will learn with more or less facility, accord- 
 ing as he possesses an idea of form. Try to culti- 
 vate this power of discrimination by frequently 
 
 IGO
 
 OBJECT TEACHING. 161 
 
 calling liis attention to surrounding objects. Every 
 child notices them in one way or another. Some 
 will ask for the moon, while others will early 
 understand that no arm is long enough to reach 
 even the ceiling. If this notion of distances is 
 slow in forming, try to promote its development. 
 By his idea of dimensions, lead him to compare a 
 large tree with a little plant ; make him observe 
 the tall, slender poplar, the bushy chestnut-tree, 
 the round orange and apple, the rose round and 
 thick, the periwinkle round and flat, the daisy 
 round too, but dentated. K you have your watch 
 in your pocket, explain to him its perfectly cir- 
 cular form by means of a piece of money a little 
 smaller ; by a handkerchief describe a square ; by 
 a domino, an oblong ; by the gable of a roof, a 
 triangle ; by a stick, a straight line ; and, by a 
 hoop, a circle. It is not necessary for the child to 
 learn, like a lesson, the technical terms for desig- 
 nating these forms : it is sufiicient that he perceive 
 the difference. 
 
 To generalize as much as possible the observa- 
 tion of tendencies, I would advise that children be 
 divided into two classes, — those who are observ- 
 ing, and those who are not observing. The former 
 early become skilful in the use of their hands and
 
 162 IMPRESSIONS AND. REMINISCENCES. 
 
 bodies : the latter seem to have no idea of danger, 
 and are always hurting themselves. The former 
 use their reason early, and are quick to learn : the 
 latter acquire knowledge more slowly, sometimes 
 considerably so. Help them to obviate this natural 
 difficulty by forcing them — without their being 
 aware of it — to see and to observe. Put into the 
 hands of the absent-minded or indifferent child 
 such toys as will interest him by their form. 
 Induce him to raise his head, to look about him, 
 above and below ; not to remain a stranger to the 
 external world, not to spend his life in the dreams 
 and fictions of play, but to realize that there are 
 other things than those which he can handle, and 
 that some of these are similar in shape. 
 
 Peasants, strange to say, are very unobserving. 
 One would suppose that their senses, being in 
 continual contact with objects in nature, would 
 be well developed ; but it is exactly the reverse, 
 especially in those countries which are not very 
 hilly. They often form a poetical conception of 
 the whole ; but any detail which is not a matter 
 of personal interest to them escapes their notice. 
 From being ignorant of causes, they disdain 
 them, and become incapable of perceiving them 
 even when these causes produce very striking
 
 THE FOUNDATION. 1G3 
 
 effects. This is why it has been possible to keep 
 them in a state of superstition, and teach them 
 to be satisfied with ridiculous explanations. The 
 letter of religion has kept them children, and 
 their physical organization has suifered from the 
 effect. 
 
 So it is very difficult for them to learn to read. 
 Let us interest ourselves for them as for our 
 own children, and try to alleviate their difficulty. 
 The child subjected to such discipline as I have 
 mentioned will feel a desire to trace figures 
 himself, with a stick upon the gravel, witli a 
 piece of charcoal upon walls, or with a pencd 
 upon paper. Furnish him with the means of 
 gratifying this desire ; or, if it do not exist, 
 stimulate him to it by example. Let him draw 
 lines in every variety : very soon he will learn 
 to form 0, whicli is the favorite letter of little 
 children. Some are more inclined to produce 
 shapes than to observe them, and learn to read 
 more easily after knowing how to write ; but the 
 greater part need to be well acquainted with 
 signs before being able to reproduce them. It is 
 well, also, to allow them to draw imaginary fig- 
 ures. They will always make straight lines or 
 circles, and these are the foundation of all signs 
 used in reading and writing.
 
 164 IMPJiESSTONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 The varied combinations of these forms are, to 
 one of medium intellect, a source of considerable 
 difficulty. I am always astonished to see a child, 
 or even an adult, learn the alphabet. The ear 
 retains the sound more easily than the eye retains 
 the form. Many pupils can recite their alphabet, 
 and yet do not know the different letters when 
 out of the regular order. 
 
 Learning should be rendered easy ; not to spare 
 the pupil the exertion of study, which is a 
 healthful exercise and one without a substitute, 
 but to accustom him to follow a simple and sys- 
 tematic course. It is the want of this system 
 which has for so long rendered rudimentary 
 education diffuse and slow of progress. Formerly 
 years were spent on what can now be learned in 
 a few months. There have been improvements 
 in method, and there is room for still greater 
 improvement ; but no method is good for any 
 thing if we are unable to master the will of the 
 pupil. 
 
 I suppose that all adults would make as great 
 an effort as lies within their power ; but the child 
 who has a great desire for learning is an excep- 
 tion. This would not be the case if childhood 
 were well prepared for instruction by a system 
 of moral and physical education.
 
 SYSTEMATIC PATIENCE. 165 
 
 The method which I practised with my grand- 
 chikbeii is certainly better than that which I 
 used for my own children. With the latter I 
 employed the ordinary means, incessant little 
 struggles which make the pupils suffer and the 
 parent's heart bleed. After more reasoning and 
 a longer experience, I have acquired what I did 
 not then possess, — a systematic patience under 
 every trial. 
 
 This is the starting-point. Suppress the least 
 show of impatience. Let the child never see in 
 your countenance, or hear in the tone of your 
 voice, the slightest change. If he be what is 
 denominated wild^ he can be controlled only by 
 uniform calmness. If he be mild and timid, tlris 
 calmness will give liim the confidence that he 
 lacks. With this appearance of calmness and 
 good-nature, you can assert your authority with- 
 out hurting his feeUngs, without arousing that in- 
 stinct of revolt or inert resistance which forms a 
 part of the uncultivated mind. Avoid the irri- 
 tation of your nerves as you would a contagious 
 disease of which the child would be in imminent 
 danger. Nut only do not strike him, but never 
 raise yonr voice. Use neither liasty words nor 
 gestures : do as you would to tame a bird. The
 
 166 IMPEESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 child is a little savage, who must be civilized 
 without his being aware of the fact. Do not try 
 to explain the necessity of education until he has 
 derived some benefit from it ; for if, when he re- 
 monstrates, you begin to reason with him, he will 
 bring forth arguments of his own to oppose yours, 
 and you will not have the advantage of the last 
 word. Skilfully avoid disputes of every kind. 
 This will perhaps be more difficult in the case of 
 an intelligent child than in that of a pupil of 
 medium capacity. The former will be as skilful 
 in promoting a disturbance as you in quelling it. 
 Postpone till the next day such questions as in- 
 volve any disagreement. Finally, if you are of a 
 nervous, excitable nature, and cannot control your 
 feelings, send the child away. You would not 
 bring him up well, and , one of two things would 
 result: either you would exasperate his temper, 
 or break his spirit, one of which is as dangerous 
 as the other. 
 
 Before undertaking the education of a child, 
 then, we should consider our own education ; for 
 we are entering upon an apostleship of which 
 we ought to render ourselves worthy. We must 
 possess a little magnetic virtue ; for the child's 
 feelings are acted upon more easily than his
 
 IN THE LONG-RUN. 167 
 
 intellect. If he finds that you are the calmest, 
 most indulgent, and most persevering person with 
 whom he is concerned, he will seek you from 
 preference ; and, in the long-run, it will be you 
 who will be most successful in liis education. 
 
 I say in the long-run ; for childhood has its 
 intervals of enthusiasm and languor, and cannot 
 always bestow that attention which j^ou claim. 
 Elementary instruction should be given in very 
 small doses. It is cruel as well as dangerous, to 
 encourage, through vanity, precociousness of per- 
 ception. A time will come when the pupil suc- 
 cumbs physically or morally. If, at any time, 
 you requu'e too much of his memory or his will, 
 a feeling of disgust will be the consequence, and 
 you will be punished for an hour's unreasonable- 
 ness by an alternation of indifference and resist- 
 ance. 
 
 Notwithstanding all the care that I liave sug- 
 gested, there will very frequently be silent strug- 
 gles, unmanifested resistance, and singular Avhims; 
 for the child is superlatively whimsical. Ono day 
 he complies with every thing : another, lie Avill 
 do nothing without arguing. He feels the need 
 of a little comedy, and he feigns to have lost his 
 memory. Sometimes he wants a different style
 
 168 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 of drama ; and, if he succeed in making you 
 lose your patience, he is either satisfied or angry, 
 perhaps both ; but this is emotion, and, in reality, 
 he is no more unreasonable than we sometimes 
 are ourselves, when we prefer painful and danger- 
 ous excitement to dull resignation. 
 
 Watch the child, and, as soon as you observe 
 a spirit of opposition, turn his thoughts in some 
 other direction. If necessary, end the lesson, 
 without allowing him to perceive the true cause. 
 Pretend that it is on your own account, that you 
 have some business that needs attention, a letter 
 to write, or that you do not feel well. He will 
 be very glad to be dismissed, but will return, of 
 his own accord, to his lesson the next day. 
 
 Do not encourage the young to feel proud of 
 their intelhgence. You will thus aid in the 
 excessive formation of a feeling which has here- 
 tofore been latent ; but which, developed too 
 early, will be turned to a bad use. The next day 
 he will employ, as a means of resistance, that 
 pride which you sought to inculcate the previous 
 day, for the purpose of insuring his obedience. 
 Do not forget that he is a free being, and that he 
 is not yet sensible of the bounds of his lib.erty. It 
 is therefore very imprudent to bestow upon him
 
 ON GUARD. 169 
 
 too frequent praise or blame, according as he 
 behaves well or ill. Sometimes these alternatives 
 of demeanor are involuntary ; but, at other times, 
 attempts at revolt are made merely to disconcert 
 the teacher. In such cases, be on jonv guard. 
 If the lesson has been well recited, applaud only 
 the effort and the reason of the child : take a 
 moderate satisfaction in the fact of its being easy, 
 whether so or not. If the lesson has been poorly 
 recited, say nothing ; and, if it has been intention- 
 ally miserable, do not appear to suspect that this 
 was done on purpose. The child is artless, even 
 in his acts of greatest malice. Sometimes, aston- 
 ished at your silence, he says to you, " I recited 
 my lesson very badly." Do not trouble yourself 
 to answer him that it was not intentional. He 
 will leave in surprise, sly or confused, according 
 to his nature, but convinced of one tiling, that his 
 attempt has failed. It is seldom, too, that a poor 
 lesson is not succeeded by several very good ones. 
 The pupil has learned for himself that he could 
 not make you give up teaching him. 
 
 Let us consider, however, exceptional cases, in 
 wliicli tlie child's passion for liliiid resistance 
 forces you to resort to liarsli treatment, or to 
 yield. There are such natures, not wicked, l)nt
 
 170 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 despotic, that would be driven to excess by an 
 exercise of your own despotism. Do not hesitate : 
 yield, but do not let it become apparent. Attrib- 
 ute the resistance of the child to some ailment 
 on his part (you may not be mistaken), and post- 
 pone the lessons for a time. During this interval, 
 observe him attentively, and very quietly repair 
 the foundation of his moral education. Heal the 
 soul before trying to cultivate the mind. 
 
 Do away with all kinds of deprivations and 
 punishments. These only serve to destroy the 
 idea of duty, which is the most difficult idea to 
 introduce into a child's head. It must slii3 in by 
 habit, before it is planted there by reason. Until 
 the age of eight or ten, the pupil ought to receive 
 this simple answer to his everlasting " Why ? " 
 " You are obliged to learn, and I am obliged to 
 teach you." — " Who obliges us to do it ? " — 
 " Everybody in heaven and on earth." — " I don't 
 see how." — " You are too young to see it now, 
 but you will by and by." 
 
 Do not scruple to answer him by mysterious 
 oracles. If you are careful to tell the strict truth 
 through this oracle, you will never regret after- 
 wards having given it to him under a veil. Vv'e 
 are inclined to be premature in explanations.
 
 THE DESIRE TO LEARN. 171 
 
 Children are made to yield much more easily by a 
 cautious answer than by argument. 
 
 " Alas ! " you will exclaim. " This is not the 
 way children are brought up." 
 
 " Alas ! " I shall reply. " We have never 
 known how. Let us learn." 
 
 I have said that we ought not to stimulate the 
 intelligence of the cliild by praise ; but do not be 
 sparing in approbation and encouragement of his 
 efforts. All human merit lies in the everlasting 
 desire to learn : vain satisfaction with what we 
 know puts a stop to real knowledge. We must 
 continue to learn all our lives ; and we should not 
 conceal this fact from the child. Give him this 
 idea of himself: that he will be nothing, if he 
 knows nothing ; that he will be a little better for 
 knowing something; but that, if he knows a 
 great deal, lie will still be far from knowing 
 enough. Do not take from him the pride of 
 conscience ; it is the one good thing : but pre- 
 serve him from tlic pride of capacity. If he 
 shows signs of a tardy intellect, do not allow it to 
 be a source of mortification to him : if you do, lie 
 will become accustomed to it, and submit, with- 
 out shame, to a sort of degradation ; or perhaps, 
 roused from his torpor by wounded self-love, ho
 
 172 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 will earnestly seek the gratifications arising from 
 self-love. Conscience will take no part in his 
 efforts to attain this end. 
 
 Accustom the child, even when very young 
 (three or four years of age), to the regular per- 
 formance of some shght daily task. If you can- 
 not perceive that he is making any progress^ be 
 neither surprised nor uneasy : do not seek for 
 undue stimulants ; but wait. It will all work 
 right in time. Certain natures have their time of 
 necessary incubation, but obtain a better knowl- 
 edge of what they have been slow in learning. 
 Others have intervals of physical languor, the 
 external symptoms of which are scarcely percep- 
 tible, but during which the exertion of bodily 
 development has a direct influence upon the mind. 
 If there be suffering, suspend labor : if not, con- 
 tinue it ; but do not insist on the result being 
 fruitful and apparent. Except for very important 
 reasons, we ought not to allow the brain to go to 
 waste, or interrupt the habit of exertion, however 
 slight or imperceptible. 
 
 I cannot too often repeat that we are always 
 too busy to give sufficient attention to this ele- 
 mentary education so important, which is the key 
 to our whole moral and intellectual future. Let
 
 ELEMENTARY EDUCATION. 173 
 
 US bestow upon it our careful thought. All the 
 future studies of the child will bear marks of 
 the intuition, logic, and perseverance which you 
 have implanted in his mind in the days of its 
 early training. I favor a method of very rapid 
 readings not exactly because it is rapid, but 
 because . it is clear and intelligible, because it 
 accomplishes more without requu'ing any extra 
 exertion ; but no method is an infallible panacea. 
 There are brains that cannot be perceptibly hur- 
 ried ; and there is one thing that I would impress 
 upon my readers, — that time makes no difference 
 in thi.s matter. I often see, in families, very im- 
 prudent prejudices. We are too apt to pass judg- 
 ment on children, anal^'ze tliem, and criticise 
 them, as we would men. We classify them, and 
 sometimes make use of them as proof against or 
 in favor of certain establislied systems. This 
 analysis, when made in their presence, is fatal. 
 
 The child understands and takes advantage of 
 the character attributed to him. If it be bad, he 
 turns tliis to his own profit and amusement. lie 
 is a decided fatalist, and says of his own accord, 
 to account for his peculiarities, " Tliat is my way." 
 Even if you have the prudence to avoid explain- 
 ing his disposition in his presence, do not allow
 
 174 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 yourself to rely too miicli on your own explana- 
 tion. You have not the power, much less the 
 right, to establish the limit where Nature shall 
 cease her operations in the human being. I have 
 an aversion to methodical classifications of instinct 
 and character. They can never be de^nitive, 
 even in the case of adults ; much less in the case 
 of these malleable beings upon whom we experi- 
 ment. Man is a far more complicated product 
 than we imagine. Situated as he is between two 
 opposing forces, nature and civilization, he must 
 assume a multitude of forms before his comple- 
 tion ; but his transformations are so rapid that 
 the eye cannot always keep pace with them. 
 The judgment of your pedagogism, which was 
 correct in the morning, may be wrong before 
 night. You are superintending the mysterious 
 operations of an alembic. Do not pass judgment 
 until you have given it a fair test. 
 
 The foregoing is to impress upon my readers 
 the necessity of absolute patience and uniform 
 good-nature. If kindness of heart does not 
 prompt these feelings, Reason ought to suggest 
 them. Consult her, and she will counsel you to 
 be just ; and indulgence is a form of justice 
 decidedly necessary for childhood. Without 
 patience, nothing will avail.
 
 PREMATURE EDUCATION. 175 
 
 I do not approve of making the cliild find out 
 for himself the letter, syllable, or word, at which 
 he hesitates. I prefer to prompt him every time, 
 without suffering him to observe that he has 
 encountered a difficulty. I prevent all exertion, 
 so as to secure his attention ; which would be 
 impossible, if I allowed the young brain to 
 become fatigued. The child does not complain 
 of being tired, because he does not know it : you 
 must manage that he shall not be tired. After 
 you have prompted him several times, he will try 
 to utter quickly what has before puzzled him, so 
 that he may say it before you. By using this 
 extreme care with the fragile brain that you wish 
 to develop, you may commence very early : other- 
 wise, commence late ; for, although there are 
 many disadvantages in so doing, it is preferable 
 to a premature and forced education. 
 
 Do not furnish children with primers and 
 spelling-books indiscriminately. Many that are 
 in common use contain exercises which, if the 
 pupil does not understand them, are infinitely 
 tiresome, and, if he is unfortunate enough to 
 understand them, intensely foolish. By my 
 method I require merely a collection of sentences 
 of elementary simplicity : such as, " The rose
 
 176 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 smells sweet ; " " The bird sings ; " " The sky is 
 blue ; " " The moon is round ; " The sun is red ; " 
 " The stars are bright," &c., — every thing that 
 is connected with the child's daily life. 
 
 Sancta dmplidtas ! But I am not going to 
 enter into a detailed criticism, which would put 
 me out of tamper, as well as provoke censure. I 
 shall content myself with discussing two general 
 tendencies, opposed to each other, but leading to 
 the same result. Religious realism and material- 
 istic realism are the tendencies; fanaticism and 
 plunder, the means ; tyranny, the final end. 
 Whether this come from above, or below, the 
 result is always deterioration. 
 
 I do not like to have the child carelessly in- 
 formed of the horrors of life, the wickedness of 
 men, the deformity of objects, mortal hatreds, 
 blood spilt by man, the torments of hell, and the 
 anger of God, as if they were quite simple affairs, 
 against which we must harden our feehngs. We 
 cannot keep from him the sight of evil or the 
 terror of disasters. The rich may, to a certain 
 extent, preserve their young family from such 
 surroundings : the poor cannot. Teach him, then, 
 to detest the evil which he sees. Do not encour- 
 age him in fatal indifference, or in so-called
 
 THE GOOD AND BEAUTIFUL. 177 
 
 stoicism, philosophic or religious, which seems to 
 say, " Such things are : it is the part of wisdom 
 to make the best of it." I would that it were 
 possible for the child to grow up without the 
 knowledge of evil ; but such a thing is not to be 
 thousrht of. Sin is universal. There is not such 
 a thing as a peaceful existence. There is nothing 
 to be done but to teach him to love the good and 
 beautiful, and cultivate within him the holy 
 flower of hope. 
 
 Some say that the child has a taste for destruc- 
 tion. This is generally true, especially as regards 
 boys. Oppose this savage instinct: prevent it 
 from degenerating into cruelty. If you wish him 
 to be a true Christian, never mention to him the 
 punishments of hell. If you wish him to be a 
 true man, cultivate in him a love for his fellow- 
 creatures. Therefore do not tell him that man is 
 of no value, that he is incapable of improvement, 
 and that he can be corrected only through severe 
 treatment ; or, that the future is either absolute 
 nonentity or everlasting punishment. Do not 
 hronze him with fear, which gives rise to egotism, 
 nor with indifference, which sanctions it. Defer, 
 as long as possible, giving him an explanation of 
 murder; and if, as has recently happened when
 
 178 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 the entire population was in the midst of disas- 
 ters, it has been impossible to keep him from fright- 
 ful spectacles and heart-rending separations, avail 
 yourself of the first momentary lull, to distract 
 his attention, and drive these scenes from his 
 memory. There is an age when the mind must 
 forget or perish. For this, Nature has made pro- 
 vision. The child forgets easily : give him your 
 help. Do not recall, in his presence, catastrophes 
 which he has seen ; and, if it has been possible to 
 prevent him from witnessing them, do not men- 
 tion them at all. 
 
 I am often told that I wrap their minds in too 
 much cotton. Are we not taught this by Nature, 
 which implants in the mother an instinct for pre- 
 serving the most fragile beings, by means of the 
 utmost caution ? Is not the young bird kept in 
 the softest of down until its wings have grown ? 
 The wings of the mind wiU make their appear- 
 ance in due time ; and your assistance will then 
 be needed in its first attempts at flight. 
 
 For example : as soon as the child is able to 
 read and write, he will feel the need of a knowl- 
 edge of things about him, — the earth, and the 
 operations of nature. I should commence by 
 geology, the liistory of the soil, and treat, in turn,
 
 PREMATURE RIPENING. 179 
 
 of the first manifestations of life, its successive 
 clianges, its recovery of possessions, mysterious 
 successions, and multifarious links. Thus we 
 have the history of the ground, and geography 
 wiU be the crowning point. 
 
 The study of language, an art, or a trade, would 
 require two or three years, at the end of which 
 time we should have reached an age when, our 
 morals being established, we might learn with 
 impunity the history of the human race, and the 
 crimes, follies, and misfortunes which assist in its 
 formation ; we should then be capable of forming 
 a just judgment of this terrible question of good 
 and evil. Until this time, teach the child to 
 understand and love what is good, by a continual 
 inspiration of good example and sweet habits of 
 mutual affection. If you cannot surround the 
 cliild witli domestic harmony, uprightness, and 
 good-nature, it ma}' not always be your fault : 
 only do not be astonished lliat liis disposition 
 grows sour, and that the light flickers in his 
 disturbed and corrupted mind. Prematurely 
 ripe, the fruit which you are cultivating will pre- 
 serve the bruises ; and tlicse will result in disease, 
 or, if notliiug worse, in scars. 
 
 1 have been told, also, " What you desire for
 
 180 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 the child is an impossibility. His life is so inti- 
 mately connected with that of adults, that he will 
 necessarily meet with trials, and must learn to 
 bear them with submission." Am I not aware 
 of this ? All that I ask is, that you frame an 
 ideal of education, and conform to it as closely 
 as possible ; and that, taking advantage of early 
 youth, — that time so evanescent, during which 
 the child belongs more to you than to the external 
 world, — you devote your attention to the devel- 
 opment of his mind, without injur}^ to his body. 
 Very soon he wiU need armor, to fight the battle 
 of life. Of what use will it be, if the wasted 
 combatant is not strong enough to wear it ? 
 
 But the school-teacher is taking a liberty, and 
 talking too much philosophy. Let us return to 
 elementary studies, v>^here alone she feels at home ; 
 for, though having obeyed an ideal, she has still 
 felt the great necessity of observation and expe- 
 rience. Contrary to a widely felt prejudice, she 
 believes that writing should be taught almost at 
 the same time as reading. 
 
 Writing is the necessary complement of the 
 ideas of orthography which the pupil obtains by 
 reading. He will learn that many words contain 
 letters that are not pronounced ; but he must not
 
 THE LITTLE DETAILS. 181 
 
 feel, on that account, that they do not exist, and 
 that he may pass over them without notice. Make 
 him write fast. This is like learning a new alpha- 
 bet ; but he has abeady been trained in the idea 
 and observation of forms. Do not weary him 
 with strokes and pot-hooks for more than a day 
 or two. You cannot expect him to write a fine 
 hand at the outset. His small hand if he is a 
 child, his awkward one if he is an adult, and his 
 nervous system, not trained, like ours, to self- 
 possession, will prevent him, for a long time, from 
 producing a brilliant calligraphy. Put a pencil 
 into his hands, and let him j^ractise by forming 
 characters, however imperfect, in imitation of a 
 written page. IMerely require that the intended 
 words be in a hue, and the letters connected. 
 When he commences to use his hand with a little 
 more freedom, give him some advice as to seating 
 himself comfortably, neither too high nor too low : 
 every tiling deperirls upon this. Attend to the 
 position of his body. The pajjcr should be placed 
 directly in front of him, and his right elbow should 
 not be confined t(j his bcjdy, or rest upon the table. 
 Study his conformation, and do not commence 
 with liira until you are sure of not correcting 
 it too suddenly if it be defective, or making it
 
 182 IMPEESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 crooked if it be regular. Do not allow him to 
 write or read every day in the same place. Let 
 the light shine sometimes on the right, sometimes 
 on the left, sometimes behind, and sometimes in 
 front. You probably know the necessity of this 
 mode of treatment when he is asleep, in order that 
 his eyesight, his brain, and his whole body do not 
 develop more fully on one side than on the other, 
 which is very frequently the case during the period 
 of growth. 
 
 When you have scrupulously taken every pre- 
 caution, give him several printed models in differ- 
 ent styles of writing, and let him copy the one 
 Avhich he thinks easiest. Try to prevent all exer- 
 tion, and do not require him to slant his letters 
 from right to left. As we write our lines from 
 left to right, it is easier and more natural to 
 incline the letters in that direction ; and experi- 
 ence teaches us that this is the more rapid and 
 less fatiguing style, since, instead of pressing the 
 arm close to the side, it leaves it free ; nor does it 
 cause the shoulder to droop, which position, after 
 a while, becomes cruelly fatiguing to the muscles. 
 I am convinced that, in many cases, the liver, 
 becoming compressed by the elbow in its attempts 
 to slant the letters, receives injuries of which the
 
 POSITION OF THE BODY. 183 
 
 cause remains unknown. To avoid twisting the 
 body, many persons whose writing inclines very 
 much from right to left incline their paper in the 
 same direction, thus accustoming themselves to 
 look at the slanting characters which they are 
 forming, in a sort of cross-light which is very 
 hurtful to the eyesight. 
 
 The body should be erect, the paper should be 
 placed straight and in front of the writer, and the 
 letters should be vertical and round. This is the 
 most legible, the most rapid, the least fatiguing, 
 and the best method. 
 
 Do not confine your pujjil to any particular 
 style. Calligraphic signs admit of much variety. 
 Require him to join his letters, and write each 
 word without interruption. If he succeed in 
 doing this with ease, and without having any 
 letter deformed, if he can write a perfectly legi- 
 l)le hand without any fatigue, he understands 
 writing better tlian the majority of adults. 
 
 Confine liim to the use of a pencil for a long 
 time, as tliis glides more easily than a pen. As 
 soon as lie becomes familiar with the sinijjle an<l 
 easy formation of all the letters, let hiui icad a 
 short pluaso ; and, after he has examined it atten- 
 tively, close the book, and rc(iuest him to write
 
 184 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 the words. He will then become familiar with 
 orthography, which every one does not know on 
 leaving college, and of which it would be well to 
 possess a slight knowledge before entering. 
 
 I have finished. You, people with good inten- 
 tions, but slaves of habit, will not listen to me ; 
 still less, you who take no interest in the good or 
 bad management of children ; but, if I have per- 
 suaded a dozen good and wise mothers of families, 
 my time and my trouble will not have been spent 
 in vain. 
 
 Patience and good temper, above every thing, 
 brave hearts ! Crovern without causing tears, and 
 you will have achieved something grander and 
 more difficult than all the romances of your 
 servant and friend, Geokge Sand.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE POETS OP TO-DAY. 
 
 TO CHAELES EDMOND. 
 
 SAINTE-BEUVE has said somewhere, that, 
 after having read and digested the feverish 
 verses of modem poetry, he liked to read once 
 more " Petrarch's most crystalline sonnets." It 
 was about thirty years ago that he wrote that. 
 The poets of to-day have made an entire change : 
 properly speaking, they are neither classical nor 
 romantic. They are painters. Initiated into the 
 secrets of the studio, they have learned to see 
 Nature in all her details; and when they describe 
 her it is with a richness of epithet which is like a 
 graduated scale of the finest and freshest shades. 
 This new school is a progression, like every idea 
 that is tlioroughly investigated; but it has one 
 defect, — obscurit}'. By an equal distribution of 
 light, it exaggerates the relief of the details to 
 the detriment of the principal effect. Certain 
 strophes are so polished and touched n]», to 
 
 185
 
 186 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 prevent any appearance of vulgarity, that they 
 require to be read three times before they can be 
 fully understood ; and I must acknoAvledge that 
 a few have baffled my powers of interpretation. 
 Classic poetry was too musical. It sacrificed 
 energy of thought to rhythm and sonorousness. 
 This was both its merit and its defect, as the 
 picturesque is to-day the merit and defect of 
 3'^oung poets. The ancient poets styled them- 
 selves children of the lyre : those of the present 
 time might be called children of the brush or the 
 palette. 
 
 They certainly took a step towards progress, 
 when they ceased imitating Victor Hugo, and 
 turned their attention elsewhere. They cannot, 
 perliaps, do better; but they will succeed in be- 
 coming natural, and not imagine themselves mas- 
 ters through a borrowed style, but become so in 
 reality, by means exclusively their own. 
 
 Victor Hugo is inimitable, especially now that 
 he has become, as we may say, the classic type of 
 romanticism. " L'Annee Terrible " is perhaps his 
 best work. This book has not yet been justly 
 estimated, and will not be in our present state of 
 undue excitement. It is fearfully natural, and 
 wonderfully graphic. The public looks into it
 
 VICTOR HUGO. 187 
 
 for political emotions ; for every page utters an 
 appeal for immediate action. Yet tliis is not 
 what the critic ought to seek. His judgment 
 should be entirely of a literary nature ; for the 
 poet's point of view is his existence, his life, and 
 no one has the right to ask him, "Why do you 
 exist ? " 
 
 The life of this great poet is an antithesis. 
 With his eagle eyes he gazes to the right and left, 
 above and below, but not always before him, 
 because he soars aloft, describing great circles, 
 without troubling himself about any fixed course. 
 Tliere is no course marked out for him who lives 
 in space illimitable, and soars on indefatigable 
 wings. Shall we quarrel with him because he 
 does not understand certain men, and has an im- 
 perfect perception of certain things? This would 
 be an idle quarrel, and of serious inconvenience 
 to ourselves ; for, by combating with what seems 
 to us erroneous in some of his estimations, wo 
 should be overlooking thi; infinite trutli and 
 strength of his perception as a whole. 
 
 TliL' poet, and especially the poet raised to sncli 
 eminence, is not obliged, like us, to bo on Hk; 
 watcli for danger. Ho would not suffer from 
 collision with any unforeseen obstacle, but, like
 
 188 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 Antocus, rise from the shock. The harm is in 
 trying to convert him into a politician. Even 
 though he were willing to submit to this con- 
 descension, to attempt discussion, to brave ridi- 
 cule, to coldly repulse injustice, the thing would 
 be impossible : he is too passionate. He needs 
 the thunder, to avenge personal affront; and 
 nothing but thunder will suffice. When he tries 
 to become dogmatic, he is no longer himself. He 
 can handle only the boundless : this is his privi- 
 lege, his right, since therein lies his strength, 
 since his grandeur consists in passing by every 
 goal whatsoever, and since, if we insisted on that 
 practical wisdom employed in transitory affairs, 
 we should have no Victor Hugo. This would be 
 depriving France of her crown. Has she not 
 already suffered enough ? She still retains one 
 sublime poet, one unfettered mind, one man who 
 looks beyond the horizon, and who, without 
 regard to what others call imi^ediments, proclaims 
 the law of centuries to come ; and shall we bid 
 him be silent ? This might be the act of an 
 assembly terrified by the frightful tumult : it 
 could not be that of a clear conscience. 
 
 Our sons will read UAnnee Terrible ; but, after 
 having read of it in history, they may not under-
 
 THE POET'S STYLE. 189 
 
 stand it. They will appreciate the work of 
 the poet, and will point to the causes and effects 
 which were deprived of their necessary correc- 
 tives, no longer necessary to our sons, because 
 tliey will have enfranchised all that now keep us 
 under restraint. In these grand descriptions of 
 suffering, which the great poet alone can approach 
 without reserve, they will behold the immediate 
 causes of fatal effects. They will seem to hear 
 the desperate cry of expiring France ; and from 
 this reverberating cry will, perhaps, be dated its 
 return to life. 
 
 It is not talent alone that constitutes the magic 
 power of this poet. His style is, perhaps, not 
 always irreproachal)le. Repetitions occur, and 
 passages which rely unskilfully and unscrupu- 
 lously on the waves of insi)u-ation. His style 
 contains, too, a little ancient monotony, which, 
 never being able to turn into vacuity, turns some- 
 times into the mournful, like a bas-relief fastened 
 to the De Profundis of a cathedral. However 
 disconsolate the subject, we always like to find 
 some life there, even in death ; ])ecauso the breath 
 of the poet is life itself, always triumphing over 
 nihihty. But there are passages upon wliich 
 we cannot dwell, so quickly are our minds borne
 
 190 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 aloft. Others, if less powerful, would perhaps 
 be more skilful ; for verse is nowadays carried 
 to a wonderful degree of adroitness ; but the true 
 power of emotion is that which increases as it is 
 prolonged, like a protracted peal of thunder, inter- 
 rupted though never exhausted by repeated re- 
 verberations. So, in subjects of a different nature, 
 this regular and equally astonishing progression of 
 serenity may be likened to a sunrise, in which 
 the light finally becomes so intense as to dazzle 
 every one. This is that extraordinary gift, unri- 
 valled personality. This power precludes neither 
 tenderness nor grace. The lion exhibits the 
 coquettish ways of the bird, a maternal tender- 
 ness for children, and outpourings of the heart, 
 which call forth tears. The verses to " Little 
 Jeanne," and to " The Sick Child," will ever 
 remain pure pearls in that magic casket which 
 contains, like those in Oriental legends, sunbeams, 
 clouds, and tempests. 
 
 I have lately been reading other poets. Al- 
 though I have no right to form here a literary 
 salon (besides, it is not in my line), there is 
 one person whom I should like to mention next 
 to Hugo, because — It happened one evening 
 among a few choice friends. Paul de Saint-
 
 THE RANK OF BOUILnET. 191 
 
 Victor had just been reciting in an admirable 
 tone of voice, and with an irresistiljle accent, 
 Le Vieux Cajjitaine. Bouilhet "was requested to 
 recite La Colomhe, which commences his book 
 of posthumous poetry. 
 
 " After Victor Hugo ! " he said, smiling. 
 " Oh ! never." 
 
 This modesty entitled him, in my opinion, to a 
 higher estimation by us than by himself. There 
 is no occasion for ranking any particular person 
 first, second, or third after the master ; because, 
 without controversy, the latter will always stand 
 at the head of the illustrious cortege ; but I give 
 Bouilhet his rank, as chance has thrown into 
 my hands that volume from beyond the tomb, 
 carefully edited by his faithful friend Gustave 
 Flaul)ert. Bouilhet belongs, I believe, to the pic- 
 turesque, very learned, and rather choice school, 
 of which I spoke at the commencement of this 
 chapter; but he possesses the merit of a vivid 
 clearness, wliich interferes in no way with dis- 
 tinction of style, and elevation of thought. lie 
 has grace, enthusiasm, imagination. lie taslad 
 his Muse. In his latter years he became master 
 of her, and wiotf witliout apparent effort. He 
 seemed to improvise, which is, in my opinion, the
 
 192 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 grand expression of talent. In an entertainment 
 given at the Odeon in honor of his memory, the 
 day after his death, the literati of Paris listened 
 to a selection of exquisite pieces recited by some 
 of the greatest artists. Madame Plessy's render- 
 ing of La Berceuse Philosophique is still remem- 
 bered : — 
 
 "Monsieur, I'enfant qu'on attendait, 
 Soyez le bienvenu sur terre! " 
 
 This is a chef-d'oeuvre ; and there are more than 
 one in this volume so sadly named Dernieres 
 ChanBons. One of these, to which I give the 
 preference, is entitled Sombre Eglogue : — 
 
 LE VOTAGEUB. 
 
 L'ombre sans lune a couvert la campagne. 
 Oil t'en vas-tu, p^tre silencieux? 
 
 LE PATRE. 
 
 O voyageur, le souci m'accompagne, 
 
 Et quand tout dort, je marche sous les cieux, &c. 
 
 I have been fortunate ag^ain in findinsr time 
 to read ^schylus, translated by M. Leconte de 
 Lisle. The latter is himself a great poet, and 
 possesses such decided originality that he has 
 become the founder of a school. We owe him a 
 sincere debt of gratitude — and this debt is a
 
 MISSION OF LITERARY MINDS. 193 
 
 national one — for continuing, in the midst of the 
 tragic events of these hiter times, his severe task, 
 and furnishing us with a true idea of the father 
 of tragedy. M. Leconte de Lisle has already 
 given us Homer. He alone, I think, could faith- 
 fully portray the grand simplicity of these ancient 
 styles without marring their beauty. His has 
 been, apparently, the patient, thankless toil of 
 him who washes gold for the benefit of others ; 
 but who could be a better judge of pure gold than 
 he who bears within him a fruitful mine ? 
 
 You have given me a work to read from 
 -<Eschylus, which, be it said without offence, 
 shows a wonderful appreciation of the author : 
 so I associate you with the glory due the earnest 
 worker who has made us acquainted with this 
 warbler. 
 
 Literary minds have, at the present time, a 
 clearly apjiarent mission. It is for them to sup- 
 port our only remaining standard, the intellectual 
 superiority of France. Whilst wc possess the first 
 poets, the finest painters, and the greatest musi- 
 cians, we can , protest against tliat decline ^\ith 
 which we arc tlireatened. Through the vivid 
 power of genius and talent, by tlic eternal vitality 
 of our Latin race, we may take our revenge.
 
 194 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 Taste is our acknowledged speciality. Those 
 who are dull of appreciation strive to regard it as 
 a useless gift, when in reality it is the true source 
 of fruitful selections in the moral order. Without 
 poetry in literature, painting, and music, in sculp- 
 ture and architecture, even in those industrial 
 pursuits which are so closely allied to the arts, 
 no people can hope for a future. Those who 
 should attempt to dispense with it would see 
 their material force rapidly weaken, and become 
 exhausted. Poetry is the ardor of sentiment, 
 something innate, alternating from restraint to 
 discharge, river and brook, into the bed of talent. 
 Taste is the literary floodgate, which distributes 
 these salubrious waters, causing fertility and life. 
 Without taste, we should have nothing but inun- 
 dations, confusion, or disasters. Be proud of 
 possessing taste : it is the great inventor, the 
 divine equilibrium which nothing can disturb 
 or destroy. What military campaign, however 
 wisely conducted, can compare with the artistic 
 campaign through which our painters have just 
 passed at the late Exposition ? Who expected to 
 find the general progress so apparent, or to behold 
 such a remarkable number of excellent and 
 charming productions, just at the close of a
 
 ART AND THE FRENCH. 195 
 
 tempest which seemed to have swept away every 
 thing ? Messrs. Germans, who are so military ; 
 Messrs. Russians, who are so powerful ; Messrs. 
 Americans, who are so wealthy, — where are 
 your pictures and your painters? Some of you 
 have bought museums with money, others have, 
 collected them by plunder ; but which of you is 
 the indefatigable producer, the fruitful inventor ? 
 Our enemies have believed they could destroy us 
 by cannon, and strip us of our money ; but, as if 
 by magic, we fill the market with a fresh harvest, 
 sown and ripened beneath their volleys. 
 
 I was at Paris, a few days ago, in the bare 
 and simple parlor of a great artist. Nothing, or 
 almost notliing, relieved the emptiness of tliis 
 apartment, — merely a piano and some chairs. In 
 a little galler}^ adjoining was an organ with a 
 sublime tone, played by a" modern master, a few 
 pictures from the ancient masters, and a marble 
 bust of the great artist herself, a beautiful bust 
 indeed. Upon the stairs were two large vases of 
 wild flowei-s. The taste for these flowers has 
 reached I'aris. Tins is a mark of progress. ( )iir 
 rustic (Ima, whicli is so cliarming and so rich, is 
 at last appreciated; very soon a thorougli knowl- 
 edge of it will be acciuired. It is pre-eminently
 
 196 IMPEESSIONS AND REMTNISCENCES. 
 
 a democratic luxury, a symbol of future equality, 
 the portable garden of tbe rich and the poor, the 
 mania of innocent plunder, which does the young 
 cornfields so much good that the proprietors ought 
 not to complain. 
 
 At the commencement of the evening, the 
 youngest member of the family, a fine boy of 
 fourteen years, accompanied on the piano by his 
 illustrious mother, played the violin with that 
 compass and that freedom of execution, that 
 soundness and depth of feeling, which denote 
 a pure and susceptible conscience, nourished in 
 the school of truth. Afterwards two beautiful 
 young girls, charming in their natural simplicity, 
 delighted us with their clear voices, so nearly 
 alike, and harmonizing so exquisitely, that it was 
 difficult to distinguish one from the other. Their 
 mother, who is a fine -pianist, accompanied them 
 also. Then she sang a solo herself. I had not 
 heard her for twenty years. She has attained the 
 highest style, and possesses that conception of this 
 great art which renders the interpreter worthy of 
 the originator. ' She gave us Gluck, and was 
 sublime. A feeling of emotion seized the audi- 
 ence, which was composed entirely of enthusiastic 
 artists; and it seemed to me as though some
 
 THE SPELL OF MUSIC. 197 
 
 Grecian god passed through our smoking ruins. 
 While listening, I had forgotten every thing, my 
 melancholy feelings about conquered France, her 
 devasted population and dishonored capital, the 
 discords of the present, and the intrigues of the 
 enemy for the future. When I returned home, it 
 all came back to me ; and I wondered how such 
 horrible things could have been as far from my 
 mind, for a few hours, as if they had never 
 occurred. The sun of Gluck and Viavdot had 
 banished my fi-ightful dream. What is this power 
 of the beautiful, which lifts us from an ocean of 
 dismal thoughts, and, like some blessed wave, 
 casts us upon a Promised Land ? Ah ! let it 
 take its flight, this hope, the only one that is 
 genuine and eternal, bearing us from heartrending 
 scenes, and rekindling within us the fire of en- 
 thusiasm, that noble outpouring of the mind 
 towards every thing that is great. 
 
 NoiiANT, July 12, 1872.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE REVOLUTION FOR AN IDEAL. 
 
 SHALL we double the cape of tempests ? Let 
 us try to do so. I regard, as the means of 
 success, perfect sincerity, and an impartial criti- 
 cism on all occurrences, of whatever nature. 
 
 I am not fitted to accomplish so important a 
 task. Confined, as I am, to a domestic life, to my 
 occupations, and intimate social relations, to which 
 I am drawn both by duty and the cravings of 
 my nature, I have but a distant view of men and 
 occurrences. This does not prevent me, however, 
 from sometimes indulging in leflections, and form- 
 ing an opinion upon the general issue of events. 
 
 If I should undertake to pass judgment on 
 them, I should not now attempt to lay aside the 
 opinion of any one, and offer my own as a dogma. 
 The time has arrived when we must acknowledge 
 the liberty of conscience to such an extent as not 
 to regard as inimical the man who thinks differ- 
 
 198
 
 LIBERTY OF CONSCIENCE. 199 
 
 ently from ourselves, unless we would keep up a 
 fight with one another and perish. 
 
 Driven to the necessity of a mutual understand- 
 iDg, at whatever cost, our situation, and that of 
 all who love their country, is not as bad as it 
 might have been after such distressing calamities. 
 It is even comparatively good ; but, if we ruin it, 
 we shaU be not only foolish, but criminal, crimi- 
 nal towards our country, the future, and our own 
 children. 
 
 Is it impossible to demonstrate this to all, even 
 to extreme parties? 
 
 I will ])egin with the latter, because they are 
 the least discerning in the face of danger. 
 
 I shall not, however, speak of that party formed 
 from the Commune, because I see no formula in 
 their acts or their speeches. All that has Ijecome 
 manifest in the confusion of their aspirations is the 
 image of chaos ; and, as chaos dwelt also in the 
 opposite aspirations, they sought to make Paris a 
 rendezvous for partisans at war with France. The 
 truth is, that Paris was for a moment deceived as to 
 the extent of the calamities to France, and began 
 to suspect treason ; which suspicion was immedi- 
 ately and very unjustly cast ujton those men wlio 
 had been placed and maintained in power during
 
 200 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 the siege. On seeing the attitude of the Assembly 
 of Bordeaux, Paris was again mistaken in sup- 
 posing that the majority had it in their power to 
 restore the monarchy, and that M. Thiers joined 
 in their cause. So Paris formed the Commune, 
 believing this to be a power of service to the 
 republic. Paris was republican, and was desper- 
 ate. That is not belonging to a party: it is being 
 a man and a patriot. 
 
 Paris was mistaken a third time in supposing 
 that she could be saved from a monarchy by a 
 party mainly formed from the " peoi^le." This 
 party never really existed, since it was devoid of 
 the slightest harmony, the least feeling of union, 
 or any method whatever in the strange form of 
 government which it assumed. It displayed all 
 sorts of attempts, of fancies, and of pretensions 
 to social science ; but at foundation there was 
 nothing but passions, dreams, or longings. Am- 
 bition, ignorance, and vanity ruled, each pulling 
 its own way ; the bad unmindful of all save 
 themselves, the good incapable of organizing 
 disorder, and the worthless foolishly infatuated 
 with their momentary importance. There can be 
 no party where there is no common principle ; and 
 to attempt to seize, by main force, what does not
 
 RADICALISM. 201 
 
 belong to us, before establishing our right to 
 possess it, is not a principle in any country in 
 the world. The Commune, then, sinks into the 
 domain of material doings, • and is not to be 
 discussed ; which does not mean that the people 
 have no right to the discussion of their own 
 interests : this is quite another affair, and I shall 
 not advert to it again except from necessity. 
 
 Putting the Commune out of the discussion, 
 then, I would address myself to radicalism, and 
 inquire if it is sufficiently versed in social and 
 political science, to accept once more the immedi- 
 ate and exclusive government of affiiirs. It lias 
 just made a trial, which has proved disastrous. 
 It could not save invaded France ; it could not 
 restrain the passions of the people. It was out- 
 flanked, betrayed, rendered powerless. It lias 
 tendered its resignation, but at the right time and 
 place. This party (for this is a genuine one ; it 
 has its formula, and is no more lacking in men of 
 al)ility than any other party) is strong iu that it 
 is the fraction of a more extensive party, which 
 flcsires the republic, red or white, — emphatically 
 desires it, and will have it. By the side of these 
 ^formulated aspirations, place the lofty aspiration 
 for liberty, which docs not feel the need of a
 
 202 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 formula, but may be identified under the form of 
 a liberal party militant, and you will have a 
 nation that desires to belong to herself, and not 
 be dependent on any exclusive party. 
 
 Hence arises that tendency of the multitude, 
 which, at times, are ready to support radicalism, 
 to resist it at a given moment, or abandon it 
 without excuse, for fear of some new tyranny. 
 Radicalism has received so many and such severe 
 lessons, that it should be careful to deserve no 
 more. For this reason, it should take into con- 
 sideration the age, and moral resistance. It 
 should lay aside the revolutionary dream which 
 consists in renewing, out of all reason, a glorious 
 past, but not accepting its dark side. Without 
 repudiating the vast power and great advantages 
 of this party, it should have courage to break 
 with certain traditions which are revolting to the 
 conscience of the present day. In short, it ought 
 to accept the forms of modern life, and struggle 
 against constituting the antithesis of the clerical 
 party, whose intolerance and passions it has but 
 too well imitated. 
 
 It seems as though the radicals must have real- 
 ized this necessity when, seeing the party losing 
 its identity, they grouped around M. Thiers, the
 
 THE CHURCH. 203 
 
 expression of dominaut liberalism. Their evolu- 
 tion must have been repugnant to every shade 
 of socialism ; nevertheless they acted very wisely, 
 and I like to think that the majority displayed 
 more patriotism than tactics in this evolution. 
 
 Let this party, and those ' allied to it, feel that 
 their situation is far from being desperate. Radi- 
 calism will meet with certain triumph at the elec- 
 tions which will follow the decease of the actual 
 assembly. Liberalism wishes for antagonists of 
 the monarchy and of the Church. Now, as ever, 
 it will require of candidates of the moment only 
 the passion of the moment. If the radicals do 
 not become too much elated by their victory, if 
 they can give as good an accoimt of what their 
 electors do not wish as of what they really do wish, 
 they will be able to do their country an immense 
 service : if not, they will surrender lier to the 
 disturbances from which we are still suffering. 
 
 Facing radicalism, at the other extremity of the 
 battle front, stands the Church, in a threatening 
 attitude, and replete with worldly ambition. It, 
 too, has ramifications extending throughout the 
 universe, a formulated doclrinc, enthusiastic ora- 
 tors, pretensions to power, and the sympathy of 
 numerous adherents ; but it, too, rests upon a sort
 
 204 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 of religious liberalism, which does not join in the 
 Catholic radicalism of its enterprises. It, too, owes 
 its preponderance of power to a need of the 
 moment, — that of peace at all hazards. Nor was 
 every one actuated by cowardice in demanding 
 peace at all hazards. The majority felt the im- 
 potence of radicahsm, and saw disaster inevitable. 
 They tried to confront radicalism, which pre- 
 tended to go to the extent, with the Church, 
 which desired, or seemed to desire, a compromise. 
 Disgust at the present state of affairs, and fear 
 of worse to come, led to this vote as in a year 
 hence, perhaps, they will lead to the other ex- 
 treme. Clerical influence, then, is spurious, or, at 
 all events, very precarious ; and its thirst for 
 dominion would not be quenched, even if it 
 possessed that influence in the assembly for which 
 it is so ambitious. If it continues to attempt a 
 restoration of the past, it will fall with a crash ; 
 while, with a more enhghtened idea of the needs 
 of modern Hfe, it would last as it ought, and 
 might derive advantage from those ideas of toler- 
 ance and liberty which are in the true spirit of 
 general aspirations. 
 
 On the whole, many liberals, and even certain 
 radicals, are Catholics. Catholicism is an indi-
 
 RELIGION AND POLITICS. 205 
 
 vidual belief, and does not belong to any party. 
 It is an outrage to a religion, it is like renouncing 
 and destroying it, to convert it into a political 
 means. Many Catholics have this feeling^, — at 
 present, the majority. I know of many who 
 oling to the faith, yet are unwilling to be called 
 clerical, because this political flag is prejudicial to 
 their political opinions. 
 
 This is the case with the peasant, whose deposit 
 at the ballot-box is so considerable. He wishes 
 his mass and his religious festivals. He is opposed 
 to the re-establishment of the Bourbons. 
 
 So religion -will not take an active part in the 
 coming electoral struggles ; and I am inclined to 
 think that the dissenters will not bestow upon it 
 the slightest attention. The all-important busi- 
 ness will be to repulse the efforts of a party 
 whose principles of authority carried to excess are 
 becoming a law of legislation. I do not antici- 
 pate any difficulty here, as tlie right and left 
 central parties are destined to come to an under- 
 standing on neutral ground, whither they will be 
 irresistil)ly impelled by liberalism. 
 
 The moderate element, Avliich has stood the late 
 terrible commotions, and which is the oidy vilal 
 and dural>le element of actual France, wUl Ijc
 
 206 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 forcibly confronted with the social question, will 
 succeed in understanding it, and will work ear- 
 nestly and usefully for its solution. All decrees 
 of the present time are manifestly transitory : 
 they are but the swell of the billows after a 
 storm. If earnest minds can only refrain from 
 fatal precipitance, indi^'idual manias, and blind 
 ambition, France will effect, before she is ten 
 years older, and without striking a blow, a mighty 
 and magnificent revolution. Will this happen? 
 
 This revolution will not be what international 
 relationship would call the triumph of democracy. 
 No : the poor will not violently despoil the rich, 
 the ignorant will not bear the responsibility of 
 power, nor an illiterate class obtrude itself on a 
 nation as arbiter of her destiny. Such is a wild 
 and stupid dream. We do not propose another 
 surprise favored by exceptional circumstances; 
 and, if we did, it would Jbe but another storm of 
 a few days' duration. One contingency alone 
 could give it a duration of years ; that is, if the 
 clerical party should attain to power. Oh ! then 
 what a frightful re-action would take place from 
 one end of France to the other, for the restora- 
 tion of Uberty ! and, as the vote of the majority is 
 guided essentially by instinct, they would resort
 
 FRATERNITY OR DEATH. 207 
 
 to any means, even terror, for establishing tliis 
 antithesis, security. 
 
 Has the clerical party such a thirst for mart}'r- 
 dom that it would drag France into the ahyss 
 with itself ? Let us hope not, and let us seek to 
 discover what will be the triumph of democracy 
 when its time comes. 
 
 The human ideal, like the social ideal, is the 
 attainment of equality ; but first it is necessary to 
 understand its nature, — to know in what it con- 
 sists, and what are the rights that it sanctions, 
 and the duties that it imposes. Fraternity or 
 death was a beautiful device, when understood 
 in its true sense ; viz., to fight to become men^ 
 or to die! But when interpreted thus, Be our 
 brothers, or die by our haiidsf it became absurd 
 and abominaljle. Unfortunately, it is still taken 
 in this sense by certain democratic schools ; and 
 in order to obliterate this notion, as an outrage to 
 the human conscience, the entire people must 
 attain to the knowledge of good and evil. Nor 
 are they so far removed from this as one might 
 suppose, after the late crisis. Without any 
 d,oubt, a very small nniii1)cr of violent men were 
 solely responsible for the excesses and crimes 
 committed. As to the numerous champions of
 
 208 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 the democratic idea, there was a mistaken notion 
 of right, but by no means a denial of the law of 
 conscience. The first step towards social equi- 
 librium is gratuitous and liberal instruction. We 
 shall probably have quite the reverse ; but let us 
 wait for a while with resignation. The words 
 social equilibrium have escaj)ed my pen ; and I am 
 inclined to use them instead of social question, 
 because it is the equilibrium that determines the 
 question. 
 
 Is not equilibrium the secret of the universe, — 
 the natural or divine law, by virtue of which we 
 exist ? Are not all our violations of equilibrium 
 checked by a compulsory return to that equi- 
 librium, or else temporarily chastised by a tem- 
 porary derangement of equilibrium ? 
 
 Social equality is nothing more nor less than 
 the share of each in the social equilibrium ; and, 
 if we seek for a law in natural equality, we shall 
 find it nowhere but in the counterpoise of forces 
 opposed to one another. There are, in this order 
 of things, forces of weakness, docility, seduction, 
 and suavity, which are as much realities as the 
 forces of strength, encroachment, violence, and 
 rudeness. This everlasting contest which the law 
 of life is constantly undergoing upon the face of
 
 SOCIAL EQUILIBRIUM. 209 
 
 the globe, man carries on in his thoughts, as well 
 as his actions. Where he represents merely 
 brutal force, he is little superior to the animals : 
 where he represents intellectual and moral force, 
 he has a right to believe himself the highest 
 expression of the actually existing creation ; but 
 this on condition that he foUow, with constanc}^ 
 that tendency which is continually urging the 
 universe towards a higher destiny. 
 
 Social equilibrium, then, consists in furnishing 
 all with the means of developing their individual 
 worth, of whatever nature, provided it be worth 
 and not inertia. Ignorance is not the only obsta- 
 cle : there is misery too, — that is, the want or 
 excess of labor ; and a society which could not 
 find the means of equalizhig the expenditure of 
 strength and tlie legitimate acquisition of healthy 
 enjoyments is a ruined society. 
 
 I do not think that the rich or the moderately 
 wealthy class will not be obliged to make some 
 great sacrifice in founding such a considerable 
 establishment as is now in preparation ; for this 
 must be a legal establishment adapted to tlu; 
 intellectual emancipation of those classes wanting 
 both in money and instruction. Gratuitous ser- 
 vices will be requested, and this can never bo
 
 210 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 prevented without striking a blow at the liberty 
 of transactions ; but, when transactions can be 
 effected only at the expense of great collective 
 struggles, there is something wrong in the social 
 and industrial organization. What I have been 
 earnestly desiring is taking place. A thorough 
 investigation of the requirements of labor, and 
 the resources of industry, has been commenced. 
 The immediate result will not be very satisfac- 
 tory. A permanent and fundamental institution 
 is needed ; for requirements and resources are 
 constantly undergoing modifications ; and when, 
 after the lapse of fifteen or twenty years, it will 
 become necessary to return to tlie question of 
 actuality, we shall be startled and discouraged 
 in view of the new examination to be made. 
 This is postponed as long as possible, to avoid 
 over-exciting the parties interested. The dissat- 
 isfied will get irritated, the satisfied become ob- 
 stinate. The great study of social equilibrium 
 should be uninterrupted, and rest only on rela- 
 tive solutions. This is what the true friends of 
 the people ought to desire, and will desire. 
 
 When this great tribunal of social interests 
 shall perform its regular functions, and its mem- 
 bers be elected by patrons and workmen under
 
 HUMAN DECISIONS. 211 
 
 conditions of approved impartiality, whoever at- 
 tempts to govern in any way, through intrigue 
 or violence, will be worthy of condemnation. 
 Thus far, human decisions have produced scenes 
 at variance with conscience ; as, when we see 
 ignorance disarmed before wealth combined with 
 knowledge and authority. Ignorance, not know- 
 ing its rights, resigns or exaggerates them ; but, 
 however deplorable a use it makes of them, we 
 must not forget its entire existence. 
 
 Really fraternal institutions would prove the 
 future salvation of the people. But there is one 
 essential starting-point : this is the establishment 
 which I have before mentioned, — the establish- 
 ment for promoting means of realization. The 
 time will come when every one will gladly con- 
 triljute liis share ; but, if you wish to produce that 
 holy equality of the people which is possible, this 
 great subscription must not bear the character 
 of a charity. We are not the equal of that man 
 who throws us the offering of pity; for many give 
 it with disdain, merely to avoid the sight of dis- 
 tress. The study of social science, which is not 
 ^iiercly an economic capacity, but a philosophy, a 
 religion without any miracles except those whicli 
 man can peiforni, must fill us with a sense of our
 
 212 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 duties ; it must impress upon us the right of all 
 to liberty, instruction, and comfort; it must teach 
 us to become civilized men, capable of civilizing 
 other men. We can raise five thousand millions 
 of francs to restore and preserve our nationality. 
 The time will come when we shall be able and 
 willing to make a similar effort to preserve our 
 conscience, and restore our dignity. Who knows 
 what amount could be raised by an annual contri- 
 bution for the abolishment of intellectual helot- 
 ism? 
 
 This would require the vote of a sovereign, 
 republican assembly. It could not be accom- 
 phshed by the will of a prince or a party, without 
 producing a change in its character. Private 
 initiative does not yet jDOSsess American vitality, 
 and perhaps never will in France, although we 
 must hope for it, and strive to encourage it. By 
 the sincere fusion of the different parties, we may 
 hope for this great movement, this immense and 
 unprecedented loan, which, perhaps, will be called 
 in history, " revolution for an ideal." 
 
 NoHANT, July 23, 1872.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 FATHER HYACINTHE. 
 
 Sept. 12, 1872. 
 
 I MAKE no attempt to unravel the compli- 
 cated difficulties of the present time, arising 
 from the divergence, unexpectedness, or apparent 
 strangeness of the multifarious events that are 
 taking place. Possibly this is an epoch of 
 general decomposition ; but most certainly it is 
 an epoch of simultaneous, partial recomposition. 
 What is destroyed in one direction is recon- 
 structed in another. Efforts for restoring the 
 past, for building up the present, and erecting the 
 future, are all active at the same time. The earth 
 trembles, edifices crumble, others spring up from 
 the depths of the unknown ; and every person 
 receives his own impression. Each one has a 
 right to his own ; but it is the duty of a few to 
 nKiko theirs manifest. 
 
 I feci that tliis duty rests upon me in regard 
 
 to Ilyacinthe-Loyson. Having been requested by 
 
 ai8
 
 214 JiMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 mutual friends to express my sentiments concern- 
 ing him, I declined seeing him or maldng his 
 acquaintance. I had my doubts in regard to his 
 sincerity; at least, his frankness. There is a 
 marked shade of difference between these two 
 words : one may be ingenuous, and yet lack 
 courage. It seemed to me that such was the case 
 with this philosophic priest, who rejected the 
 dogma of hell, favored the marriage of priests, 
 condemned neither Jews nor heretics, and yet 
 called himself Catholic, and submitted to the 
 Roman Church. 
 
 M. Hyacinthe-Loyson has not changed, but I 
 have altered my opinion. He denies papal infal- 
 libihty, contends with the official church, and 
 marries. I believe him both sincere (that is, 
 ingenuous) and frank (that is, brave). 
 
 I am not laughing at his ingenuousness, I assure 
 you. I am touched by his courage, and I admire 
 it. I read the declaration which he published a 
 few days ago, in the " Temps," and which was 
 copied by all the newspapers. It apj^ears to me 
 the language of a worthy man, and a man of 
 heart. 
 
 It constitutes a very wholesome and very fine 
 page in the religious history of our times. The
 
 A NEW POINT. 215 
 
 rasre which it has occasioned does not affect me. 
 This vain roaring of an angry sea, this boiling 
 and frothing, do not hinder me from seeing the 
 new island rise to the surface, and the waves 
 dash around it, powerless to effect its submersion. 
 
 It is now but a small tract of land, a narrow 
 refuge, difficult of access, impossible of egress. 
 This is an entirely new point of doctrine, as 
 regards the position taken by the orthodoxy of 
 our day. A little church is founded, which, in a 
 century, will probably receive due consideration. 
 Who knows but it may become some important 
 halting-place, where Catholicism will, in its turn, 
 take refuge in its struggle against death ? 
 
 For its hour is approaching ; and the pilgrim- 
 ages, the use of grottos and marvellous waters, 
 tlie political invasion of the sanctuary, — tliese 
 are its funeral-knell. What does it signify that 
 the ignorant or fanatic masses saunter along in 
 the footsteps of the agitators ? 
 
 When a religion can no longer satisfy a healthy 
 soul, its fate is decided. Its existence is oidy a 
 question of time. 
 
 But this religion, wliich, at its 1)irlh, was 
 an ideal, a relative trnth, ciinnol ])crisli williout 
 emitting some still pure and brilliunl gUams ; and,
 
 216 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 in the midst of the darkness into which the offi- 
 cial Church is plunged, the declaration of M. 
 Hyacinthe-Loyson is like one of those flashes of 
 light which are emitted from lamps in which the 
 fuel is nearly exhausted. Catholicism cannot and 
 ought not to disappear suddenly. Its agony must 
 have its day. Though hastened by the demon- 
 strations of Lourdes and La Salette, its end will 
 most certainly be delayed by generous attempts, 
 and truly religious exertions. New heresies wiU 
 appear, and numbers of priests will proclaim their 
 right to marriage. A pope will arise, perhaps, 
 who will not suffer himself to be unscrupulously 
 invested with infallibihty, a sort of divinity at- 
 tributed to man. This pope can summon a new 
 council, a genuine council, which, in view of the 
 imminent ruin of the religious edifice, will re- 
 solve to support it by liberal concessions. If this 
 council does not dare to lay hands on the doctrine, 
 it will allow the priest such tolerant interpreta- 
 tions that intolerance will gradually disappear, 
 and the sentence of eternal damnation will be- 
 come only a metaphor. The imagination can, 
 with sense, conceive of a Christian church with- 
 out miracles, and without priests debarred from 
 society.
 
 THE GREAT CRIMINAL. 217 
 
 For my own part, this is just what I should 
 desire, that we might be spared future dangers 
 resulting from persecuted, consequently exasper- 
 ated, beliefs. To the odious massacre of hostages 
 we are indebted for the disgrace of pilgrimages, 
 and the horror of that liberty of conscience which, 
 with the stupidity of the middle ages, excludes 
 certain portion of the people, as in 1793 and 
 1815. 
 
 The marriage of ex-Father Hyacinthe is a great 
 scandal to the Church, at the present time ; and, 
 with its usual ability, the rehgious press is giving 
 him all the notoriety possible. The great crimi- 
 nal who is presenting himself before public opin- 
 ion, with the resigned assurance of an honest 
 man, ought not to be too much provoked at all 
 this disturbance. He feels a conviction which 
 we do not share. He thinks, even now, that he 
 can call himself a priest and a Catliolic. The 
 distinction which he attempts to establisli be- 
 tween the Roman and the Latin Cliurch seems to 
 us rather arbitrary ; and we discern liere a little 
 of the subtlety of the priest. In our iniiid, lie is 
 .Imperfect heretic, and we congratulate him; for 
 lieresies fonn the grand vitality of tlie Christian 
 ideal : nor are we sctandali/.cd at this subtlety,
 
 218 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 the sole remnant of ecclesiastical clotli which has 
 clung to the side of the future father of a family. 
 It is a logical support of his conviction, a genuine 
 need of his cause. It is easy to tlu^ow the frock 
 to the dogs ; and consequently this eagerness to 
 throw off the yoke has prevented the success of 
 previous attempts by priests in favor of marriage. 
 Here is one who is not willing to lose his indeli- 
 ble reputation, and does not abjure his calling by 
 contracting marriage. " It is well for a priest to 
 be married," he said to himself. " I will be mar- 
 ried, and I will remain a priest." 
 
 So be it ! You have changed 3-our condition to 
 that of a Protestant pastor ; but not admitting 
 Protestantism, the error of Luther., which is, in 
 your opinion, in a state of rupture with the genuine 
 traditions and necessary unity of the Churchy you 
 are, at present, alone in your opinion ; you are 
 founding a church aside. I hope that it will 
 have numerous adherents ; for, without being 
 either Protestant or Catholic, I see, as every one 
 does, the fatal and disgraceful consequences of the 
 celibacy of priests. Let them marry, then, and 
 receive no more confessions ! Will Father Hya- 
 cinthe continue to receive confessions ? 
 
 That is a question. Is the secret of the con-
 
 FAITHFUL PENITENTS. 219 
 
 fessional compatible yv'iih. the existence of conju- 
 gal love ? If I were a Catholic, I should not 
 distress myself very much on the subject. Dis- 
 cretion is easier than restraint ; and, moreover, I 
 should say to my children, " Never have secrets 
 that it is too hard to reveal, and you will never 
 stand in dread of the gossip of the rector's wife." 
 
 But I do not intend to joke upon this subject. 
 I am convinced that the pious ladies who will 
 follow M. Hyacinthe-Loyson in his new career 
 may still open their hearts to him in perfect 
 safety ; and I hope that he may receive many 
 faithful penitents. They will have taken a step 
 in the service of the Church, and will be protest- 
 ing against one of the principal causes of its dis- 
 solution. 
 
 This declaration of Father Hyacinthe's is really 
 very fine and very touching. Is it so from talent 
 alone ? ask some. No ! talent is fine only when 
 it serves to express some fine sentiment. There 
 are, in this article, outpourings of the heart and 
 utterances of conscience which penetrate to the 
 lieart and the conscience. It presents an idea of 
 tpue love, a respect for nature in its divine sense, 
 a cliaste veneration for iiiiitriinony, wliich would 
 rei)ress a smile and call forth tears. It is really
 
 220 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 very grand ; and this strange piece, written by a 
 priest, will perhaps become a sort of new gospel 
 for future members of a new church. A married 
 priest. Father Hyacinthe — do not let us deprive 
 him of his title of priest and monk — will be able 
 to marry other priests, and set their regenerated 
 consciences at peace. 
 
 I would not submit to the unpleasant duty of 
 revealing all my thoughts. I do not acknowledge 
 any mediator between God and myself. I beheve 
 this mediator useless when he is not harmful, and 
 harmful when he is not destructive ; but as man 
 will, for years to come, feel the need of a priest, 
 let us hope that the latter may be at least as pure 
 if not as noble as Father Hyacinthe.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 A CUKIOUS BOOK. 
 
 Sept. 12, 1872. 
 "HT ES Enchantements cle Madame Prudence 
 
 JLi de Saman L' Esbatx." This is the odd title 
 of one of the most curious books that I have ever 
 read. It was printed at Sceaux, and is sold, I 
 believe, under the galleries of the Od<ion ; as if 
 the author did not care to seek great publicity by 
 any special announcement. I can imagine why ; 
 but I have only to judge of the book, and not 
 betray the pseudonyme. 
 
 It is the true history of a life ; and a careful 
 perusal of it might be recommended to those 
 investigating minds, who, at the present day, arc 
 writing or meditating upon the influence of 
 woman in the society of to-day and of the future. 
 
 The aim of the author is clearly defined, and ex- 
 pifesst'd in a f(3W lines. " Only distinguished tal- 
 ents are worthy of occupying the attentioii of (lie 
 j)ublic ; but, feeling that woman's fate is somc- 
 
 221
 
 222 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 times so wretched, I thought it might be interest- 
 ing to see one woman follow the dictates of her 
 heart, and rank love and independence above 
 every thing in life. I write for those who are 
 fond of the emotional, who enjoy simple narra- 
 tives, memoirs, and, perhaps remotely, the moral 
 and physical questions connected therewith."' 
 
 After this brief introduction, she enters upon 
 her narration ; and we regret that she has given 
 us so few particulars of her childhood. A person 
 endowed with such powerful originality must 
 either have received an eccentric education, or 
 been systematically left to her own free will. 
 
 She merely informs us that, the daughter of an 
 indulgent, rich, and intelligent father, she was 
 brought up " in luxury and pleasure." Her 
 father lost his entire fortune ; but, active and 
 intelligent, he was repairing his loss, when death 
 ended his career. His wife survived him but a 
 short time. The orphan did not give herself the 
 least anxiety, in a material point of view, respect- 
 ing the fate that was in store for her. 
 
 I do not believe that she was ever in actual 
 distress. She probably never suffered from that 
 slavery, that scourge, of life ; whether by assidu- 
 ous toil she • succeeded in charming it away, or
 
 EARLY EMOTIONS. 223 
 
 whether, raised by a feeling of real stoicism above 
 privations, she did not feel its power. 
 
 " From the time that I was eight or ten years 
 of age, I was devout. I read a Bible that I found 
 at home, and every morning I kept my sister to 
 pray with me. My father discovered us several 
 times on our knees. When I was twelve or thir- 
 teen years of age, he requested my mother to let 
 me read the correspondence between Voltaire and 
 the King of Prussia. I lost faith in the Biljle, 
 but not my natural feeling towards God, which 
 has endured, and been my greatest support in life. 
 I have never ceased praying to God, and adoring 
 him ; but, from the age of twelve to fourteen, a 
 great anxiety, a certain fear, disturbed the inno- 
 cent studies in which I would willingly have 
 passed my existence ; for we encounter Minerva 
 at the two extremities of life." 
 
 It does not appear, however, that these early 
 emotions affected the development of her intel- 
 lect; for she adds soon after, " I found much 
 enjoyment then in literature, and in the history 
 of England ; and I began to study Latin." 
 ^ This taste for history soon turned into a practi- 
 cal j)hilosophy. 
 
 " Incited by the study of Roman history, I
 
 224 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 sought to preserve, amid the distresses of my 
 country (invasion) and my family, that dignity 
 of mind enjoined by the ancients in reverse as in 
 prosperity." 
 
 She does not appear to have mourned very 
 deeply the loss of her parents. Although she 
 mentions them with praise, I doubt if she were 
 brought up with tenderness. Her first aifection 
 was for a woman who had always been like a 
 mother to her, for whom she had a feeling of 
 veneration. She lived in the country with this 
 superior woman. 
 
 " The Abbey du Vallon was situated in the 
 woods, six or seven leagues from Paris ; but these 
 woods seemed a hundred leagues from the city. 
 The country aromid displayed that style of 
 beauty common to Gaul, which is renowned for 
 its shade, its Druidical forests, its limpid streams, 
 the whistling of the wind, and the music of the 
 storm ; nature ^without brilliancy, without heat, 
 without sun, but dreamy, tempestuous, inspiring. 
 
 " I was born here, in reality, if to be born is 
 to feel and love." 
 
 Here she makes the acquaintance of a man 
 whose ideal beautj^ and superior mind she de- 
 scribes with complacence, evincing alternations
 
 HEALED WOUNDS. 225 
 
 of ardent passion and stoical discretion, which 
 astonish us to a certain degree. "We wonder how 
 so much reason can be combined with such enthu- 
 siasm, and why this powerful reason could not 
 overcome her desire for life at any cost. Is not 
 a manly education a greater source of protection 
 for the young girl than for the young man ? 
 
 No ; but in both cases it renders a fall more 
 harmless, and quickly heals the wounds. It 
 healed INIadame de Saman's wounds so suddenly, 
 that we are led to doubt if her passion could 
 have been so intense. No one would be aston- 
 ished, that, under the influence of her struggling 
 emotions, she should write or read romances with 
 increased ardor and facility. But it was not left 
 to romances alone, to draw her 'from her secret 
 anguish : it was still more the work of history 
 and philosophy, of a variety and succession of 
 serious studies, of useful and remarkable produc- 
 tions, to which she devoted herself with eager 
 satisfaction, just after she had passed the most 
 important crisis. She succeeded in lieroically 
 abandoning love for austere Pallas, as they ex- 
 pi'tssed it in those days. Did she love the less? 
 
 That she describes affection so charmingly, ;nid 
 with such courageous disregard of self, l)ecause
 
 226 I3IPRESSI0NS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 her own love was deep, is not to be doubted ; nor 
 can it be questioned that her mind was powerful, 
 her character remarkably tempered. It is of minor 
 importance to me, that her friends and lovers 
 may have suffered from unrequited affection or 
 wounded self-love : I am forced to admire "that 
 power in which I behold a curious verification of 
 the transformation of intellectual sex by means 
 of a masculinely intellectual culture. 
 
 Yet the male sex persist in their opinion, not- 
 withstanding such particular instances as Alexan- 
 dre Dumas has so well described in that pamplilet ^ 
 of his, which has just created such a sensation. I 
 do not admit his conclusions, consequently do 
 not comprehend his aim ; but I highly appreciate 
 the more important features of the book, the criti- 
 cism and descriptions. Madame de Saman's book 
 is, as it were, a flagrant proof of the justice of 
 these statements. She faithfully portrays and 
 frankly acknowledges that longing for power 
 which is characteristic of woman. We are im- 
 pressed, too, with that sense of the possession of 
 the me, which gives her strength in weakness, and 
 victory in defeat. She approaches love with une- 
 qualled intrepidity. She does not brave danger: 
 
 -' I L' Homme-Femme.
 
 A FLAGRANT PROOF. 227 
 
 she courts it. She submits to the downfall which, 
 in her own eyes, is a triumph ; for she desires to 
 conquer the scruples of an austere love, a proud 
 spiritualism, inimical to passions. She struggles 
 to draw to her own manner of loving, which she 
 esteems the only good and true method, that man 
 whose happiness she seeks to promote by the full 
 development of his heroism. The man struggles 
 with his feelings, fearing to end his career of single 
 blessedness. His individuality is very strong, 
 and the struggle powerful. Would the woman 
 have triumphed if she had been truly a woman ? 
 IMadame de Saman falls voluntarily, and then she 
 flees ; but under what conditions ? She is about 
 to become a mother. Does she take this step from 
 a feeling of vengeance ? Does she wish to punish 
 the man, still deeply in love with lier, who does 
 not offer her full protection ? No. This perfectly 
 sincere woman has not a feeling of spite or blame 
 for him whom she leaves. She merely says, " He 
 was ambitious, and I was the sufTei-er ; but I 
 understood it, being ambitious myself." 
 
 She tried to make him understand the ideal of 
 a frtithful union of mutual devotion ; l)ut she met 
 with the obstacle of a character perhaps inferior 
 to her own, certainly quite different. She be-
 
 228 TMPEESSrONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 comes discouraged, and flees. A part of her time 
 she spends in Italy, but the greater portion in 
 some solitary country place, where she divides 
 her time between her child, the study of books, 
 and the contemplation of nature. An amazing 
 calm succeeds the most violent emotions. Her 
 labors are greatly assisted by memory, perse- 
 verance, and ease of comprehension ; and these 
 varied forms of employment comprise what she 
 styles her enchantments. You would infer from 
 the title that Armide is going to relate the magic 
 incantations by means of which she attracts and 
 retains her cavaliers ; but it is quite the reverse : 
 it is she who yields to enchantments in the form 
 of love or friendship, and by study creates them 
 for herself, to be enjoyed in retirement. 
 
 I find nowhere in her narration an expression 
 of maternal affection ; but, if she has not spoken 
 of it, she has felt it. She brought up her children 
 without concealing any thing from them or from 
 other people. She jprobably instructed them in 
 Greek, Latin, history, literature, philosophy, — 
 every thing with which she was thoroughly 
 acquainted ; and she made men of them. It is 
 evident that, in her peculiar situation, the silence 
 of her pen was owing to a haughty and prudent
 
 A ROMAN MATRON. 229 
 
 reserve. She is like a Roman matron, who, wish- 
 ing to bring up strong men, conceals from them 
 the weakness of her heart, and does not even 
 speak of them with tenderness, for fear of yield- 
 ing to her emotions. 
 
 Thus she endures all her trials alone. Her 
 conscience is very powerful, and she exhibits a 
 classical fondness for ancient virtue and religious 
 faith, yet manifests no regret nor femorse for the 
 past : she regards it as an inevitable fatality, feel- 
 ing that she ought to submit to its trials, and 
 appreciate its comforts. 
 
 ShQ guards against the sacrifice of dignity, 
 reason, justice, liberty, and life, when she sees 
 them threatened. She writes to her friend at a 
 time before she was in love, " You say that, in 
 consideration of genius, certain failings are over- 
 looked, but not justified. What if the sensibility 
 which leads to these failings is also the source 
 of the genius? Shall it overcome itself? What 
 would have become of the talent of Madame do 
 Stai'l, de Sapho, and many others, if they had 
 lived a life of struggles? Was not their expcri- 
 ente worth more than the liinnijih gained from 
 such a conflict? I make no assertion. I wish (o 
 investigate, to fix niy confused ideas; but does
 
 230 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 there exist a woman, who, beholding the dawn of 
 a passionate feeling, would say, ' I will stifle my 
 rising emotion ' ? " 
 
 These reflections, added to others, justify the 
 definition which she gives of herself at the com- 
 mencement : " A person who holds love and inde- 
 pendence above every thing." Surely this is a 
 great problem to solve ; for therein lies the solu- 
 tion of a fearful antithesis. Society is not ar- 
 ranged according to this view. On the contrary, 
 by prescribing fidelity in love, it imposes the sac- 
 rifice of liberty. My ideal would be a condition 
 in which this sacrifice would be, to both sexes, 
 as welcome as it was meritorious. Madame de 
 Saman ought not to have asserted the contrary ; 
 but, yielding to the feelings of youth, she sought 
 to overcome the difiiculty without giving sufficient 
 attention to surrounding circumstances. Her 
 friend mildly remonstrated against this terrible 
 resolution, fearing for her an old age imbittered 
 by delusion. And here is the book which replies 
 to every thing, and quietly announces the tri- 
 umph. Her old age is peaceful, happy, and 
 dignified. After a series of pleasures, she tastes 
 the delights of a quiet and studious life, and the 
 satisfaction of a mind in perfect harmony with 
 itself.
 
 THE SAME DRAMA. 231 
 
 The account of her pleasures is, naturally, very- 
 interesting ; yet it is always the same drama, with 
 a slight change of characters, the acts being very 
 singularly connected. Although new ties are 
 created, the woman never forsakes the old ones. 
 She does not wish to extinguish the fires she has 
 once lighted; but, with a pious and charming 
 coquetry, preserves them with as much respect as 
 she would altar-fires. Do not be shocked. She 
 clings to the man whose love she shares, confiding 
 this new affection to those who ask for a renewal 
 of the past, and avoiding the perils of an inter- 
 view by confessing, with emotion, how much 
 pleasure she has derived from these interviews 
 in former times. She holds it as a rule, that to 
 love once is to love always, and that those whom 
 she has abandoned, either from becoming weary 
 of their society, or from fear of restraint, are still 
 wortliy of her everlasting affection ; and she char- 
 acterizes the delicate nature of these friendships 
 by the name of love. Slic follows these eminent 
 men in their labors, becomes interested in thiir 
 success in literature, in politics, or in every-day 
 li^e, and gains their utmost confidence by a like 
 reciprocation. She retains their esteem, and 
 occasionally their love, although she lays no claim
 
 232 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 to the latter. Here is displayed a facility of 
 relationships, whicli recalls the philosophical love 
 of the last century, deprived of its worst feature, 
 libertinism. This insight into the private life of 
 the great men in the early part of our century is 
 very piquant, curious, and instructive. It is, as it 
 were, the bubbhng of romance before its system- 
 ization in 1830 : it is admiration for Napoleon I., 
 Chateaubriand, Madame de Stael. 
 
 Madame de Saman never mentions Corinne ; 
 but it is this ideal that leads her to Italy, and is 
 the cause of her long-continued partiality for a 
 certain fascinating Oswald, whom she constantly 
 quits with delight, yet receives again with ecstasy. 
 Let me remark, by the way, that never was a 
 man described as more lovable and charming, and 
 that a woman-fascinator has accomplished his 
 object when he succeeds in obtaining, with all 
 his perfections and imperfections, a portrait from 
 such a masterly hand. 
 
 This romantic fermentation of which I am 
 speaking forms a phase of literary history ex- 
 tremely interesting as a study. Madame de 
 Saman is a specimen of it, and throws consid- 
 erable light on the subject. People were roman- 
 tic without saying so, without being aware of it,
 
 AMPUTATION OF FACULTIES. 233 
 
 and yet they were classical in many respects. 
 Victor Hugo and his school brought about a 
 revolution, which I consider a misfortune. We 
 owe to him, it is true, the brilliancy of a splendid 
 Pleiades, surrounding an immortal glory ; and I 
 forgive the outburst of bad taste, ridiculous imi- 
 tation, and actual insanity, which have enlarged 
 the circle of the school, although this is fatal 
 to every literary epoch. What I deplore is the 
 fragmentary division of labor, the sectarianism, 
 the narrow prejudice, the systematic contempt of 
 all previous conquests. It is this sort of ampu- 
 tation of our own faculties which is always the 
 result of exclusiveness in matters of taste, and 
 which from the domain of art extends to that 
 of philosophy, politics, even science, ending in 
 contraction of the mind, narrowness of apprecia- 
 tion, the supremacy of speciality. 
 
 Madame de Saman has kept the seal of her 
 period unbroken. She admires Rend, but not to 
 the exclusion of Ilacine, CornciUe, and other 
 great writers of the age. Although deeply in- 
 terested in passing events, she docs not neglect 
 antiquity, but seeks to ])ring its grand models 
 to life again in liui' own mind. She regards 
 Mignet and Plutarch, M. Thiers and Tacilus,
 
 234 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 with equal solicitude. She is unwilling to admit 
 a democratic future, being quite in- love with the 
 past ; and, without denjdng that genius might 
 spring from the lower ranks, sees civilization only 
 in aristocratic institutions. Probably she could 
 not reach Victor Hugo's jDrophetic path ; but she 
 might accommodate herself to a republic in which 
 M. Thiers would be upheld by Bcranger, Cha- 
 teaubriand, Napoleon I., Sainte-Beuve, the Medi- 
 cis, Lamennais, Libri, Pericles, Lord Byron, 
 Aspasia, and Joan of Arc. It remains to be 
 seen whether such a combination would be pos- 
 sible in our day. 
 
 But the book in question is not one in which 
 politics are of any real importance. The main 
 object of the author is to compare the events of 
 the past, and, above all, the men of ancient times, 
 with the events and the men of the present. 
 This was the revolutionary method, to which 
 Madame de Saman still chngs. In our times, 
 this amounts to originality, so obsolete has that 
 method become. However, we like to see it 
 revived, with its attendant consequences, in tlie 
 mind and the conduct of so remarkable a person. 
 How many dangers she has encountered, how 
 many delusions overcome, what agitation, mental
 
 A GRAND PRAYER. 235 
 
 contradictions, and anguish surmounted, before 
 arriving at the desired port I But she reached 
 it at last : her method did her good service. She 
 commences and finishes the first part of her 
 narration by prayers ; and these prayers are 
 beautiful, grand, humane. Among them is the 
 following : — 
 
 " My God", this is our favorite season. The 
 winds of autumn have commenced to blow, and a 
 sweet and holy sadness steals over Nature. The 
 heart of man, fi-ee from the need of terrestrial 
 affections, turns for delight to itself, to the beau- 
 ties of the universe, — their grandeur and melan- 
 choly. It turns to thee, O God ! It draws near 
 thee from the depths of its exile, from the midst 
 of emotions which lead us to thee, — the holy 
 and passionate feelings of autumn, the overcast 
 tliough beloved sky, the gentle rain more pre- 
 cious than the morning dew, the decline of day as 
 solemn as the evening of life, stored with remin- 
 iscences, calmness, and hope. But past emotions, 
 passions as flectiug as tliese melancholy clouds ; 
 our tears, bitter and sweet; our elated youth, — 
 will these delights of the soul, like matter which 
 though transformed remains indestructible, ever 
 be restored to us? Wilt thou give us back those
 
 236 /3IPBESSI0NS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 sacred days which were the light of our exist- 
 ence, and which alone would be worth the pain 
 of living our lives over again ? " 
 
 We see this soul which love has filled, but not 
 broken, aspiring after love in a future existence. 
 It has suffered much, but has loved much ; and in 
 the remembrance of this it rejoices with renewed 
 strength. All these original and charming prayers 
 ought to be read. There is one in which she asks 
 God to bless her saints of the West ; " not only 
 St. Thomas, Pascal," but also the philosoi)hers 
 of the last century, who "placed God at the 
 pinnacle of all faiths. Freed from ancient and 
 prejudiced forms, through these adorers of Thy 
 name, we have been enabled to re-enter thy 
 temples, to seek thee once more, and to ac- 
 knowledge with rapture that thy justice extends 
 equally to all mankind. Priests of thine, they 
 were stimulated to restore the homage due to 
 thee by the sorrows of their fellow-men. True 
 caliphs of God, through them will thy name be 
 exalted. Bless them for having ^destroyed forever 
 hypocrisy and suffering. Let us glorify these 
 new saints, interpreters of divine wisdom, con- 
 querors of fanaticism and worldly glory." 
 
 The whole of this book is curious. Here is a
 
 ANGEL, OR DEMON. 237 
 
 very pious person, feeKng the need of worship, 
 and frequenting the church : — 
 
 " The profound silence of thy temple, the dim 
 light, the idea of divinity, overcome us ; and we 
 bend the knee to thee, O God ! Thou alone 
 canst arouse our better feehngs. If, in the world 
 in which we live, we are too credulous or too 
 generous, we very soon receive our punishment. 
 Our fondness is our destruction ; our enthusiasm 
 leads to misfortune, our magnanimity makes us 
 victims. We have loved too much, we have 
 suffered too much, on account of all these quali- 
 ties ; but in thy house, my God, we can never be 
 too pure, never too generous, never too noble, 
 never too sensitive. Here our energy can soar 
 aloft ; but, whatever height we attain, we are 
 still far from thee. What strength and gran- 
 deur in ourselves are not effaced by an idea of 
 the strength and grandeur that lies in thy infinite 
 nature ? How sweet, how holy, thus to give our- 
 selves up to thee, and to tlie dreams of beauty 
 which thou hast awakened in our imagina- 
 tions ! " 
 
 ^Vould not one suppose that he was reading a 
 perfectly orthodox prayer, and should not the 
 cui'atc of this village be very proud to behold a
 
 238 IMPRESSIONS AI^D REMINISCENCES. 
 
 lady of such rare merit on her knees in his church 
 in profound meditation ? He lends an ear, is 
 moved, admires, and with reason. He is edified 
 and affected as he has never been before. Per- 
 haps he has never before, when preaching from 
 the pulpit to the neighboring lords, experienced 
 such lofty feehngs, such noble motives for adoring 
 the God whom he serves. But what is it ? Do 
 his ears deceive him ? Is it an angel, or a demon, 
 who is speaking ? " O God ! far from confining 
 this power of adoration and exaltation to a single 
 faith, thou hast granted it to the North as well as 
 the South ; and Asia and even the Indies have felt 
 it, as well as the Christians. Thus thy divine 
 spirit clothes itself in the necessary forms, and 
 through these forms asserts its immortality." 
 
 The good priest hides his face, and flees in 
 trepidation. 
 
 But spiritualism without any fixed belief loves 
 that grandeur of soul which has respect for all 
 earnest believers. We may deny God, and so 
 place ourselves beyond this notion. The moment 
 that we earnestly seek after the truth, we are 
 exercising a human and a divine right ; for if God 
 has implanted within us the spirit of investiga- 
 tion, it is that we may make use of it ; but we
 
 ROSES AND OAK-LEAVES. 239 
 
 must acknowledge that the affirmation of divinity 
 is just as sacred a right. I am on the side of 
 those who believe in God, yet neither hate nor 
 fear those who reject him. I have much sym- 
 pathy for that fervent soul who is not exclusively 
 Christian, yet enters quietly the temple of his age 
 and his country, at the same time holding to his 
 individuality, his sentiments, and his ideas. 
 
 As to the great battle of life so bravely fought 
 by her, does it shock reason or that individual 
 right which permits the sacrifice of ourselves to a 
 l)elief firmly and deliberately formed ? Assuredly 
 not. Does it shock the moral sense ? In consid- 
 eration of her particular situation, and of that 
 depth of grand loyalty and perfect tolerance which 
 characterizes Madame de Saman, no one is justi- 
 fied in throwing the first stone. On my own 
 beluilf, while making certain reservations to my- 
 self, I tluow her a crown of roses and oak-leaves.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 • THE FOEEST OF FONTAINEBLEAU. 
 
 THE following is a letter that I have re- 
 ceived : — 
 
 " The petition of the artists had obtained a 
 most favorable reception with the president of 
 the republic : notwithstanding, an auction-sale of 
 the greater portion of the lots took place on the 
 day appointed. 
 
 " For the future prevention of such extensive 
 mutilation, the subscribers of the petition have 
 formed themselves into a company for the artistic 
 protection of the forest of Fontainehleau ; and, 
 that their object may be perfectly apparent, have 
 unanimously voted the following resolution : — 
 
 " ' Resolved, That the forest of Fontainehleau 
 ouo-ht to be classed with those national and his- 
 torical monuments which it is indispensable to 
 preserve for the admiration of artists and tourists, 
 and that its actual division into an artistic and a 
 non-artistic portion ought to be permitted only 
 under the strictest limitations.' " 
 
 240
 
 A NATURAL MONUMENT. 241 
 
 I am not aware of what occurred iu regard to 
 the forest of Fontainebleau ; but that is of little 
 consequence. It is not for me to criticise what 
 I do not understand: yet I cannot but approve 
 of every effort made for the preservation of this 
 natural monument, very properly classed, by the 
 petitioners, among the national monuments. To 
 divide or to sell it would be to destroy it, and I 
 do not hesitate to declare that a sacrilege. Here 
 would be another disgrace to add to the confla- 
 grations of Paris. 
 
 This is a sorrowful epoch indeed, when on one 
 side riot demolishes the archives of civiHzatiou, 
 and on the other the State, which represents 
 order and preservation, destroj-s, or threatens to 
 destroy, the great works of Time and Nature. 
 Whether they be converted into ruins or money, 
 it is not the less destruction ; and I am not sure 
 if, of these two vandalisms, that which is com- 
 mitted in cold Ijlood, legally, and after delibera- 
 tion, is not the more senseless and disgraceful. 
 
 The petitioners who request me to unite my 
 efforts to theirs, and to whom I hereby give pub- 
 li(j( adherence, very justly plead the needs of the 
 artist, and the gratification of the tourist. But 
 tlicre is something more to be considered ; for
 
 242 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 public opinion is composed of a mediocrity utterly 
 indifferent to the small fraction of ordinary lovers 
 of nature. I tliink that we may go still farther, 
 and appeal to the learned to demonstrate that 
 these venerable forests are an essential element 
 of our physical equilibrium ; that they contain, 
 within their sanctuaries, principles of life which 
 cannot be neutralized with impunity ; and that all 
 the inhabitants of France are directly interested 
 in not suffering the demolition of these vast 
 shades, reservoirs of moisture essential to the air 
 which they breathe, and the soil which they cul- 
 tivate. 
 
 One of my illustrious friends, a poet of the 
 highest order, whom we have recently lost, — 
 Theophile Gautier, — had paradoxes to which he 
 did not become a dupe. He said to us, one day, 
 that plants stood in the relation to us of suckers^ 
 absorbing our respirable air ; and that his hygienic 
 ideal was to live in a garden composed of avenues 
 and borders of bitumen, with good seats of cap- 
 padine, and nargiles always lighted ; the whole 
 to resemble flower-beds and groups of trees. 
 
 Some one remarked, that, if plants did absorb a 
 portion of our aerial nourishment, they gave us a 
 hundred-fold compensation in the elements of mo-
 
 THE FIREPLACES OF LIFE. 243 
 
 lecular nutrition, a deprivation of which would 
 prove mortal. He knew this perfectly well, for 
 he knew a good deal ; and he could maintain an 
 argument against himself, which no one could 
 have pleaded better. 
 
 Tlie large vegetables are the fireplaces of life, 
 which spread their benefits far and wide ; and, if 
 it is dangerous or hurtful to live always directly 
 under their shade, it has been well authenticated 
 that the suppression of their emanations would 
 produce a fatal change in the atmospheric condi- 
 tions of human hfe> It would be suppressing 
 those great fans which keep the air fresh, and 
 divide the electricity above our heads ; it would 
 be impoverisliing the soil, which is endowed with 
 a circulation, so to speak, sub-cutaneous. 
 
 Cultivation scratches, digs, and keeps healthy 
 the delicate crust ; but there are certain rocky or 
 woody parts that escape this constant Icvellmg, 
 and so retain the moisture which goes to fertilize 
 the subsoil for great distances. There is appar- 
 ently very little water in the gravel and rocks of 
 Fontainebleaii ; but the subsoil, which has kept 
 Ih^ trees alive for so long a time, must be ex- 
 tremely ricli : and this richness must be derived 
 from afar. Destroy the trees, which by their
 
 244 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 shade supply that freshness to the soil that is 
 consumed by their roots, and you are destroying 
 the harmony necessary, indispensable, to the 
 region in which you live. 
 
 Do not let us undervalue the importance of this 
 question. Everybody is not capable of making a 
 study of the oaks and sandstone of Fontaine- 
 bleau ; every one has not a taste for it : but all 
 men have a right to the beauty of these things, 
 and there are more people capable of enjoying it 
 than artists interested in portraying it. Each 
 person has a certain amount of intelligence and 
 poetr}' ; and therefore an extensive education is 
 not necessary for its special development. Every 
 one has a right to the beauty and poetry of our 
 forests, and of this one in particular, which is one 
 of the most beautiful things in the world. To 
 destroy it would be, in a moral sense, a spohation, 
 an actually savage attempt at that right of intel- 
 lectual propriety which constitutes him who owns 
 nothing but the sight of beautiful things the 
 equal, sometimes the superior, of him who pos- 
 sesses them. 
 
 The rage for individual j)Ossession ought to 
 be confined within certain limits prescribed by 
 nature. Shall we go so far as to pretend that the
 
 ETERNAL TEMPLES. 245 
 
 atmosphere ought to be divided, and sold to those 
 who have the means of purchasing ? If such a 
 thing were possible, would we henceforth see each 
 proprietor sweeping his corner of the heavens, 
 and piling up the clouds on his neighbor's por- 
 tion ; or, according to his taste, gathering them 
 in for himself, and asking for a law that should 
 forbid any man without money from beholding 
 the golden sunset, or the fantastic splendor of the 
 clouds driven by a storm ? I hope that this 
 happy time will never come ; l)at I feel that 
 the destruction of beautiful forests is a proposi- 
 tion not less monstrous, and that we have no 
 more right in an intellectual than in a hygienic 
 sense, to remove large trees from a public domain. 
 They are as sacred as the fertihzing clouds with 
 whicli they hold incessant communication ; they 
 ought to Ije protected and respected, never left to 
 barbarous caprice, nor to the egotistic want of the 
 individual. Beautiful and majestic, even in their 
 decrepitude, they are as much the property of our 
 descendants as they were of our ancestors. Tliey 
 are eternal temples, the miglity architecture and 
 ornt^mental fuliation of which is constantly re- 
 newed ; sanctuaries of silence and revery, where 
 successive generations have the right to assemble
 
 246 niPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 for meditation, and for the development of that 
 sense of grandeur of which every man has a con- 
 sciousness and a need in the depths of his nature. 
 The forest of Fontainebleau is not beautiful 
 merely on account of its vegetation : the undula- 
 tions of its surface are extremely graceful and 
 elegant^ and its piles of rock are exceedingly 
 ornamental ; but its delightful glades, its wonder- 
 ful chaos, its melancholy walks, would lose their 
 charm if deprived of trees. Natural science, too, 
 has a right to protest against the destruction of 
 the smaller plants, which would be caused by the 
 dryness of the atmosphere after the tall trees had 
 been removed. The botanist and the entomolo- 
 gist demand consideration as much as the painter 
 and the poet ; but, aside from all this elite, there 
 is, I repeat, the human race, which we ought not 
 to deprive of any noble enjoyment, especially just 
 after an atrocious war has sullied and destroyed 
 so many sacred objects in nature and civilization. 
 Frenchmen, we have all of us, or nearly all of us, 
 children or grandchildren whom we take by the 
 hand for a walk, with a view to instructing them 
 in our ideas of life, to whatever class we belong. 
 Wherever we are, we call their attention to 
 surrounding objects, — a ship, a railway train,
 
 SANCTUARIES OF INITIATION. 247 
 
 a market, a church, a river, a monutain, a city. 
 From the baker's shop where the little prolStaire 
 sees small cakes in the form of men and animals, 
 to the museum where the bourgeois leads his heir, 
 explaining, to the best of his ability, what excites 
 his own admiration ; from the field where the 
 peasant child gathers a flower or a stone, to the 
 great royal parks and our public gardens, where 
 rich and poor can see and be instructed, — each 
 serves as a sanctuary of initiation to the child, or 
 to the adult who has hitherto been deprived of 
 advantages, and now seeks to emerge from his 
 state of childhood. I know very well that there 
 is a 2}roletaire taciturn or talkative, perverse or 
 passionate, who cares only for social contest, 
 observes nothing, and makes no exertion to raise 
 his mind above the level of that condition against 
 which he pretends to be struggling ; but there is 
 also tlie universal proletaire, the child, that is 
 the ignorant of all classes, he whom we might fit 
 for social life, and for the more definite struggles 
 of the future. Wc arc eacli liolding such a one 
 by the hand ; for lie is the pupil of our licart, our 
 offs^)ring wliom we carry in our arms. We take 
 liim to walk, and mould his tliouglils with our 
 explunalions. If ho be an intclligeut pupil, he
 
 248 TMPRESSTONS AND BEMINISCENCE8. 
 
 will very soon take an interest in every thing that 
 is subject to the possession of the body or the 
 mind. 
 
 When you have led him to every centre 
 whence radiates social life, or introduced him into 
 the midst of its activity ; when you have ex- 
 plained to him the meaning of industry, the 
 sciences, arts, and politics, — there remains one 
 feeling of which he will have no conception if 
 you have not revealed it to him, and that is a 
 religious respect for the beautiful in nature. 
 This is a source of calm and lasting enjoyment, 
 an immersion of the being in the mysterious 
 sources whence it has sprung, furnishing a pious 
 and positive conception of life, of which your rail- 
 roads, your ships, your factories, your theatres, 
 and your churches have given him no clear and 
 accurate idea. He will perceive how life is made 
 useful or wasted ; but he will not learn how it is 
 produced and renewed, nor that man belongs to 
 himself, and has a consciousness of his being. 
 The tumult of social existence causes us to act, 
 for the most part, without knowing wh}^, and to 
 mistake our passions and appetites for actual 
 needs. We yield too seldom to meditation, every 
 thing having a tendency to divert our minds from
 
 ARTIFICIALITY IN SOCIETY. 249 
 
 this state. Society is forcibly hurled into a life 
 which is artificial at every point, with every form 
 of appetite or vanity to demand satisfaction. 
 It has no other aim, no other illusion, no other 
 promise, in the estimation of the masses. 
 
 Let us make a little resistance (that is, as 
 much as possible, for, alas ! it will then be but 
 little) against that torrent which is sweeping our 
 progeny into its surging billows. Do not let us 
 narrow our horizon to the limits of a field, or 
 the enclosure of a kitchen-garden. Let us make 
 room for the mind of the child, and teach him to 
 imbibe the poetry of that creation which our in- 
 dustry is tending to completely denaturalize with 
 fearful rapidity. In these times, the young man 
 who has a keen sense of this poetry is an excep- 
 tional being ; for, in the greater number of fami- 
 lies nowadays, contemplation is regarded as a 
 loss of time, and revery as an idle or foolish haliit. 
 Yet we are conscious of the beauty of a land- 
 scape, and we should not wish the pupil to be so 
 destitute of sensibility as not to perceive it. 
 
 I acknowledge this ; for I am not one of those 
 who systematically wage war on the hourf/eois. 
 I have never made a crusade against the grocers : 
 I am convinced that they may sell capers and
 
 250 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 cloves, aud know that they are desirable commod- 
 ities, not merely because they bring in money, 
 but because they are agreeable to the taste. I 
 feel that a man may be a good peasant and an 
 irreproachable ploughman, without being deaf to 
 the song of the lark, or insensible to the perfume 
 of the mayflower. This is as it ought to be. I 
 should like a man to be a perfect notary, and yet 
 a poet while he is rambling through the country, 
 or travelling along the Seine. I wish that every 
 man's education were complete, and that he were 
 denied no rudimentary instruction. It is a preju- 
 dice to suppose that a man must understand the 
 refinements of language, the resources of the 
 palette, the technicalities of art, to be a delicate 
 critic, or possess an exquisite sensitiveness. To 
 express is an acquired faculty : to appreciate is 
 a need, consequently a universal right. Artists 
 may throw all the light they can, — it is their mis- 
 sion ; but let us invite all men to make' use of 
 this right for their own enjoyment, and let them 
 acquire a relish for it, without feeling obliged to 
 cease being good grocers, good farmers, or perfect 
 notaries, if such is their vocation. 
 
 Moreover, an education exclusively artistic is 
 not an infallible means of developing in man a
 
 THE PRIVACY OF NATURE. 251 
 
 taste for the beautiful and the true. It invol-^s 
 too much discussion, too much conventionalism, 
 and too many professional points. By dint of 
 learning how to see, and how to express himself, it 
 is quite possible that the disciple of many masters 
 will often lose the faculty of seeing with his own 
 eyes, and portraying with his individual sense. 
 Nature does not surrender herself at the command 
 of the professor. Essentially mysterious, she has 
 a particular revelation for each individual, and she 
 does not repeat her methods. One must see her 
 himself, and examine her Avith his own feelers. 
 She is eloquent to all, but never capable of a 
 thorough translation ; for, beneath the prodigality 
 of her expressions, she has one word concealed, 
 which she keeps to herself; and, thank God in the 
 name of art, man will keep up an eternal search 
 for this word. No painter, no poet, no musician, 
 no naturalist, will ever drain that cup of beauty, 
 which is continually overflowing. The most insig- 
 nificant little bird, as well as the most splen- 
 did drinker, will always find wherewith to quench 
 its thii-st ; and after you have assimilated your- 
 selves into artists, poets, and naturalists, you will 
 still liave every thing to learn, if you have not 
 seen Nature in her privacy, if you have not in 
 person questioned the Sphinx.
 
 252 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 What a conquest for man to undertake, for any 
 man now living or yet to be born ! To enter into 
 Nature, to seek the oracle of the sacred forest, 
 and bring back the word, be it but a single word, 
 which will spread over his whole existence the 
 exquisite delight of the possession of his being ! 
 For this it is well worth while to preserve the 
 temples whence this beneficent divinity has not 
 yet been driven. 
 
 It is time for us to consider that Nature is 
 passing away. Under the hand of the peasant, 
 the trees are disappearing, the lands losing their 
 perfume ; and we shall be obUged to travel far 
 from cities, to enjoy silence, to freely breathe the 
 emanations of the plant, or to interrupt the secrec}'' 
 of the brook that flows and babbles unmolested. 
 Everywhere we see felling, levelling, straighten- 
 ing, fencing, training. If, in these cultivated 
 tracts laid out by the line and the rule, which 
 claim the appellation of country, you see here 
 and there a clump of fine trees, be certain that it 
 is surrounded by walls, and that it is private 
 property, where you have no right to take your 
 child, to show him an oak or a linden tree. 
 
 The rich alone have the right to preserve a 
 small portion of nature for their personal enjoy-.
 
 THE AGRARIAN LAW. 253 
 
 ment. By the time that the agrarian law shall 
 be established, there will not be a tree remaininir 
 in France. At Berry, the elm has been mutilated, 
 to feed the sheep in winter with the leaves, and 
 to heat ovens with the branches. There is nothine 
 left now but deformities. 
 
 Everybody knows the history of the white 
 Avillow in France. It is our finest tree, and orrows 
 to an enormous size. Tliere are now, perhaps, 
 not three remaining ; although certain regions are 
 covered with little clusters of whitish foliaee 
 supported on great, shapeless logs of wood 
 abounding in cracks ; and these are the white 
 willow, the giant of our clime. 
 
 The majority of the extensive woods have 
 decreased in size. Where can we now find the 
 forest of Ardennes? Those which are yet ex- 
 tant are in process of demolition, and liave no 
 durable beauty. As tlie need for wood becomes 
 more pressing, the tree, hardly fnll-grown, is 
 disrespectfully and remorselessly hewn down. 
 How many noble giants of the forest have been 
 seen to fall ])y persons of my age I There are no 
 nioi'e left. We must now invent fiaine-works of 
 iron ; for very soon we shiill not be able t<» liml 
 either l^eanis or rafters. Everywliere fuel is
 
 254 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 expensive and scarce. Coal is dear too ; for 
 Nature is becoming exhausted, and scientific 
 industry cannot immediately devise a ijemedy. 
 
 Shall we send to America for all our lumber? 
 But the virgin forest is fast vanishing, and in its 
 turn will become exhausted. If we are not care- 
 ful, the tree will disappear, and the end of the 
 world will take place from dryness, without the 
 necessity of a deluge ; and this will be the fault 
 of man. Do not laugh. Those who have studied 
 the subject view it with terror. 
 
 More trees will be planted, many are being 
 planted, I know ; but the work was commenced 
 so late that the evil is, perhaps, irreparable. 
 Another summer like that of 1870 in France, and 
 we shall see if an equilibrium can be maintained 
 between the exigencies of consumption, and the 
 productive forces of the soil. There is one 
 question which has not been sufficiently studied, 
 and still remains in mystery. It is this: Nature 
 becomes weary when man changes her work. 
 She has habits which she quits forever, if inter- 
 rupted for too long a time, putting her forces to 
 another use. She was inclined to produce the 
 larger vegetation, and liberally furnished sap. 
 Condemned to transfer her influences, the soil
 
 THE DOMAIN OF MAN. 255 
 
 adopts another means of action. Cleared and 
 manured, it becomes fertile at the surface, but 
 loses its mighty depth of power ; and it is not by 
 any means certain that this can be restored at 
 pleasure. 
 
 The domain of man is growing too narrow for 
 his aooflomerations. It needs extension. The 
 population ought to emigrate, and seek the wil- 
 derness. In this way, it would go on all right ; 
 for this planet is still vast and rich enough for 
 the number of its inhabitants ; but there is great 
 peril in delay. The cravings of men are becom- 
 ing imperious necessities, Avhich nothing can 
 restrain ; and, if these nocestsities are not con- 
 trolled, there will in time be no proportion be- 
 tween the demands of man and the productions 
 of the planet. Who knows but whole societies 
 have been swept away by desolation ? Who 
 knows but our satellite, which we suppose desti- 
 tute of inliabitants and void of atmosphere, has 
 lost its poi)ulati()n through the improvidence of 
 generations,' and the exhaustion of the over- 
 stimulated forces of surrounding nature ? 
 
 ^ While waiting for humanity to wake up and 
 bethink itself, let our forests be preserved, let our 
 grand old trees be respected ; and, if it must bo
 
 256 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 ill tlie name of art, if this consideration has any 
 weight in these times, let us come to the assist- 
 ance of our intrepid artists ; but let us likewise 
 bravely protest, in the name of our own rights, 
 against brutish and insane measures. "Whilst, on 
 every side, very unsightly churches are being con- 
 structed, do not let us suffer the grand cathedrals 
 of nature, which exercised a powerful influence 
 over our ancestors in the rearing of their temples, 
 to be snatched from the veneration of our descend- 
 ants. When the earth shall have become mutilated 
 and devastated, our productions and our ideas will 
 accord with the poor, unsightly objects which meet 
 our eyes at every turn. Narrow ideas re-act upon 
 our feelings, which become warped and impover- 
 ished. Man needs to see Eden in the distance. 
 I know that many say, " After we are gone, the 
 world will come to an end." This is the most 
 detestable and blasphemous speech that man could 
 litter. It is a formal resignation of his condition 
 as man ; for it is the ruptare of the link that 
 connects generations. 
 
 NOHANT, XOV. 6.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 l'angusta. 
 
 I SHALL review this work uninfluenced by my 
 personal feelings towards the author, whom I 
 love beyond every thing. I do not feel that I am 
 yielding to the sin of partiality in saying that I 
 entertain a very high opinion of his book. If 
 people ill-disposed towards us, or those differing 
 from us in taste, think me wrong, others more 
 benevolent, or more inclined to encoui'age certain 
 attempts, will tliink me right. 
 
 I am of opinion, that, among other new works, 
 we ought to turn our attention to the romance, 
 which is, when we consider tlie degree of perfec- 
 tion to which it is carried at the present day, an 
 artistic production of recent creation. 
 
 Formerly a romance sufficed for the enjoyment 
 of^one or more centuries: now a new one is re- 
 quired almost every day. I tlo not claim tliat the 
 novel is of rec(!iit invent ion ; IdiL we may say that 
 
 257
 
 258 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 its development has taken place in response to new 
 requirements ; and, in this sense, we may consider 
 it as an art belonging specially to modern times. 
 
 Without entering into any criticism, but merely 
 for the sake of research and examination, as we 
 study objects in nature without pretending to call 
 on science, I ask myself if there is any one method 
 for constructing a novel, and if every one has not 
 a right to employ his own universally, or to vary 
 it at pleasure. I do not see any absolute rule 
 to propose in this regard. Every school method 
 appears to me only an impediment. I regard the 
 art of novel-writing as an art pre-eminently free ; 
 free as human speech, which prevents no one who 
 is able to make use of it, from relating a storj'' in 
 his own way, provided his mind can furnish one. 
 So all methods are good, and all serve as a study 
 for him who is seeking the best style ; but, after 
 all, the best style is always that used by the 
 greatest mind. 
 
 This granted, we can take pleasure in seeing 
 the same author pursue different methods. One 
 day Balzac, the leader of French romance in our 
 century, took a notion to publish some droll 
 stories ; and, to render them inaccessible to vulgar 
 minds that might make an abuse of them, he
 
 BALZAC AND GAUTIKR. 259 
 
 attempted to write them in the style and orthog- 
 raphy of Rabehiis. In this way the book was 
 a sort of guarded treasure which the learned, 
 serious in their nature, could alone enjoy; at least, 
 such was Balzac's idea. Was he right, or wrong? 
 He would have been wrong to lose his sauce, as 
 he expressed it, or to make it so deep that it 
 would have drowned his genius. This is what I 
 feared, and M'hat I told him. Fortunately, this 
 contingency did not depend on himself. Such 
 attempts are harmless for persons of such power- 
 ful individuality. 
 
 Th(;ophile Gautier, in his preface to " Capitaiue 
 Fracasse," promises the reader that the conversa- 
 tion of his characters shall be that of the time in 
 which they are rei)resented as living. The aullior 
 was not to appear himself, and llie work was to 
 be " in noway historical except in the coloring 
 of its style." God be praised, liis promise was 
 not kept ! Gauticr's admirable style gained the 
 mastery over all predilections i'ov an(i(piity, tlie 
 few ancient expressions whidi lie introduced here 
 and tlierc Ijcing Ijlemishes. Tlie linest passages, 
 ii\id those most relished, are those in which (he 
 author ajipears, as in Halzac's droll .stories, nol- 
 withslanfling their resolnlion to the contrary.
 
 260 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 It is not merely the words, and forms of expres- 
 sion, that change : it is the different shades of 
 ideas which they represent. The simple and the 
 labored styles belong to certain stages of enlighten- 
 ment ; and the greatest minds of one of these 
 epochs (although, in a literary sense, it may be 
 superior to the others) may, in an historical point 
 of view, be inferior to those of some other epoch. 
 He who would retain the precise color of any one 
 age must ruthlessly discard certain ideas of an- 
 other age. Some of our ideas of the present day 
 could not be rendered in the ancient languages; 
 and, even without going very far into the past, 
 it would be difficult to make one's characters 
 describe certain impressions, of which the}^ have 
 been perhaj^s vaguely conscious, but have never 
 tried to understand, or else have been unable to 
 express. 
 
 With sincere modesty, the author of " L'An- 
 gusta " has often considered the manner of solving 
 the problem of history and literature combined 
 which I have just been discussing, and of which 
 we have often conversed together while engaged 
 in the study of ancient language. Although 
 much of his time has been devoted to researches 
 into natural history, he has not entirely neglected
 
 CALLIRHOE. 261 
 
 liis reading of literatui-e ; and being endowed 
 with an exceedingly vivid and fertile imagina- 
 tion, which the study of positive objects seems 
 rather to kindle than to extinguish, one of his 
 amusements, which I have often shared, is to 
 withdraw his mind for a time from the actual 
 present, and imagine himself as living at some 
 particular epoch in the past. He has described 
 such a condition of the mind in his romance 
 of " Callirhod," in which a man of modern times, 
 by the study of Etruscan and Roman antiquity, 
 becomes so enamoured of that period, that his 
 imagination converts historical facts into personal 
 reminiscences ; and he, quite innocently, begins to 
 relate his own experiences at the time of the 
 invasion of Rome by tlie Gauls. This fancy 
 takes such a hold upon him as to Ijecome a con- 
 viction ; and he seems to recognize, in those about 
 him, liis fiiends and enemies of former times. 
 
 After having fiiiislied " Callirho^," jMauricc 
 Sand, incidentally turning liis attention to arcluc- 
 ology and history, became intensely interested 
 in the middle ages. Wisliing to give me a reca- 
 j)iMdation of liis rea<ling and researches, he began, 
 in fun, to relate to me, in the first person, the 
 life of a cavalier of llie thirteenth century, just
 
 262 IMPHESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 as, in " Callirho^," Marc gives the life of a Gallic 
 conqueror. I found this so amusing and inter- 
 esting, that I prevailed upon him to write it. 
 Assisted by his great facihty in composition, 
 he produced " Raoul de la Chastre ; " a novel so 
 closely resembling a chronicle translated, from 
 beginning to end, from the same writer, that he 
 was taken in earnest by the descendants of certain 
 families. Alexandre Dumas, sen., writing to me 
 on the subject, after much praise bestowed on 
 the author, remarks, " It is an extraordinarily 
 successful book. I have sought in vain to dis- 
 cover the method of its composition." 
 
 The method was very simple. The author 
 absolutely discarded literary or philosophical per- 
 sonality, to identify himself with a type which 
 has no analogy at the present day. He under- 
 stood perfectly the historical character of a 
 doughty knight in the time of holy Louis and 
 Philippe le Hardi. He Avell knew that a strong 
 and generous nature, thrown among half-barbar- 
 ous surroundings, must have combined the life 
 of a hero and a bandit, an unrestrained sensualist 
 and an excellent paterfamilias; that he must 
 have believed in the Devil, and a very little in 
 the Church ; occasionally having the feelings of
 
 MAURICE SAND'S METHOD. 263 
 
 a true Christian, and even admirable philosophical 
 perceptions (like Roger Bacon, that great prophet 
 of science) ; then, falling back into the childish 
 wonder of his age, treating royalty with con- 
 tempt, and constituting himself the chief of 
 gangs ; not having comprehended French patri- 
 otism in its present light ; encountering adven- 
 tui'cs ; undertaking, at his own expense and 
 under his own leadership, crusades and con- 
 quests ; finally becoming a rich and powerful 
 lord, abounding in gallantry and, surfeited with 
 spoils, still remaining the best husband in the 
 world, a loyal cavalier, and a zealous redresscr 
 of wrongs. These incompatibilities, which appear 
 so dreadful to us, seamed then quite natural, as 
 their brutality was a relative civilization wlicn 
 we consider the otlier classes of the society of 
 tins epoch, — the workman (a synonyme for 
 slave), tlie artist, the poet, all obliged to be- 
 come valets ; the peasant rendering homage to 
 Satan, that he might prevent liim from having 
 children to maintain, &c. The corruption of tliis 
 epoch w;us open and unrestrained. Tin- idea oi" a 
 liero who encounters all tine tragic and burlesque 
 adventures of this formidable age, without faint- 
 ing, and without llie least astonishment, enduring
 
 264 J3fPRE8SI0NS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 the dungeon and torture, not to mention wounds 
 inflicted in battle, in order to become at last a 
 contented and happy man, — here was surely a 
 bold conception, which demanded, for its exe- 
 cution, an extraordinary inspiration, a fixed deter- 
 mination, and a certain indifference as to " WJiat 
 will they say?''^ This is a species of literary 
 courajre to be commended. 
 
 The book has scandalized those persons who feel 
 that the author ought to be responsible for all the 
 deeds and movements of his characters ; but those 
 who appreciate a true book, one well conceived 
 and well executed from beginning to end, value it 
 very highly indeed ; while those who desire to 
 become acquainted with the life and color of a 
 certain age have read it with interest and profit — 
 foremost among whom is myself. 
 
 Don Juan has become a favorite type with our 
 generation. A sincere Cathohc, M. Laverdant, a 
 man of an inquiring and original turn, has given 
 us a Don Juan, in many pages of which may be 
 found great depth and real beauty. The legend 
 of Don Juan might l^e repeated a hundred times, 
 from every point of view. He is some such a myth 
 as Faust, who represents the struggle of mind over 
 matter. Don Juan contends openly for matter
 
 RAOUL AND ROGER BACON. 265 
 
 against mind. He is in Rabelais ; for every age 
 has had its Don Juan and its Faust ; and, if we 
 would reflect, we should see that every thinking- 
 man has followed, in reality or in imagination, one 
 of these two courses. Maurice Sand touches on 
 Loih in his novel. Raoul is the barbarous Don 
 Juan, whose instinct is triumphant ; and Roger 
 Bacon, Faust victorious over hell. Raoul repre- 
 sents the energetic and sensual body of the thir- 
 teenth century, penetrated by a fugitive ray of 
 intellectual light projected by Bacon. The latter 
 is one of those prodigious apparitions of eternal 
 truth cast, like divine manifestations, into the 
 midst of social darkness. Bacon predicted in the 
 thirteenth century, the scientific, philosophical 
 and industrial conquests of the nineteenth. It is 
 not necessary to inform the reader that Maurice 
 Sand has made Bacon speak according to his 
 (Sajid's) fancy. Bacon ought to be read ; for 
 liere is wlierc Maurice Sand is most ambitious of 
 success. 
 
 I will not revicNV my son's other works, which 
 are the effect of his natural method. As my space 
 is limited, I will speak only of " Lc ('o<i aux Che- 
 vcux d"()r," one of tliu strangest and most curious 
 of ;ill his books, l)eforc turning my attention to liis 
 latest novel, '' I/Angusla."
 
 26G IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 " Le Coq aux Cheveux d'Or " is the name of a 
 Scythian warrior who has a volcano for a rival ! 
 An odd fancy, but not purely imaginative. We 
 are introduced into the midst of the mythology of 
 ante-historical times ; and when we study deeply 
 into these ancient notions, scattering vestiges of 
 which in the memory of men have furnished mate- 
 rial for so many learned and curious books, we are 
 literally dazzled by the imagination of the primi- 
 tive man. What are our fairy tales, the wonderful 
 stories of the East, the fancies of the Germans and 
 the Sclavonians, the sombre or grotesque visions 
 of the middle ages, to these traditions of the 
 human mind at the time of its first flight ? Every 
 thing is a marvel to it, as to the child, who personi- 
 fies all the phenomena which excite his wonder. 
 
 This offered sufficient temptation for a man fond 
 of meditating, and of lioarding up those precious 
 tilings which fashion disdains. No better herba- 
 rium for these plants, which will no longer thrive 
 in the new soil, than the leaves of a novel. The 
 author of "Callirhoe," faithful to his work of 
 retrospection, introduced into his romance beings 
 sometimes half gods and half men, sometimes half 
 men and half monsters. He searched all the 
 cradles of religious antiquity for those symbolical
 
 A CURIOUS ROMANCE. 267 
 
 figures which surrounded the human race when 
 it struggled to get out of its own cradle. Nothing 
 so strange and yet so grand as some of these 
 figures ; nothing so marvellous as the part they 
 performed in growing society. The romance of 
 " Le Coq aux Cheveux d'Or," in a rapid and florid 
 style, introduces the god Ptah, that genius of sub- 
 terranean fires, whom the savage warrior is to fight 
 and conquer, that he may obtain possession of the 
 priestess Hernia, his fiancee. After many hercu- 
 lean efforts, the warrior, that is, Nemeith, rescu- 
 ing his beloved, is overtaken, in his flight, by the 
 deluge. The picture of the cataclysm which is 
 about to swallow up the Atlantis is truly grand and 
 terrific. Through means in accordance with such 
 a scene, the lovers escape. Hernia has received, 
 from her dying mother, an amulet, a present from 
 Prometheus her ancestor, which she is not to open 
 till the ai>proach of death. She opens it, and a 
 sunbeam escapes, that scatters the clouds. The 
 lovers reach the Scythian land, where they bccorao 
 the founders of the Caucasian race. 
 
 This novel is taken for a fairy tale ; and yet it 
 is an accumulation of the most arduous labors 
 of tlje scholar. Very few persons have the leisure 
 or the taste to read such works, which require.
 
 268 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 for their appreciation, special preliminary studies. 
 Maurice Sand has placed within the reach of all 
 an exceedingly animated narrative, by which we 
 can become initiated, in a few hours, into the 
 many fabulous accounts of our historical origin. 
 
 In "L' Augusta" Maurice has been once more 
 carried away by the vision of a period which he 
 studied for his personal instruction. He enjoyed 
 exceedingly the works of MM. Thierry ; and, 
 amidst the sources whence these great historians 
 have drawn with so much discernment, he experi- 
 enced an intuition of the life of the fifth century 
 of our era. He was struck with a certain resem- 
 blance to our own century ; and, when I feared 
 that he was undertaking a period too remote for 
 general comprehension in a novel, he very reason- 
 ably answered that man of the Lower Empire, by 
 his situation, his ideas, his tastes, and Ms language, 
 bore a much greater resemblance to us than man 
 of the middle ages. " One could make of a 
 Caius Claudius Umbo, or any other Gallic-Roman," 
 said he, " a much more intelligible character 
 to-day than of Raoul de la Chastre of the thir- 
 teenth century ; and it appears to me that it could 
 be accomplished with greater ease. We have 
 there authors fruitful in detail, and a written
 
 COMIC CHARACTERS. 269 
 
 language, Latin before it has died out. I find, 
 too, comic characters, ancient types which I have 
 met and seized by the hair, as it were, in my 
 investigations into the origin of masks and buffoons. 
 These emperors of the East have handsome Lean- 
 ders ; these formidable Huns have bullies ; and 
 Sidoine Apollinaire is the pedant of the troop. 
 The remarkable women of this epoch are superior 
 in education to those of to-day; and, as to the 
 epoch itself, it is characterized by religious con- 
 tests bordering on general scepticism, as at the 
 present time." 
 
 The next day he read me Claudius Umbo's first 
 letter, and I advised him to continue. Most of 
 the documents of these times, that we possess, are 
 precisely in the form of letters. It seemed odd 
 to me to see a novel composed of such ancient 
 material, and transformed, with apparent ease, 
 from that epistolary style which requires the 
 characters to speak for themselves without any 
 philosophical explanation by the narrator. This 
 is a very good exercise for a special study of the 
 Latin language. The character of Eugenius Cre- 
 ticus is a remarkable specimen of that literature, 
 at the same time Christian and I'agan, which has 
 a right to bo quoted as well as any other. The
 
 270 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 manners, customs, and material situations are 
 described without any display of learning. True 
 life flows abundantly throughout this book. Pub- 
 lished in M. de Girardin's " La Liberte," just 
 before the invasion, it has a tint of melancholy 
 prophecy, seeming to signalize the immediate 
 causes of our calamities. Yet these calamities 
 were as little foreseen at Nohant as at Paris ; but, 
 in studying into the description of a great social 
 dissolution of the Latin race, the narrator must 
 have foreseen the new crisis in his fancy. 
 
 Like Maurice Sand's other novels, " L' Augusta " 
 passes rapidly over adventures, combats, reverses, 
 passion, and enterprises. It has always been my 
 opinion that, either in events or sentiments, a 
 novel ought, of all things, to be romantic. In 
 accordance with his idea of historical romance, 
 Maurice, very sensibly, rejects ideality. He does 
 not try to force an opinion nor a doctrine into the 
 heads of his characters. To him, they are not 
 exceptional beings : they impersonate fractions of 
 the race to which they belong. They represent 
 family, tribe, species, like the classifications which 
 assist him in the study of nature ; for persons of 
 our time are sensible of what Edgar Quinet has 
 admirably demonstrated, — that the history of man
 
 CHARACTER OF MAURICE'S NOVELS. 271 
 
 is dependent on the same laws of development as 
 those which stand foremost in the development of 
 our planet. 
 
 But if Maurice Sand omits the minute details 
 of the individual, if he does not seek to infuse 
 into the latter the romantic ideal, he retains, in 
 the position in which he places him, the romantic 
 interest of situation and action. If almost all 
 his novels are conscientious productions of social 
 history, all are what is called entertaining in the 
 highest degree, even to those readers who do not 
 appreciate the earnestness of his efforts and aim. 
 His is a healthy and well-kept mind, consequently 
 never wearied nor discouraged with his subject, 
 never disturljed by the thought of what reception 
 will be given him by the public, writing only 
 under the influence of an exceedingly tenacious 
 mental obsession. " This must come to me during 
 meditation," he says, "and force me to get rid of 
 it. I must feel myself surrounded by apparitions 
 which tulk to me, and move about mo : otherwise 
 I feel no inclination to write." 
 
 Nevertheless, there are true bursts of natural 
 genius and spontaneous poetry in these earnest 
 narrations, in which the powerful touches of the 
 painting prevail over refined analysis. I'lio
 
 272 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 moments allowed the characters for reflection are 
 short but effective. I was much interested in the 
 account given by Claudius Umbo, who, having 
 escaped from his pursuers after being carried to 
 a distance, travels through unknown countries 
 invaded by barbarians. A woman of the tribe of 
 the Acatzires, who has lost her father, brothers, 
 and husband in the melee, offers him a seat in 
 her chariot ; and together they perform the rite of 
 invoking the moon. They travel, that is to say, 
 they flee, across " a devastated country without 
 resources and without inha])itants, through villages 
 in ruins, heaps of debris, woods, swamj)s, and 
 plains strewed with human bones whitened by 
 the sun and rain, the remnants of the massacres 
 which have depopulated these unfortunate coun- 
 tries." Bands of hungry and exasperated men 
 pass like vultures over these deserted fields, kill- 
 ing and devouring whatever they find. One of 
 these bands discovers the chariot in which Kolotza 
 has just died of that pestilence which always 
 accompanies great invasions. Just as Claudius is 
 about to bury him, the band lay hold of the 
 former, take out his oxen to eat them, rob the 
 chariot, break it to pieces, and throw the corpse 
 to the wolves. These flock around it as soon as
 
 A GRAND PICTURE. 273 
 
 the bandits have departed. Claudius, wounded 
 and fastened to the upright pole of the chariot, 
 is restored to consciousness " by such a brilliant 
 moonlight that the ground appears to be covered 
 with snow." He breaks from his bonds, collects 
 "the sad remains of Kolotza," and buries them 
 as well as he can, beneath a stone. 
 
 " I coidd not tell you, Marius, in what part of 
 Germany this tomb is situated. My life seems 
 like a dream ; and certain parts of this dream 
 appear to have been swallowed up by the sinking 
 in of a world." 
 
 A little farther on, I find a grandly drawn 
 picture of the tragic side of the epoch. A her- 
 mit has received the fugitive dying with hunger, 
 and is exhorting him to become an egotist. " Do 
 you not see, my son, that the end of the world is 
 approacliiiig ? Every thing is going simultane- 
 ously ; the old and liaughty empires are crum- 
 bling, and civilized nations no longer possess tlie 
 earth. It is ravaged by strange men who will 
 disapjjcar in their turn ; for they have not under- 
 stood the gospel, and their deeds would sliock 
 Heaven. It would be impossible for you to find, 
 in these times of desohition, th(! least liappincss, 
 even quietness, upon earth. Every thing is uncer-
 
 274 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 tain. Property is now but a vain word, domestic 
 life is a hell, and love a traffic. War is on all 
 sides ; and, to live in peace, one must lead the life 
 of a troglodyte in the depths of the woods, and 
 the excavations of rocks." 
 
 The character of Attila is drawn by a painter's 
 hand. We see her, and almost love her, she is so 
 lifelike and human. But I have said enough, 
 and -I ask the reader's pardon for having spoken 
 of my son without excessive modesty. Still it 
 appears to me that it would have been unjust to 
 let affection prevent me from rendering him jus- 
 tice.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 BETWEEN TWO CLOUDS. 
 
 NoHANT, Dec. 3, 1872. 
 
 DURING the last fortnight of political excite- 
 ment, minds have been in unison with the 
 atmosphere, full of clouds and tempests ; for the 
 weather exerts a greater influence than we think 
 over the character and ideas of man. 
 
 In the midst of this deluge, which has confined 
 us to the country, we have had some days as 
 lovely as spring. The 21st of November and the 
 1st of December especially were real feasts of 
 nature. The 1st of December, which was day 
 before yesterday, I actually lived in forgetfulness 
 of my age and my shoes. I walked with as much 
 pleasure and animation as I could have done sixty 
 years ago. This is interesting only to my chil- 
 dren and friends, I know ; but, if I write about 
 this walk, it is for the lovui-s of iialure, as tliry 
 used to say when I was young, with a slight hope 
 and groat desire to attract the attention of minds 
 
 27C
 
 276 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 too intent on every-day affairs. It is not neces- 
 sary that these affairs should be forgotten, and 
 that sociality should be destroyed ; but when 
 some fine opportunity is presented, like an invita- 
 tion from the rosy sky and the verdant earth, then 
 they might be laid aside ; and a stupid fellow he 
 who disdains or neglects such an opportunity ! 
 
 At noon my son called to me, " The carriage 
 is ready : the children are in, and asking for you." 
 " Has it entirely cleared off? " 
 " Yes. Don't you see that it has ? " 
 " I was reading about the meeting." 
 " We will read about it as we go along. 
 Hurry : fine days are rare now, and fine hours 
 short." 
 
 I seized Jeannette, a garden-knife, a trowel, and 
 I was ready. You all know what Jeannette is ? 
 No ? If I should tell you that it is the box of 
 Dillenius, you would think me very pedantic. I 
 should think so too ; so I much prefer the pretty 
 little rural name which unpretending amateur 
 botanists have given to this tin box painted green. 
 It is hung on a leather strap, and carried under 
 the arm, so that any particularly interesting 
 plants may be brought home without fading. 
 To-day all the flowers were interesting, for
 
 BOTANIZING. 211 
 
 they Avere rare; besides, Ave left the calcareous 
 for the granitic soil, and the flora here offers 
 many specimens which we cannot find within the 
 limits of a short drive. 
 
 Our first act was to arrange ourselves in the 
 carriage, with our stock of tools. Mine were 
 very modest, and took up little room, for I held 
 them all in my lap. My son's were more consid- 
 erable. In the first place, there was a troubleau, a 
 kind of strong linen bag confined to an iron lioop, 
 and furnished with a very unyielding handle ; 
 for this implement has rough work to do. It 
 is intended to ynoio the thick, rough carpet of the 
 T)rakes and heaths. I underline " mow," because 
 it does not apparently mow, as it neither destroys 
 nor injures a single plant. It works with a quick 
 motion from right to left, like a scytlie ; but, in a 
 skilful liund, it is not ut all injurious lo vegeta- 
 tion, for its use is to gather intact the delicate and 
 interesting little creatures that have their abode 
 here. These creatures, whicli are injurious to the 
 trees of the forests, arc all juofit to Ihc naturalist, 
 who gathers thousands of young worms to take 
 Ijome in the very snial! JcannuLtcs wliicli tlio 
 entoraolo''ist carries in his pocket.**. Thev are 
 kept, during the winter, in large boxes of wire-
 
 278 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 gauze, and provided, every day, with suitable food. 
 Among the worms thus gathered, many are per- 
 haps devoid of interest. This can be ascertained 
 when they have changed their skin several times. 
 Some will surely be valuable ; for science is still 
 far from knowing all the larvse of the catalogued 
 lepidoptera. It knows hardly any thing of their 
 different conditions ; and, in consequence of this 
 want of knowledge, it frequently mistakes varie- 
 ties for species, and species for varieties. The 
 caterpillar, so despised by those who do not un- 
 derstand its position in nature, is notwithstand- 
 ing, in the mysterious existence of the insect, the 
 real being that determines the species. It is 
 already virtually male or female, and its foresight 
 is now most developed. It knows nothing of 
 love: it is preparing for another existence. After 
 having chosen, with invariable discernment, the 
 nourishment conducive to its development and its 
 final livery^ — sometimes glossy, sometimes prickly, 
 and sometimes hairy ; sometimes of one color, and 
 sometimes of another, — it spins or weaves the 
 cocoon in which it is to be enclosed for its meta- 
 morphosis into a chrysalis, or else the thread by 
 which it suspends the chrysalis. Certain very 
 numerous species choose fine earth, damp or dry,
 
 A LITTLE PRAIRIE. 279 
 
 whichever is more suitable for burying the naked 
 mummy. 
 
 These insects are everywhere, in the roots of 
 all trees, in the rolled leaves or stems of all plants, 
 in the veins of leaves, the interior of branches, 
 the capsules of grain, the dust of dead trees, the 
 glume of grasses, the mud of ponds, and tlie pith 
 of reeds ; in short, wherever there is an element 
 of vegetation, animal vegetation awaits its birth, 
 and introduces its existence. 
 
 Besides the trouhleau for gathering the caterpil- 
 lar, there was a large hamper on the top of the 
 carriage, which was to bring back quite a little 
 prairie of plants not produced in our calcar- 
 eous soil, to be kept over winter. They are 
 taken up in sods, and planted around the winter 
 quarters of the caterpillars. We cannot make 
 them live ; but they will keep fresh long enough 
 to furnish food for these voracious people. These 
 plants are principally the broom, which is ratlier 
 rare in our neighborhood. It is very pretty and 
 very glossy; but its little leaves, its stems and 
 calyxes, are covered with a silky white down, 
 very ricli under tlie magnify ing-glass. Its deli- 
 cate clustera were, this mild season, in blossom v\i 
 the 1st of December.
 
 280 IMPIiESSWNS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 We intended to bring home four species of the 
 heath ; but one species, the prettiest in my opin- 
 ion, we did not find. Perhaps I did not search 
 thoroughly". 
 
 But this was not our whole freight. Our 
 grand-daughters did not wish to deprive their 
 children of so delisrhtful a drive : so we had to 
 find room for their dolls, besides cloaks, muffs, 
 umbrellas, &c. Aurore had to take her esparto 
 basket, also, to bring home specimens of natural 
 histor}' for her own use, round and rosy pebbles, 
 tufts of microscopic mosses from which to form 
 gardens and forests upon a plate, dried acorn-cups, 
 and nutgalls, from which the little cynips that 
 had produced them in spring had all disappeared. 
 They have been metamorphosed into flies, and, 
 towards the close of summer, have perforated 
 their balls, in order to make their escape. More- 
 over, we considered that the children would be 
 hungry and thirsty during the two hours ; and 
 the luncheon-Jeannette took the place of honor 
 among all the others. 
 
 The air was mild, the sun warm, and our horses 
 iswift. The earth was covered with the young 
 grain like a thick carpet, through which the red- 
 dish soil was still visible. By the reflection of
 
 THE PARTY-MOTTO. 281 
 
 the sun, which at this season comes nearer to 
 caress the earth, this seemed like a coating of rich 
 velvet upon the plain, which rises gradually from 
 our dark valley. A light vapor silvered the dis- 
 tant landscape. Every little hollow was filled 
 with water, and shone hke a mirror. Flocks of 
 ravens, as the rays of the sun struck upon their 
 sleek plumage, glistened hke carbuncles. Busy 
 magpies were boring into the moist earth, and 
 using very harsh language about trifles. Every 
 one for himself — this is the party-motto. 
 
 You see that I am v/riting my journal through 
 it all. These parliamentary disputes are the wind 
 and rain of 3^esterday and to-morrow. The con- 
 test, viewed from afar, and in a general way, may 
 be summed up in two dominant ideas, which are 
 contending with each other. 
 
 Whatever sliades of difference tlierc may be, 
 two opinions compose the national representation 
 of the day. One maintains that man must sul>- 
 mit to a princi[)le of authority outside of liimself : 
 the other, that man niiist derive his authority 
 from himself. Reason and truth are with the 
 fonner, as also true religion, (jod i\\i\ not sufler 
 personal caprice to enter into his iinivorsal jdaii. 
 If, on no occasion, lie exercises an authority at
 
 282 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 variance with the laws which he has established, 
 he has never commissioned one of those micro- 
 scopic beings, styling themselves the human race, 
 to act in his place. It is very strange to see a 
 fraction of them claiming the right to command 
 in his name. Are they partly gods themselves? 
 Do they partake, in the least, of the nature of 
 angels, to secure our respect? I cannot see it, 
 nor can any one else. These holy people have 
 too much hatred, violence, and, above all, ingrati- 
 tude, to convince us that our highest good con- 
 sists in being under their whip and command. 
 
 The others are still wanting in union and disci- 
 pline, although, in other respects, they may have 
 made considerable progress. They do not repre- 
 sent, in sufficient numbers, the aspiration and 
 determination of actual France ; but their feeble 
 majority answers to an immense majority, which 
 will manifest itself better some other time, we 
 may be sure, unless a conspiracy subverts our 
 destiny. In the centre of these squalls I behold 
 a ray of light. I will not comj^are M. Thiers to 
 the sun ; but, to my eyes, he shines with a light 
 entirely unknown to history, which may serve as 
 a spark for a new current of patriotic electricity. 
 Here is a man who ranks love of country and
 
 M. THIERS. 283 
 
 political honesty aljove every thing; above him- 
 self, his own sympathies, his own beliefs, perhaps 
 his own illusions ; making an abstraction of every 
 thing for the sake of respecting human liberty as 
 much as possible in these troublous times, when 
 necessity seems to present such cruel obstacles. 
 While monarchical Passion cries to the scandalized 
 world, " God wills that this be accomplished for 
 our benefit ; " while the republican voice mur- 
 murs, with more sense, " Without Hberty of con- 
 science, there is no safety," — an old man rises, 
 and says, " You who are here, postpone your 
 hopes ; you who are below, renounce your ambi- 
 tion. I stand before you, alone and disarmed. 
 Tear me to pieces, crush me to powder : you will 
 not make me deviate from that course wherein I 
 believe lies the safety of France." 
 
 Whether tliis man might not be mistaken in 
 details of more or less importance, is of little 
 consequence to me at this momentous time. I 
 behold something grand, a ruler of circumstance, 
 who is alone in his party, that is, wlio represents 
 the entire absence of prejudice, .'uid who, pre- 
 cisely on this account, rci»rcHcnts the spirit of 
 France to-day : a fetich to some, an ideal of intel- 
 lectual disinterestedness to others. Power of up-
 
 284 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 lightness, we are not lost whilst thou shinest 
 above our multifarious conflicts, whilst thou, 
 without regard to the welfare of each, strivest for 
 the welfare of all ! This undertaking, which has 
 not yet been made apparent, can be accomplished 
 only in some unprecedented situation, like the 
 present. 
 
 So this morning, with a breeze in expectation, 
 we reached the pond which was the object of our 
 two-hours' drive. At our approach, a flock of 
 aquatic birds took to hasty flight across the fields, 
 to conceal themselves among the reeds. We 
 could not discover whether they were wild geese, 
 wild ducks, herons, or storks. They were black 
 above, and white underneath ; but they uttered 
 no sound which could betray their nationality. 
 Moreover, our little ones did not allow us time to 
 examine them. The pond, swollen by the rains, 
 sent forth a stream into the prairies which were 
 below its actual level. In summer, it has not 
 this abundance, an attraction belonging to a later 
 season, of which we were already aware, and 
 which proved a source of delight to the children. 
 The sparkling, limpid water rushed, bubbhng 
 and whirling, from its narrow channel, into the 
 meadows, leaping over the granite rocks, where a
 
 THE WOODS IN DECEMBER. 285 
 
 few sprigs of wild thyme were still blossoming 
 amid the fresh, velvety moss, and forming lovely, 
 foaming, noisy cascades. During the fine season, 
 the place is insignificant, and the ground fearfull}- 
 dry ; but to-day it was unusually beautiful. Win- 
 ter is pleasant in the country, whatever one may 
 say to the contrary. It has its attractions. 
 
 These grounds have been considerably cleared 
 up within the last few years, only certain spots 
 retaining their character of solitude. Yet it is 
 almost a wilderness, has few habitations, and a 
 scattered population seldom visible. The slight 
 eminences, which rise insensibly, are covered with 
 a light growth of miserable grass, but are just now 
 charming, a mild russet tone softening their out- 
 line. Profound silence reigns here. We entered 
 the woods, the carriage following. In spite of 
 the wet weather, the sandy, gravelly roads were 
 dry and Irvcl. Along tlie roadsides were tufts of 
 gcrmaudrr in melancholy foliage; a few of tlie 
 flowers were still fresli, also a few braiuhes of 
 piir[)le heath, ainl occasionally a beautiful violet 
 scabious, fully expanded, and displaying, with ;in 
 ambition ])erhapH out of place in Deceniher, its 
 capitula in bud. The furzes were almost in 
 blossoui ; these fluw( r all winter. Delicate gar-
 
 286 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 lands of creeping perforated Saint Johnswort, tra- 
 cing figures upon the sand, intertwined with the 
 dog-violet still green, great leaves of lungwort 
 spotted with white, groups of young pines con- 
 trasting with the Florentine bronze of the with- 
 ered leaves of the oak, completed the spectacle; 
 while the autumnal dusk, gilded by the sun, cast 
 over the whole scene an enchanting harmony. 
 For a moment, the long avenues would lead us to 
 fancy that spring had awakened, and was shiver- 
 ing at the extremities of the branches. 
 
 My son mowed with dexterity, while his daugh- 
 ters, seated upon stumps of oak-trees, where I 
 had sjjread my cloak, merrily ate their luncheon. 
 Sylvain followed with the carriage, sometimes 
 wiping his foaming horses with the dried leaves, 
 sometimes gathering the plants which were to fill 
 the ham23er. This was no slight load, with the 
 earth clinging to the roots. I do not know whether 
 the horses understood what was going on. They 
 looked about, and followed of themselves, good- 
 naturedly sniffing. 
 
 Sylvain has lived with us since 1845. He 
 is rather more our master than our servant, but, 
 when the children are of the party, is always in 
 a good humor. He is extravagantly fond of them, 
 and they reciprocate his aifection.
 
 THE SPOILS OF THE EXPLORERS. 287 
 
 After finishing our refreshments, we advanced 
 into the woods. The young people ran about to 
 their hearts' content, and gathered a thousand 
 tilings which they assigned to some fantastic use. 
 It was impossible to understand why their pockets 
 were filled with stones and dead branches, which 
 appeared the next day, and figured in their games, 
 as if these stones and brushwood brought home 
 from the drive had any particular value or signifi- 
 cation. The wolves did not show themselves, 
 although we searched for their tracks. It seems 
 that they do not leave the thickets except when 
 there is a thick fog. I observed my son sewing. 
 What a singular idea ! The trouhleau had a hole, 
 through which the caterpillars whicli had been 
 captured were uimljly making their escape. He 
 repaired the rent, and, in quite a pers[)iration, 
 resumed his work. I do not know how he endured 
 tills gymnastic exercise for three hours. At last, 
 the sun sank so low as to blind us witli its rod 
 light. We started for home with a heavy h)a(l dT 
 sods, two or three hundred ealerpilhirs, and a f.w 
 little flowers. Hardly had the litth; girls entered 
 the carriage when they stretched themselves out 
 on the seat, were wrajijied uj), and, Imlding their 
 dolls in their arms, fell fast asleep, and did not
 
 288 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 wake till they reached home. But what appetites 
 for dinner ! and what a ball in the evening, till 
 nine o'clock ! 
 
 This is how we celebrated the 1st of December, 
 the end of a crisis which has but just commenced. 
 Shall we become merry in three days ? Thus life 
 flows between two threatening banks ; and when 
 we have enjoyed a day of rest, sunlight, and hope, 
 we say to ourselves that it has always been so. Is 
 not this the general feeling ? 
 
 Let us accept these days of mercy and forgive- 
 ness. It must be God who gives them to us, since 
 he has endowed us with a mind to appreciate their 
 beauty, and a bod}^ to appreciate their benign influ- 
 ence. We have had beautiful nights too, when 
 the heavens seemed to present a fairy spectacle. 
 Did you see the shower of falling stars, at Paris, 
 on the nights of the 27th and 28th of November? 
 Here there were clear spaces in the cloudy sky, 
 enabling me to count twenty-eight shooting stars 
 in two minutes, in the single constellation of 
 Orion. A little later, a gust of wind sweeping 
 over the whole heavens, it became impossible to 
 count or see them all. In one spot, it seemed 
 like a dance of lamps alternately lighted and 
 extinguished at the extremity of their luminous
 
 A CELESTIAL FETE. 289 
 
 cords. It resembled a celestial /ete, where, instead 
 of flowers, stars were strewed along the path of 
 some invisible deity. We were obliged, during 
 the evening, to quiet the fears of our servants, 
 who became very much alarmed. 
 
 But there is no fete without a morrow. We 
 learn that, upon all the coasts, nature, which was 
 so beautiful to behold in our tranquil valleys, was 
 fierce and inclement. The rivers overflowed, and 
 the sea was tempestuous. Man, however philo- 
 sophical or resigned lie may be, has no reason to 
 be contented on earth ; and we can understand 
 his aspirations to find a refuge in some paradise 
 arranged to his liking. It would have been sensi- 
 ble to say to him, " Hope, and you will suffer 
 less ; " but he has been told, " Continue to suffer, 
 and hope for nothing in this world." Tlie ignorant 
 man tendered his resignation, while the skilful in 
 the doctrine held uncontrolled sway, and gratified 
 their longing to have command over this despica- 
 ])le world. They are the ones who, after having 
 counted tlieir flocks in pilgrimages, organize a 
 combat, and throw the glove to the France of 
 Voltaire and Rousseau. But no one will ]>ick up 
 this glove, for it is worn out ; it is no longer lit 
 for the use of the living of to-day : it belongs to
 
 290 IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 the skeleton of the past. There are dead doctrines 
 which cannot be discussed. What ought to be 
 protected is the divine right belonging to every 
 upright conscience to govern itself, and to repulse 
 any authority maintained by the most audacious, 
 most guilty sacrilege that man could commit, the 
 usurpation of power in the name of the Divinity. 
 Wolves are more innocent. They eat sheep be- 
 cause they are hungry, just as snails eat flowers. 
 Neither maintains that one of them has been 
 elected by heaven to gratify his longing for com- 
 bat, and domination over the others. Must we, 
 then, forget the human race, and take up our abode 
 with the animals of the forests and the fields ? 
 
 No ; but let us observe that nature has a horror 
 of what is false, and do not let us forget that man 
 forms a part of nature. He claims to occupy the 
 highest place : if he feed on falsehood, he will fall 
 to the lowest.
 
 Y
 
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